Chicken Run

Chicken Run.

It was like that classic car duel

in ‘Rebel Without a Cause’

where two cars race towards a cliff

and the driver who jumps out first

is the chicken.

I was in my Holden Cruize,

he in his yellow Monaro

and he wasn’t going to let me in his lane.

This went on for half a mile.

So when we were at the intersection,

I looked across, gave him

the ‘You’re on, buddy’ sign

and soon as the lights turned.

I gunned the engine,

shot across as if flung by a catapult

my batman black against his banana yellow

burning rubber, billowing smoke,

cars horns beeping, a voice yelling,

HOOOOOON !!

which was kinda funny considering my age

but I made the turn I wanted

got my sausage sizzle and this poem.

I don’t know what got onto me.

It was my James Dean moment.

A Cheesy Death

I am watching a man dying on a jet plane

and I am contemplating eating another slice

of cheesecake.

I don’t know yet if the man dies

from clogged arteries, but he looks well fed

up there in real life and is a senior like me.

Now they rip off his shirt and work on his chest

pale and spotted as this cheesecake

I am lifting to my lips as Logan Roy

is pronounced dead.

How Could I Not?

I put up a post the other minute that I knew might offend people but I wanted to honour the veracity of the experience. Would it be more acceptable if the man was the one shouting, and he was the bear of the title rather than his female partner? She did unleash a scatological attack upon the poor guy. What he had done was unclear; more likely it was what he hadn’t done. The title of the piece was unavoidable, though might have been more acceptable were it the man hurling abuse.

It was what happened. Security was called. I overheard the remark, ‘woman screaming in the mall’. It was quite an event. It stopped everyone in their tracks. I could bend over backwards to sugar-coat the experience or ignore it but I’m a writer. How could I not respond to it?

I Once Played Godot

I once played Godot in a high school play.

It was my big moment. My first step to stage stardom.

After all, I’d be playing the main character, the one the play’s named after.

-Where are my lines? I say.

-You have none, I am told.

I grow suspicious.

I once played a tree in a Xmas play.

-No Lines?

-You wait in the wings. You’ll get the hang of it.

It sounded dubious but I hadn’t been picked for anything all year.

-I’ll give it a go, I say.

          On the night I am a little nervous. I peep at the audience, the anticipation on their faces. I hope I perform well.

          The curtain goes up.

          I keep waiting for my cue to come in.

          The play keeps going and going.

          By intermission I still haven’t been called.

          -When do I go on?

          -You don’t. You’re the guy they’re waiting for.

          -Then why don’t I go on?

          -If you did, there wouldn’t be a play.

It seemed a pretty flimsy premise to hang a play on, but who was I to argue? My big moment would have to wait.

Rumble: Flash Fiction

We were holed up under the same roof, two people who couldn’t stand each other. And we had the whole night to spend in the same one bedroom flat. I took the lounge, she took the bed; we didn’t even say goodnight. We were murderous to each other. I could feel the old Minotaur in the labyrinth of my brain, gearing up for a rumble. But there could have been blood. Pray, I say, pray, don’t let her taunt me. I was scared of myself more than her. The Minotaur was raging. Just then the door opened

Just Us?

Just us then?

Yeh, just us.

What we gonna talk about?

I dunno,

I dunno either.

they both look into the distance contemplating the grim prospects ahead

Poor Jess.

Yeh.

She’s had a bad trot recently, Lost her wallet last month and then lost her balance in the bathroom.

Broke her hip.

Yeh. And only a few days ago she trips over the cat and breaks her arm.

Accident prone.

Yeh, you could say that.

Must be hard to dress herself with one good hand, wipe her bum.

Think she’ll phone?

Hope so; otherwise it’s just us, the two bozos.

Isn’t it her turn to bring the wine?

It is.

they look into the distance again

Miss her a bit.

Me too.

Hard to get a word in sometimes when she’s here.

True. I don’t like the way she interrupts sometimes.

Still. She puts up with us. That shows character.

True. Do you think she’ll come next week?

Hope so. Otherwise it’s …

Just us.

they look into the middle distance again quietly quaffing their ales.

Not Another Cat Poem

I’ve written another poem about a cat.

I promised myself I wouldn’t do that,

But this one leapt upon the page

and as usual took centre stage;

the other poems took off and scurried,

looking set upon and rather harried.

There was one about a lecherous leer —

that would have to wait another year;

and one about my old dog Trigger

who humped his mattress with manly vigour.

So may things about which to write

but this cat poem purrs with delight.

Life as a Pencil

I have always wanted to work in a pencil factory

like Henry David Thoreau.

I could draw inspiration from my work each day,

pencil in appointments with imaginary friends

during coffee breaks or smokos.

Do they still have smokos by the way?

‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ but what about

the pencil?  & which one?

2B or not 2B? Hamlet famously dithered just after

he had asked Ophelia [ in an earlier draft of the play ]

to come and look at his etchings and she had refused.

I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box but I still

want to make my mark upon the world.

 

 

* can you think of other lines for this poem?

* have you ever written an object poem? The opening lines are so important; would you like  to share a few lines — or the whole poem — with us here?

 

• pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The Girl with Incarnadine Hair

“Sorry, you have to move.”

“What?”

“You don’t belong here. You’ll have to move.”

“But I was here first. You saw me walking up and down with my multitudinous strands of hair incarnadine.”

“That’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“You can’t have ‘multitudinous strands of hair incarnadine’ in a poem about waiting for a poem to pull up like a bus.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too heavy, too overwritten. Too Shakespearean. It changes the tone of the poem totally. It’s like two colors that clash.”

“But …”

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to move. I can’t fit you in.”

“Okay”, she says, shaking her multitudinous strands in a flurry of petulance, “I’ll write a poem of my own and guess what?”

“What?”

“You won’t be in it.”

And with that she gets out her notebook from her backpack and begins writing, furiously as Lady Macbeth cleansing her blood-soaked hands in the basin.

Can Someone Feel like a Car?

Can someone feel like a car?

A burnt out car?

That’s how he feels at the moment.

Run down. Abandoned. Torched.

Oh, he’s bit of a drama queen, he knows

But it helps if you’re a poet.

Conveyancers, Real Estate Agents, Bank Managers

& the endless decluttering.

He always wanted to be a minimalist

So now he is.

And that countdown. Prisoners on Death Row

Must feel it.

The drama queen again.

Less than three weeks now.

He better get on with it and stop blogging!