The Sky Goes Goth

the sky

has gone

Goth;

dyed its hair

inky black;

the dark clouds squinch

like too tight jeans

letting

no light

through;

a Greek chorus of crows

caw

from the bare boughs;

thunder

mumbles

like Nick Cave’s intro

to Red Right Hand

Axle: a children’s poem

There’s a miniature submarine lurking

at the bottom of the aquarium .

It is smooth and black with feathery gills .

It is an axolotyly .

We call him Axle , of course .

Most of the time he just hangs around

amongst the water weeds .

Perhaps he’s lonely and depressed .

But every now and then

he rouses himself

and cruises around as if on patrol .

The other fish give him right of way .

Perhaps he thinks he really is a submarine

on an important mission ,

keeping the waters safe for democracy ,

for instance .

Sometimes when he cruises past the sides

of the tank

I give him the thumbs up .

It seems to give him a lift .

• pic courtesy of wikipedia

On the Shortest Day

On the shortest day

I take the longest run

between one jetty and the next

and back again

rest myself against the rump

of a dune

listen to the sea shanties of the waves

while a mermaid appears, rises above the waves

swinging her wild, wild hair

in the sun-drenched breeze

until spotting me she coyly slips

beneath the water.

The jetty wades a little deeper into the sea

to catch a glimpse.

On the shortest day I tell

the tallest tales.

The Sitting Duck

Every time I sit out the back on my three chairs a bloody poem

comes into my head. The Muse is not silly. She sees me sitting there, happily

drifting off like a Labrador in the winter sun

and says, ‘Aha: there’s a sitting duck’. I don’t know if sitting on fewer

chairs or more would make a difference. I suppose I could experiment.

I could bluff my way into intensity by having a book of heft

say ‘Sabbath’s Theatre’ open in front of me and my glasses resting

professorially on the bridge of my nose, my chin resting on my hand

in faux concentration. Maybe that would work

but She’s not buying it; She nudges up to me, the swish of Her gown

over the carpet of bluebells, the murmur of bees, Gus, the Jack Russel

yelping at ghosts next door, and says, I’ve got one for you

and She whispers a line in my ear, and she sure has, and I leap out

of my three chairs and dash into my study, onto my laptop where I’m

pounding down this poem, the one you’re reading,  right now

Sexy Titles

…. and now for something lighter: Can you come up with other cheeky titles to add to this list of Imaginary Books? or even, if you’re up for it [excuse the pun] write a paragraph or two ?

If My Poem had Long Hair

If my poem had long hair

dyed black

& a voice

gorge deep

& musky honeyed

as Chris Hemsworth

you’d listen

If it had abs

biceps

a chiselled face

like The Rock

you’d pay attention

if my poem was lean

& loose

exuded menace

you’d come onto it

so, baby, couldn’t you

close yr eyes

yr ears

& imagine?

Looking at the Long, Narrow Columns

Looking at the long, narrow columns of ‘Le Coeur Immense’

and trying to read the text with the French I have long forgot

is like that time I rode the train having just purchased my copy  

of Sgt. Peppers that no radio station had yet been allowed

to play and trying to hear the ornate aural castles the Beatles

had constructed from reading the lyrics on the album’s

psychedelic sleeve

the Red Pencil Sharpener: Zoom

I am looking down the barrels of

the red pencil sharpener

its holes

big as drainpipes

fat as full moons

flared like the nostrils

of horses;

 they are

deep wells

dark tunnels

O-shaped mouths hungry

for pencils

The red pencil sharpener sharpens

my imagination

Zoom Workshop: I am running a writers’ workshop on ‘Sharpening the Imagination’: tools and techniques for doing so. You are invited to attend. It will be a workshop run by the Vienna Writers Club but it will be broadcast from my home state, South Australia. participants can come from any country. It will be run towards the end of January 2021. Details can be found by Googling ‘Sunday Writers Club Vienna’.

Which Animal Are You ?

Perhaps I am a porcupine.

I am prickly by nature

& when I forget to shave

I have a prickly kiss,

Like most porcupines

I live alone

except when I cohabit

with other porcupines

in which case, I’ve been told,

we live in a prickle.

When my quills are quivering

people steer clear of the thornbush

that is me.

*what animal are you like?

*want to add a little poem about yourself as that animal?

The Rant that became a Poem

I’m always amazed how they go in

Without thinking

Then close the steel doors on themselves.

Haven’t these people any imagination?

Sometimes they are bunched up in there

like sardines in a can.

Speaking of cans I can’t help thinking of the Kursk

how those poor submariners were coffined

in a can.

Speaking of coffins, that’s what they remind me of.

Lifts.

Vertical coffins.

Going Down?

My counsellor says I have too vivid an imagination.

Isn’t that what writers are supposed to have?

Anything can happen.

I think of ‘The Towering Inferno’ and those people

plummeting to their deaths when the lift cables

snap

or in ‘Speed’ when they are cut.

And my counsellor says to calm my farm!

Speaking of farms I think of cattle being trucked

to the slaughterhouse and not knowing

till it’s too late.

And speaking of not knowing, and I promise I won’t

speak of ‘speaking of’ again but I bet poor old Nicolas White

never knew when he stepped into an elevator back in 2008

that he would be trapped in it for 41 hours.

No food. No drink. No cell phone. No company.

 I don’t know if those people got out at the other end

or not

but I’m taking the stairs.