Golden Staph, Such a sweet, mellifluous name.
Its Latin counterpart, staphylococcus aureus,
just as euphonious, a name fit for a new species
of wildflower, an exotic dessert, or a freshly discovered
galaxy, glowing golden. at the edge of the universe;
even the bacilli under the eyes of an electron microscope
look like jolly mauve mushrooms clustered in a field
not the toxic toadstools they are.
*photo courtesy of CDC
At the Place where Poems Begin.
I should be grateful
she comes
at all.
It’s hardly a place
for visiting Royalty;
she doesn’t have ‘airs’, my Muse:
she’s like Diana,
‘the people’s princess’;
she pays no heed to the currawong
wolf-whistling
in the covert
of the honeysuckle bush
where the yellow-shouldered honey-eaters play
& the wattle-birds cluck;
she doesn’t mind sharing my instant coffee
in my ramshackle carport café;
it’s where I think,
tease out my thoughts,
it’s the place where poems begin.
feet on one plastic chair,
bum on the other
cushioned by my retired blue hoodie.
Ants
1
Like angry black hairs
the ants scatter everywhere
when I discover them
under the hem
of the water drum
2
They are like
runaway exclamation marks
on their side
their heads
the full stops
3
A year after the gulf war
I stayed with a friend in the states
who suffered a home invasion
of ants .
He sprayed , stamped , stomped
on them
till his house was clean .
That’s what Bush should have done
with Saddam he proclaimed
4
There are no ants in heaven
a priest explained to us at school .
Some how they got beneath the creator’s gaze
like cockroaches , rats and spiders .
They have no souls .
Kill with impunity
5
Smidgins of black , dashes.
a black din of limbs
an amokery of midnight slivers
through a crack in our world
they got in
*pic courtesy of pinterest
Snip
Snip
Snip
Like scissors
Snipping hair
Your
Swift
Little beaks
Snip bugs
From the air
I was talking to our Hobbo the other day about scratching posts and whether his black Labrador, Dauphy had one and Hobbo retorted, no, but he has a snoring spot.
And I thought: that’s the difference between cats and dogs. Cats have scratching posts, dogs don’t. It seems a little discriminatory.
Cats can work off their frustrations on a post. What’s a dog supposed to do? Max, my granddaughter’s dog, had the answer. Whenever he got frustrated, he would hump his mattress. Not an edifying sight, but it worked for Max.
He was placid as a puddle after that.
Maybe that’s the answer for human beans too. Instead of walloping walls, pummeling pillows or brawling with our besties, we could simply hump our mattress. Or find a snoring spot.
Love yr top.
You do?
Yes, it’s blue and fleecy. So soft and warm.
Like me?
Yes, like you, I reply.
And we cuddle like clouds.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by BuzzFeed
Now it is spent and lying limp
and placid at my feet —
a contentment of inky blue
but the other day if you
could have seen it bucking
with energy , flailing its
wild hair and arching its back
[ sea mountains surfers abseiled
down ] you would not have been
surprised to see it thrust
its loins again and again against
the soft white dunes nor after
to see the body of the foreshore
bruised and torn nor its rump
so foam wracked .
pic by Lachlan-Ross on Pexels
If I were to change my name
I would change it to something
light and leafy like Forrest Gander,
the name of the poet whose poem ‘Pastoral’
I am reading now: ‘swarms of midges
bobbed up and down like balled hairnets
in the breeze’; nothing blunt and earthy,
like his nearest namesake, Forrest Gump
would write; but ethereal; I see he has a degree
in ecology and was born in the Mojave Desert,
all part of the grand design; his photo
portrays him, smiling, upstanding, arms outspread
as if ready to take off on another flight of whimsy.
photo courtesy of Ulle
I am sitting down reading to the drone of bees.
A copy of the TLS lies open on my knees.
We must get a frizzle on, my partner exclaims
Apropos of nothing then goes off again
To attend the roast, while I attend to the Times.
There’s a lost poem by Hardy which clumsily rhymes.
A frizzle or two? Whatever can she mean?
I scratch my head then read once again.
I take another sip of my beloved cab sav
While she takes a pee in the outdoor lav.
We were talking about Milly, Bev’s cat
who had just butchered a baby blackbird
when Rob went feral.
I have never liked cats, he said. They should be locked up. Murderers all.
Go easy, I said. You ever eat at a restaurant?
Of course, he said.
Ever ordered a barramundi?
Often.
Ever sent it back because it was too fishy?
No, of course not.
Well, I said, you may as well berate a barramundi
for being a fish
as to castigate a cat
for being feline.
John Malone 