Third Bite of the Cherry

The ibises have moved along

have gone upmarket

grubbing in the well manicured lawns

of Davis Court.

Something needs to be done.

They look more dowdy than ever.

Reminds me of the time

in the Adelaide Central Market

during an upgrade

when the benches inside Coles supermarket

where I used to wait for my paraplegic friend

to do his shopping

were all suddenly removed;

What the &^%$$%, we all said,

our little community of bench people.

When approached,

management see – sawed for a while

but after constant badgering

a junior manager not yet used to the ropes

of sidestepping,

admitted — wait for it —

the benches were removed to keep

the riff-raff out

Dambo

Dambo.

I want to be a gangly recycle artist like Dambo,

the builder of wooden trolls.

Instead of discarded furniture, I use discarded poems,

snippets I’ve copied down in my commonplace books,

bits and pieces on suffering coz I know what’s that like now.

All the best poems have been written, Daz says.

He’s the one who wrote ‘The Parable of the Albino Pigeon’

so I listen.

“About suffering they were never wrong the Old Masters’,

says Auden, and I added:

while someone is bringing in the bins, watching ‘Bullet Train’

on Binge, or cleaning the car of dogs’ fur like my neighbour

who asks, Hey Bro, how’s it hanging? Do I even want to answer that?

‘This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears’

says Hopkins in ‘Felix Randall’

who taught me empathy;

and those lines from Mary Oliver;

‘Someone I once loved

gave me a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand

that this too was a gift’.

You can’t better that, Daz would say.

So is cancer a gift?

Anyhow I want to build my wooden trolls of poems

coz like Daz says, the best poems have all been written.

pic courtesy of pinterest

Waterlog

Waterlog.

The rain has begun.

I park the car close as possible, then dodging the drops, duck into the library.

“Ahh,” says the librarian, “we’ve been wading through your requests and look what’s washed up.”

It is like Santa handing over a present.

“Ahh, ‘Waterlog’”, I say.”The perfect book to read in the bath,”

“Just don’t drop it,” he says.

I should have seen that coming but Steve is quick, very quick.

“Thanks,” I say and we have a brief chat on the merits of reading in strange places, like baths.

“Have to go”, I say. “The rain’s getting heavier.”

By the time I get to the car, the book and I are waterlogged.

Steve would have appreciated that pun.

Now I don’t have to worry about dropping it in the bath.

* what’s the strangest place you’ve read a book?

Hiding Place: a Tiny Tale

Hiding Place.

Was wondering where the cat snoozed sunny afternoons

when I turned the hose on some groggy –looking gardenias

in a cloistered corner of the yard

and found out

as a cat bounded out of the bushes into the clearing

as if she were scalded

If It’s Not One Thing ….

I have a rare blood disorder.

I can’t remember its name.

It’s a long word beginning with W

and it’s not a cancer.

It’s an indolent disease that has taken nine years

to get to the stage where it needs treatment.

I’m having a bone marrow biopsy on Friday

to determine what needs to be done but it will involve

some chemo.

On top of this I’ve had a bad cold which really

knocked me around.

Cold sores galore. Unable to shave.

Is anyone listening ?

And if that isn’t enough I’ve got a lump

on my forehead, a conical angry lump

that makes me look like a Tod Browning freak.

People stare.

Booked in Tuesday with the skin specialist

to have it removed.

If it’s not one thing, it’s another

I wish you all good health for ’23.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Is This How it Happens

Is This How it Happens?

He drove down to the Tobacconist to buy her some cigs.

There was someone new there today.

Yes? he was asked.

That’s when it happened.

20, 20 …..It’ll come to me in a minute.

But it didn’t.

He had forgotten the mantra. The words that come one after the other. He had forgotten the first word. If he knew that, the rest would come.

He had to drive back home and ask.

What an idiot, he thought.

It wasn’t as bad as forgetting the groceries in the shopping trolley then driving off without them.

That was ten years ago.

But it wasn’t good.

She told him.

Then he drove back and said it: 20 Classic Gold Signature, thanks, Red.

It felt good like rattling off a formula for the chemistry teacher in Year 12.  Or a soliloquy from Hamlet.

He was on top of things again.

Bono in the Car

Can’t keep Bono in the car for too much longer.

It’s a warm day, getting warmer.

I can’t let Bono get overheated, not on my watch.

He was good enough to come with me,

make himself available.

It’s my fault.

I should have gone to the library AFTER

I had done my grocery shopping

but I was excited. The book had just come in.

What if someone nicked it?

After all, the book is in high demand.

53 requests for it when I put my name down

and only 5 copies.

Bono would have been proud.

And I want to get home quickly and start getting into it,

before the heat starts curling the pages,

and Bono starts sweating.

I’ve seen him live, the sweat oozing out of him.

It’s a bloat of a book at 563 pages.

I hope he’s good at prose writing as he is

in writing songs.

But first there’s these veggies to get.

Hang on, Bono. Won’t keep you waiting long

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Wall Flowered

 Wall-Flowered.

This book of cautionary tales has languished on the Express Shelf of the library for weeks while more modestly titled books alongside it have whizzed off the shelf in days.

How to explain popularity?

How does it feel to be wall-flowered?

What’s that do to a book’s ego?

What’s not to like in the title, ‘Cautionary Tales for Excitable Girls’?

I was half tempted to borrow it myself except it would only confirm the chief librarian’s opinion of me.

I tried to imagine what one of these tales would be called, what it would be about, even how one of them would begin, but I just couldn’t. Can you?

But What If I …

But What If I ….

I don’t think I can run anymore.

What?

I run out of puff. I can walk fast though. Does that count?

But you’re a running joke. Can’t you push yourself?

But what if I damage my hamstring?

Then you’ll become a lame joke. Get it?

Hey, I’m the one supposed to be cracking the jokes here.

Then run, for god-sakes, run.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Lady Bay

Lady Bay

Molly and Tom are sipping G & T’s on the porch of their third room apartment overlooking the golf course.

“It is so peaceful here, “ Molly remarks.

The main road passes the links where cars pick up speed after leaving the confines of a 50 k zone but their roar is swallowed by the distance from the apartments and the vastness of the course.

Just then Tom’s eyes lift as he notices a vehicle driving over the green. It has just come off the road.

It slows down and stops. Two figures in dark blue uniform dash out.

“It looks like a police van,” Tom remarks. “What are they doing on the course?”

Just then three shots ring out. Then silence. There is a scuffle of some sort. Within a few minutes the van drives off.

Later at dinner Tom and Molly learn from their waiter that a king ‘roo had been hit by a SUV and wandered onto the course, broken and bloody, “scaring the bejesus out of the oldies”.

That it was the night before Halloween did not go unnoticed.