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

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.

Fridays circa 5p.m.

There’s nothing I like better doing

than sitting here in a quiet corner

of the pub

with my Mongolian beanie on

waiting for my mates to rock up

while I have a quiet read.

I know it smacks of vanity

when I pull out my iPhone

and scroll through my posts,

reading what I said, what others said,

how many likes I got.

I like what I wrote and how I say it:

the long, slouching sentences,

the laconic phrases

[Hey! I’m an Ausssie]

the odd syntax here and there

[ like the first line of this post ].

One should be as comfortable in one’s voice

as in the clothes one’s wearing.

I like the merry banter of patrons in the bar too,

the warm embrace of companionship

as I like to gather my poems around me

like boon companions

until my real friends, my flesh and blood friends,

turn up

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?

Have You Ever Noticed?

Have you ever noticed how placid an ad becomes

when you put a cow in it?

Farmers too when they milk?

All my good ideas came to me while I was milking a cow,

the American painter Grant Wood

declared.

Have you ever noticed how much more pleasant

‘The Farmer Wants a Wife’ is

compared to the bitchy, sniping

‘Married At First Sight’?

We should all pat a cow in the morning, hug a tree

if we are to start the day right.

Riot-prone areas, prisons too should be equipped with cows

their melodious moos

soothing the seething masses.

Bovine Buddhas

emblems of placidity

a state we aspire to in these troubled times.

Loose

My mother always warned me about loose women

to avoid them at all costs.

But what about loose lemons?

That’s a whole new ball game.

And I need one for my fish tonight.

Do I risk it?

And what about loose thoughts?

Isn’t that where creativity comes from,

thoughts that amble along like a jazz tune that’s lost its way?

I posted a poem last night about an invisible dog

that turned out to be a bit of a lemon.

Talking of which….

I’ll take one loose lemon, I say to the check-out girl,

and o, excuse the loose change.

No Fairy Tale Towers

There are no fairy tales in these Tower Blocks

of Melbourne

No Rapunzel leaning from a window

to let down her golden hair

for some prince to climb up,

no balcony for a Juliet to stand on

and gaze out at her Romeo romancing her

from below

no Dire Straits song to celebrate

their desire

no tower of hope and dreams

no clambering prince

only a vicious virus climbing

the tower walls

*pic courtesy of Wiki Commons

The Nine Towers

While I was sleeping

the nine towers rose

in my head

from the TV news

the night before;

They were nothing like

the Eiffel Tower

or the Burj Khalifa

of Dubai

not even the Tower of Babel

though their residents spoke

in a multitude of tongues,

Instead they were the nine

po-faced Tower Blocks of Melbourne

ringed by police

like a besieging army

in ‘hard lockdown’:

a term we had never heard before.

They looked more like the Grenfell Towers

though the fires consuming them

were a virus and fear