The way you get worked up.
I can hear you, the noise of your coming, three rooms away.
Are such outbursts necessary?
Why, even the walls vibrate,
Now you’re really going.
Hope you don’t bust anything.
You’re not that young anymore, remember.
There’s no doubt you give it your all.
Do you enjoy it?
Sounds as if you do.
Now you’ve gone quiet, can I come in?
Yes ! The clothes are done, giddy with all that spinning.
One hour, twenty. Wish I had your stamina.
You must be exhausted.
I like to travel in ambulances.
They seem such warm, friendly places
especially the Aussie ones shown on our screens:
‘Paramedics’ and ‘In the Ambulance’.
The ambos are calm, confident and chatty,
the ride authoritative but reassuring;
you feel you’ve landed on your feet
even if you are on your back;
There’s never any drama with these ambulances:
You scoot along niftily, the traffic parting
like the Red Sea for Moses; you’re delivered
efficiently as a package from Australia Post.
* I've never travelled in an ambulance; have you?
* have you an ambulance story ?
*pic courtesy of Wikipedia
Who let the cat out?
Sleep lifted the lid.
Let it roam
the alleys and backstreets
of the mind
Look what the cat
dragged in —-
old what ifs.
Who let the cat out?
I was sitting at Maccas
on a cheeseburger
what the Buddha had to say
how it benefits both the giver and receiver
when this aboriginal woman
came up to me and said,
have you got two dollars. For chips?
Sure, I said,
pulling out a coin I plonked
in her hand.
Gee thanks, she said,
It’s my birthday today. I’m 29.
Lucky you. I said. Have a good one
and go easy on those chips.
She beamed me a smile
big as Uluru
& I knew what the Buddha meant.
I thought about what Fiona had said,
the female lead in ‘The Bear Came Over the Mountain’
about her developing interest in Iceland,
how she looked at travel guides,
read accounts of famous writers who had visited,
Auden, William Morris,
but didn’t really plan to travel there herself.
There ought to be one place,
one special place,
‘you thought about and knew about
and maybe longed for
but never did get to see’
*have you a place like this?
I started to think about biros again, how mine was long and thin like a matchstick but it had no heft.
A biro should have heft if it is to write anything of import.
Mine is fine for writing light verse, things of flippancy and quirk.
But for something darker, more adventurous, a biro with girth is required.
Yes, I decided, for Father’s Day I’m going to request a biro with a stubby stem, a bit like its inventor Lazlo Biro
photo of Lazlo Biro courtesy of Wikipedia
Which one is he, I say of the quartet by the river. Which one is Klimt?
Oh, he’s the one with the kaftan. He always wore one in public.
And I think, maybe that’s the answer, maybe if I wore a kaftan
everywhere I go people might take more notice, might say,
o, that’s the famous poet, he has a new book coming out.
And I could promenade along the jetty, frequent the famous kiosk
where all the trendy people go; and maybe go the full monty like Gustav
beneath his kaftan painting in his studio so he’d feel less constricted;
maybe that’d do the trick, maybe that’d free my poetry up
Not Katherine Anne Paterson’s Bridge
the one that Leslie and Jess cross
to get to their magic kingdom.
Nor that bridge too far.
Not the one Over Troubled Waters.
Nor that terrible one on the River Kwai.
Not even the bridges you burn
so there’s no turning back
but that rope suspension bridge
dangling high over the gully
that me and my faithful mutt, Salem,
can’t bring ourselves to cross
photo by Andre Amaral on Unsplash.com
when someone says, the ball’s in yr court
you know you have to do some heavy lifting.
It’s up to you.
If the shit hits the fan,
The ball’s in yr court, remember?
I used to play tennis a lot, so the metaphor’s
sort of apt, but I remember tennis as a lot
of to and fro, you and someone else at the other end
but somehow it ended up just me:
the bunny holding the ball.
I can’t even remember asking for it.
How does that work?
Unstable Cliffs, the sign reads. Stay Clear.
And I think of the unstable Cliffs I have known:
The deputy that has a meltdown whenever I call in sick:
my cousin’s boyfriend who punches holes in the wall
when he is denied,
and the glue-sniffing Cliff I taught in Year 11 who fell asleep
on the tracks coming home from a party and was run over by a train.
They should have come with warnings too.