What’s the Big Deal?


  
What’s the big deal about me doing gym three times a week?
 
You don’t need to, you say. Do a little more around the house. Like gardening.
 
Gardening isn’t cardiovascular, I say. It has a lot of health benefits but it isn’t cardiovascular. It isn’t enough.
 
And you’re seeing the skin specialist next week. What’s that all about?
 
Looking after myself, I say.
 
You fuss too much, you say. You even check your car out during the week. I’ve seen you in the driveway, wiping away the bird shit off your car. Birds gotta shit somewhere.
 
Sure but it eats away the paintwork.
 
It’s becoming a fetish, you say. And now you’re off to gym, I suppose?
 
I treat my body like my car, I say. It’s the vehicle I travel through life in.
 
 

Them

You can’t swat them

with yr hand.

                       spray them

with disinfectant.

                                      or repel them

with incense coils.

They won’t buy it.

And you can’t

                      shut them out.

Not even

                                                          in yr room

at night.

Bite.    Bite.       Bite.

They whinge and they whine.

Those old anxieties, What ifs?

Those mozzies                     of yr mind.

Taking Off

Not all poems will leave the tarmac.

Not all are destined to fly.

Some are too heavy to lift off,

weighed down with their own importance,

too mechanically unsound.

Some simply haven’t enough fuel in the tank.

Others are just puzzles, enigmas,

the captain scratching his head in the cockpit,

saying, well, it should fly. Everything appears in order.

It was checked this morning.

Not all poems will leave the tarmac.

Not all are destined to fly.

  • pic courtesy of Pinterest

Pyramid Beach


All along the foreshore they stretch
brown clumps of seaweed
shoulder high
like Van Gogh haystacks
harvested by the sea;
overnight they sprang up,
these dense, damp mounds,
these camel humps,
little Ulurus,
flat top pyramids
for children to run up
and down on;
I stand on one
like a statue on a plinth,
fold one arm on my shoulder
like Lord Nelson
and gaze fixedly out to sea


* pic courtesy of pexels.com by Lachlan Ross
 

Last Night was Brutal

Last night was brutal.

We fought like Godzilla vs Kong.

Boxers slugging it out in the ring.

Cage fighters gouging and kicking.

Oooops. Is that an eyeball in my hand?

We were earnest. Furious.

Mean as gorillas. Cut-throat as pirates.

In the end we smoked the peacepipe.

What was that all about? she asked..

I don’t know, I said.

Look, next time, can we please agree what we’re fighting about?

  • pic courtesy of maxsportstz.blogspot.com

Mole

You say

I am a mole

when I write

burrowing

down

to my tunnel

with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign

on the door;

but I say

I know

no other way

that when I’m done

I emerge

into the light

tiny eyes

blinking

  • pic courtesy of Wikimedia

Rear View

There’s a cobweb on the rear view mirror

of my car,

the outside one so it’s a little mussed up

as you’d expect

in all that turbulence.

A new one goes up every second or third day.

I don’t know what he catches in it

except the past..

Like a passenger facing the wrong way

on a long distance train

he only sees where he’s been.

Maybe there’s a value in that:.

looking back.

A little nostalgia does no harm.

In fact we revel in it:

costume dramas, westerns like ‘Yellowstone’,

origin stories of super heroes,

biopics,

the little cobwebs studios weave

to hold our interest.

What it’s Like

You wanna know what it’s like? He says.

I’ll tell you what it’s like.

It’s like walking around with a ‘Vacant’ sign around your neck.

Like being scooped out by an excavator.

Or being a songbird without a voice.

It’s like walking along a jetty studded with couples clinging to each other like barnacles on pylons.

It’s like being on the esplanade ripping into a pulled pork burger like an animal ‘coz you’re on yr own so it isn’t all bad.

That’s what it’s like.