Holiday from Blame

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I want a holiday from Blame.

I’m sorry I ever knew its name.

It should be sent up in flames.

 

I know its nasty little game.

From small beginnings it sneakily came

into our lives. Could not be tamed.

 

No love affair can be sustained

In the endless barrage of Blame.

So let us now both abstain.

 

I want a holiday from Blame.

A holiday from Blame.

Won’t you come with me?

We can start again.

 

 

Who’s in Charge Here, Anyway?

 

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My body alarms me.

It rings two or three times a night.

Who’s in charge here anyway?

Poetry flowed from me

Like water from a garden hose.

Days were diamonds.

My feet horses’ hooves.

Nothing defeated me.

I was sharp as Sherlock.

Prolific as Zola.

I had two hounds.

The wheels turn.

Accept, my friend tells me, Embrace.

Loss is gain.

Now is the new normal.

The Forest

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I like them too.

I thought I was a basket case

But there’s this thirteen year old

I read about

Who takes anti-depressants

Anti-psychotic drugs,

Two drugs for attention deficit disorder

& she takes what I take too.

Christ,

I know growing up is tough

But I didn’t know it could be

Tough as this.

I could take other drugs,

Ones that she takes

But the doc reckons I’ve got this far

Without them

I can go the rest of the way.

I just hope that little thirteen year old kid

Makes it out of the forest okay.

 

 

 

Rain

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For nights and nights and nights I lay on my pillow, worrying, listening to the rain, even though the skies were clear and starlit and the moon shone through my window like a lantern and I wondered what else I was hearing that wasn’t there or not hearing that was until one day I had my ears syringed with warm water and the wax flowed out in little honey-coloured clumps into a dish the nurse held for me and I no longer heard it rain except when it did.

Runt

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“Bugger”, says Scruff. “Bugger”.

He’s back to his old intemperate self.

“What’s got your goat now?” I say.

“How am I supposed to get to the top branch now?? You know how I love the top branch. Someone took the tall ladder away and replaced it with THAT RUNT!!”

His wing is pointing at the little ladder against the weeping myrtle.

“Excuse me,” I say, “but you can’t expect the gardener to consult with magpies every time he shifts a ladder.”

Scruffy has that evil look in his eye.

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“Besides”, I add, “has anyone ever pointed out those two appendages, one on each side of your body? They can get you places.”

“Sarcastic snob!” he snaps. “I use them all the time like you your legs. Aches and pains. I prefer to hop up rungs.”

“Have it your own way,” I say, but my heart goes out to him all the same. “I know what you mean,” I add. “I’ll speak to the gardener.”

I notice a little spring in his hop.

On Cannibalism

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Montaigne wrote an essay on Cannibalism

But he was not thinking of the literary kind.

Lately, having been ravaged by an uncontrollable

Hunger for poems to post, I have begun feasting

On a number of my haiku, being both salubrious

& delicious, not to mention efficacious. No one else’s

poems were hurt during the making of this poem.

The proof, they say, is in the pudding, which

I will set out before you to decide whether

Such a practice should occasionally be condoned.

 

 

At the Physio: A Humerus Poem

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As soon as you walk in you see them paraded

along the walls

exemplars of Beauty and Strength:

Warnie unleashing a leg spinner,

Its eye on middle stump, Krygios rocketing another ball

past his opponent,

Thorpie diving into glory,

even one of cane growers in Queensland,

big blocky blokes in blue singlets

bringing in the harvest;

of Cathy Freeman at the Sydney Olympics.

But my humerus and hamstrings

were playing up.

On good days

I can do almost anything, but

on bad ones I can barely put one foot in front

of the other, bounce a ball

let alone slam it down centre court

at 200 kph

and the only way I could get in a pool is to fall in it.