Rock

Thought

you’d be

my rock,

he said,

upon which

I could build

my future;

but you turned

into a sharp-

edged reef,

now I’m all scarred

& sutured





*pic by Tengyart on Unsplash


			

Since the Break-Up

I’ve been taking myself to the cinema again

watching brooding masterpieces like ‘The Dry,’

learning  to play Scrabble by myself but not too often

as I’m a bad loser; giving my self-esteem a face lift,

shed a few kilos, muscled up, become sharper;

I post more , comment more especially on posts

that comment on mine: the noble art of reciprocity;

but, most of all, I move more easily in the world.

have got to know myself more, and know in spite

of slurs like ‘nutcase’ and ‘creepy lizard’ I’m not

such a bad guy

Maybe it was Me

Maybe it was me

maybe it was her

it was some time ago

a bit of a blur





We both grabbed it greedily

we held it for a while

life lowered its fangs

put on a smile





But she had her demons

I had my ways

we were on different pages

in different plays





Maybe it was me

maybe it was her

it was some time ago

al a bit of a blur

The Cookie Man


[in honour of National Cookie Day in the U.S]

I used to give my Sydney Morning Heralds

To the Cookie Man

for his customers to read;

they’d devour the weekend papers with their cookies and cappuccinos

and dream

of the Harbor City they’d visit one day;

and I’d go away feeling

I had spread some wealth:

the Saturday supplements:

Food, Fashion, Film, Fun —

The Land of Plenty

& the Cookie Man would give me

the thumbs up;

Then one day

He was gone,

The whole edifice had crumbled

Like a cookie.

Now my Sydney Morning Heralds are looking

for a new home

& I miss the cookie man

Rumpole

This is Rumpole.

Rumpole is a plaster of Paris statue of a real dog that wandered away nine years ago and never came back.

We tell tales of where he might have gone, what mischief he got up to and the puppies he might have sired.

We still think one day he will find his way back home which is why we leave the side gate open.

Meanwhile the statue is comforting. We know he’s not really there

But every Halloween he cocks his leg and pisses on the pavers to remind us he still is

Tight-Lipped

If you see Millie, let me know, she says as she retires for the night.

I will, I promise.

So I watch the program I want to see

then watch the program I do not want to see

going outside to check during the ad breaks

rattling the tin of biscuits, calling out her name

but there is no sign; and the stars have come out

and the moon glows knowingly but remains tight-lipped

so I go inside to watch another show I do not want to see

going outside at intervals, rattling the old biscuit tin

looking for the cat that does not want to be found.

Blackbird

20191215_162811

The flower withheld its perfume

the sky withheld its rain

the road its destination

the labour its aim

 

She had taken away the love

life’s poetry and rhyme

Had taken all the flesh

left only the rind

Meg

Silky_bantam

Meg is wandering again

in smaller and smaller circles

driving us round the bend.

What is she thinking?

She worries the others.

 

A few days later

when we let her out she begins

circling again until

she huddles beneath the bird bath

and will not move.

 

We shift her.

She crawls under a bush

where she’s hard to reach.

The cat who often bothers the chooks

leaves her alone.

 

That night it rains and rains.

In the morning she’s bedraggled.

Dead.

I lift her into the earth.

There isn’t much of her.

The chooks settle after that.

So do we.