Up in Smoke

You don’t see many houses with chimneys anymore.

They seem to have gone up in smoke,

like ashtrays in cars and restaurants,

and ‘smoko’ at work places.

I used to love ‘smoko’ even though I didn’t smoke.

And what about that wine everyone used to drink back in the sixties,

and no one asks for anymore. ‘claret’ at least in Oz?

When’s the last time you heard anyone drop into a Liquorland or BWS

and ask, got any claret on special, sport?

Come to think of it when’s the last time anyone called someone, ‘Sport

The other day an old mate asked me, would I like to drop by for ‘tea’.

‘Tea’? What the ^%^% is that? It’s a word like claret you don’t hear much anymore except in reference to the drink, the alternative to coffee.

I slip into it now and then — old habits die hard. You’ve got to watch yourself. .

can you think of other words or customs that have died out?

Out-Foxed

the nefarious cat

is taken back

the nest so

cleverly concealed

in a thicket

of thorns

& prickles

there is little

she can do

but sigh —-

and eat

humble pie

• photo courtesy of Ulle Haddock

Wolf Down

A few years ago I read a book called Wolf Hall.

Now I’m writing about Wolf Down

what the cat does with food when it’s been stuck

on the roof all day;

what we do now

wolfing down pleasure,

sunshine,

the great outdoors,

going for drives,

doing stuff together,

hoping to outfox the old virus for another day.

There is a Beach called Maslin

There is a beach called Maslin

where nude people go

It’s not far from us

we used to go there, you know

when we were hippies

but is there a place for unclad thoughts

thoughts free of political correctness,

herd mentality

to go?

thoughts still showing their wobbly bits,

their stretch marks,

scowl lines?

No.

No Place

No free forum of ideas

of any kind.

No Maslin of Minds

The Blossoms

You hear of early risers

but these apple blossoms take the cake

five weeks of winter to go.

Couldn’t they have waited?

Slept in?

Hibernated like bears?

But no, something drove them on,

something shiny and imperious.

Hope maybe? Faith that some

would get through?

They certainly brighten the street

lift the spirit in these cramped covid times.

Little blossoms of faith I photograph

to remind me, and I can’t help hearing

someone whistling in the back of my head,

with his hands in his pockets

always look on the bright side, and I start

whistling too

The Problem of Stephen King

Stephen King wrote a lot.

If God were as busy as Stephen King

He would not have rested on that seventh day.

Stephen King wrote as many books almost

as God put up stars

but not all of them were good.

None of them were duds

but only a few shine — you know them:

‘The Shining’, for instance, ‘Misery’,

the first third of ‘It’, the novella ‘Stand by Me’.

Maybe that’s all we can hope for —-

in a long and busy life only a few of our works

will shine.

*have I left any good ones out?

*what’s your favourite King book?

*which have you read over and over?

That Zippy Young Bloke

That’s us, at T Chow’s, the wonderful Chinese restaurant in China Town, our Cheers, on the last night before Lockdown. The place is bustling and you can only see half of it because the photographer stood in the middle to get a shot of the group, the one with the bloke in the wheelchair. It’s always happy there and everybody does know our name. There’s always three of us, often four but sometimes it grows to seven or eight.

Things are different now of course. Numbers are limited and they do a roaring take-away trade and there’s a new bloke, Brian — they always adopt an English name [is that a form of racism, I wonder?] —- who zips between tables spread out over the four quadrants of the restaurant. He’s young, he’s zippy and athletic with a great sense of humor. Everyone is cheery at T-Chow’s. You never see a long face or a frown. It’s where we hang out Friday nights. It’s our Cheers.

• tell us about your favourite dining place: is it the food, the atmosphere, the company?

Temporarily Unattended

Sometimes my mind

runs off

like that bloke’s mouth

outside the gym

pontificating about those fisticuffs

at the footy

“those weren’t friendly fisticuffs;

that was full on, mate”,

about George Pell:

‘ someone will pop him off one day,

like they did JFK’

or the Black Lives Matter protest rallies —

you don’t want to know’;

but I round my mind up

before it goes too far off the tracks

& give it a little talking to:

mostly I keep a close watch on this mind

of mine

the Wordsworth of Weeds

I read somewhere that weeds are the rodents of the plant world,

that they are sneakily aggressive, opportunistic, fiercely feral,

that they should be weeded out. I have heard this language before;

little good comes from it. Where are the Wordsworths of Weeds?

Plath comes closest, celebrating mushrooms. I like the strange,

tangled beauty of weeds, their punk swagger, their dogged persistence.

They too one day might inherit the earth.

 

the little man with the trapezoid head

can you see the little man in the middle

with the trapezoid head?

he wrote a poem:

‘I’m a little confused. My head is wonky

like a shopping cart with wobbly wheels.

I wave my arms all about

& my feet have runaway heels

If people play hopscotch on these lines

they’re going to have a crazy time.’