The Wonder of You.
I never got to see Elvis.
I saw the Beatles.
Saw the Rolling Stones
but I never got to see Elvis,
Saw Niagara
Saw three of the Seven Wonders
Saw a rainbow sit like a tiara
over my city
but I never got to see Elvis.
But I saw my baby girl
get born
held her in the palms of my hands.
I never got to see Elvis
but I got to hold my baby girl.
Thank you, Lord
for teeth
to rip into
this egg and bacon muffin
for taste buds
to savour it
& for the senior’s coffee
To wash it down
to fuel me up
for the morning ahead
It’s such a relief for me, Thursdays.
It’s the only day I don’t shave.
It’s my let-it-all-hang-out day.
My slob day.
I wash but don’t shave.
I wear casual, loose fitting, clean.
I eat that extra slice of cake.
I don’t do gym, exercise.
I may break into a walk now and then,
but that’s it.
It’s Thursday.
Sometimes I wish every day was Thursday
but I keep that thought in check.
Didn’t God rest one day a week?
Mine’s Thursday.
Is this even a poem or a bunch of thoughts?
On any other day it wouldn’t pass muster.
But it’s Thursday, remember?
*have you got a favorite day?
I like a poem with muscle
a poem with vim and vigor
I like a poem with its hand
firmly on the trigger
Love a poem low and lusty
a poem that readily scans
the sort of poem that you hear
at a poetry slam
No wonder there are so many love songs.
There are so many ways of getting love wrong.
Most celebrate one or more of these.
There’s more mileage in them than in ecstasy,
a much rarer state to which we all aspire,
happy to burn in love’s all cancelling fire ,
shortcomings forgotten, emotions turbo-charged,
our lives in an instant totally enlarged.
These songs are the apex of creativity
even as they approach ineffability.
*what are some of your favourite love songs?
On a road trip the other day
we got talking about birth defects you don’t see
any more
like hunchbacks, birth marks, cleft palates
though Simon
whose father was Lord Mayor of Mars had one
and spoke with a lisp.
Then at this café in the mountains
we were served
by a barista
with a raspberry stain on his left cheek
the shape of Africa.
Is that a birth mark, I asked him. We were just talking about them.
Yes, it is, he smiled.
It was just another feature on his face, like his nose.
or a mole
It was nothing special.
Yet it had a strange sort of beauty.
He poured me the greatest cup of coffee.
I was glad that I had asked him, that I didn’t wuss out.
It’s okay to be curious.
Looking through the pages of my commonplace book
I paused to take a look at the posts I had copied down
in 2020, the ones that had brought me much pleasure,
that made me pause, take a measure of my life:
here they are without fear or favouritism, in the order
they appeared:
‘Birch’ and ‘Boring’ by Beth
‘Nimmitabel’ and ‘My Suburban Horror Movie’ by Out of the Cave
‘The Old Dog’ and ‘the length some people will go to kill butterflies’ by D R Bogdan
‘How to Survive as a Mental Patient’ and ‘Wait for Me’ by Sarcastic Fringehead
‘Some People are Trees’ by Jewish Young Professional
‘No’ and ‘Monochrome; by Cathy’s Real Country Garden
‘Watching Candles Burn’ and ‘Just Came for the Burger’ by Mark Tulin
“Sweet Sundown’ by Michael Jordahl
‘Carpet of Frosty Leaves’ by Ulle Haddock
‘Testing’ by Hobbo
‘Here I Am’ by Boromax
* what were some of your favourites in 2020?
This is Terry.
You can wave to him.
He would like that.
He waves a lot but not everyone waves back.
In fact hardly anyone does.
He sits on a folding chair in the middle of the mall outside Coles looking for someone to say hello to.
You can say Hello to Terry.
Many people pretend not to hear him.
But that does that put him off?
No.
Terry is on a mission.
He is collecting donations for the Blind Sports Association.
There are a lot of people like Terry outside supermarkets throughout Australia.
Hopeful. Indomitable.Courteous.
Not in your face.
And yes, I did.
the musky glow of the candle bowl
the frisson of flesh on flesh
the cinnamon zing of Venetians
crosswords over coffee
Joaquin Phoenix singing Cry, Cry, Cry
the ineffable sadness of Jackson because we both
know people like that
the voice of Johnny Cash, proof that there’s a God
Rick Springfield on Gospel Radio speaking to the sky
& those blackbirds, after rain, bless their untidy little hearts.
Nice bag, she says as I place it on the chemist’s counter.
Thank you, I say.
Yes, she says, admiring it.
Good looking.
Compact.
Square-shouldered.
Sturdy.
Not likely to topple over.
A bit like me, on a good day, I reply
She smiles, the sort of smile that says, I better humour this guy, he might be dangerous.
John Malone 