Under the Gate

What is the cat looking for under the gate?

Perhaps the old tom two doors down trudging across the road like a sloppy sentence.

Perhaps the purr that left her mysteriously six months ago.

Or maybe she’s dreaming of the Krazy Kat cartoons she loved read to her as a kitten.

Or what the rest of her siblings are up to at the Pet Barn and whether they landed on her feet like her when she was adopted.

Or maybe she’s just curious. She’s a cat after all.

How Does That Work?

My mind is a scold.

It calls me sloth,

a lassitudinous layabout.

Is that even a word, I say?

Get off the couch, it says. It’s early afternoon

Attend to your blog.

Your Yorkshire mate puts up three posts

to your one.

Write that poem about airing the sheets.

How they purr like cats as they are stroked

by the sun.

Re-read that article :

‘Should Leopards Be Paid For Their Spots’.

Phone your daughters.

Go see your sister.

Give people their worth.

Go to gym.

Release your inner Thor.

Okay, okay, I grumble

but, in truth, I’m happier

and have loads more energy

when I’m buzzing around

like a gingery bee.

How does that work?

The Big Day

Election day at Alberton Primary.

A long, long queue.

A slow shuffle to the front.

Hope the queue at the Pearly Gates

isn’t as long and tedious as this.

And there’s a coffee van and sausage sizzle

at the end of it

The Wrong Saint

We were at St, Francis Winery

& were trying to find

our way home

when you said,

Hey! Isn’t St. Francis the Patron Saint of Travellers

& I said, yes,

I think he is

so we got praying to St. Francis

but were getting

more and more lost.

Hey! let me check something, I said

so I pulled out my iPhone & Googled

‘Patron Saint of Travellers’

& found

it was St. Christopher.

No wonder we were lost.

We were praying to the wrong guy.

So this time we prayed to the right guy

& cheered up.

The car cheered up too.

It had a bounce in its wheels.

We were on our way.

Any minute now …..

The Pink Comb

I have a pink comb

in my back pocket.

My one concession to pink.

Still, I was amazed

to read

in an article on Harris Reed,

the 25 year old designer,

that in the 18th century, pink

was stylish for men and women

as was lace,

a marker not of effeminacy

but of affluence & taste.

Tastes change.

Although I am not rabidly masculine,

I like manly cuts and colours

Still I;m fond of my pink comb.

O, and I like Kylie too.

My 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.

O Brittle Love

O brittle love

O brittle love

whatever were we

thinking of?





one careless word

misplaced phrase

put us in a spin

for days





but now in each

other’s arms

we appreciate

our twisty charms





locked in firm,

solid embrace,

steady as stone

we’ve found our place.

Off the Rails


 when I go off the rails

I’ll eat strawberry flan and chocolate cheese cake

wear my slippers to the shopping mall

my pj’s to the mail box

play my beethoven string quartets real loud like I did

my elvis records when I was fifteen

when I go off the rails I won’t be nice to mr fydler
just because he’s a senior

nor put the tv down when my kids ask me to

nor empty the dishwasher when

I don’t eat home at night

when I go off the rails

I’ll leave my newspapers just where I’ve read them

blare my horn all morning just to let my neighbors know
I’ve got one too

say what I really get up to when I “ go for a walk “

change my pass word on the internet so my brother-in-law
can’t sneak on

and when I go off the rails

like tootle the train engine

chasing butterflies

in the meadow

I hope no one puts me

back on track

too soon
 

Travelling in Ambulances

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

The Last of the Romantics

This time he’s really shitted off.

Had a turd of a day

and now he’s come home to find

dog poo AGAIN

on his freshly mown lawn.

His fury diarrhoeas out

of his mouth, and here we draw the veil of decorum

over the expletives to protect our readers.

A little calmer now he pulls out his pen,

the ballpoint

he uses to write romantic missives to his love

and pens

a warning. on the nearest stobie poll,

a friendly warning

but its double-barrelled exclamation marks cannot hide his intent.

He grabs

a can of beer, and plonks himself near the front window,

watching, watching.