The Green Gazebo: Remembered
A long time ago
I sat beneath the green gazebo.
Huddled in my ego’s coat
& this is what I wrote:
The Green Gazebo
We sat beneath the green gazebo,
Just me, myself and my ego.
We spoke of very many things,
How grief and joy both have wings.
We had so very much to say
And that is how we spent the day.
- pic courtesy of pinterest
Not the crack in the cosmic egg
Nor the crack addicts smoke
Not even the crack in crack, snapple, pop breakfast cereal
but the bum crack
of Mr. Hairy
at the Eye Clinic
when he bent over to pick up
a form he had dropped
his shirt rolled up,
his jeans slipped a notch or two.
Everyone copped an eyeful.
I cracked a smile.
Mr. Hairy was oblivious.
*pic courtesy of pexels.com
This world — we’ll never see the end of it.
So much beauty, above and below.
And just when you thought you’d seen it all,
up pops the Photographic Exhibition on Sea Slugs.
Slugs! The very name invites disdain, derision.
But these are something else: an artificer’s folly,
a frolic of design and colour, of quirky geometries
and improbable beauty — and there are 3000 varieties!
What practical use, what purpose, if not to delight?
Later I trawled through the depths of the web and emerged
staggering, reeling ; & that strange word, ‘nudibranch’
- pic courtesy of Wikipedia
Ants Doing Yoga
I was watching ants filing back and forth the other day
When two pulled ovef for a chat; and I wondered how it was
They knew each other seeing they all look alike; and I
Concluded they must have individual features like us:
Hooked noses, for instance, bushy eyebrows, little pot bellies
And carry nicknames like ‘Shorty’, ‘Ginge’ or ‘Spike’
And further ants must have little to say seeing they say it
So quickly, but mostly I wondered where ants are off to
All the time; it is hard to imagine them doing yoga, or chilling
Out at the cricket or at the beach in a deckchair or moshing out
in a mosh pit to Adam and the Ants. So where do ants go?
Like angry black hairs
the ants scatter everywhere
when I discover them
under the hem
of the water drum
They are like
runaway exclamation marks
on their side
the full stops
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
till his house was clean .
That’s what Bush should have done
with Saddam he proclaimed
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
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
Anita + Heydon: Hard Love. For Don, Tnkerr and others
Are they still together , I wonder ,
after all these years ?
Had they cemented their love
after the concrete hardened ?
Are they still living there
in # 510 ?
Is she still the boss ?
[ her name did go first ]
Did she walk all over him
like people do to their names?
Did their love fade ?
Will it outlive the concrete ?
Are they inside now
holding hands on the sofa
[ like their conjoined names
on the footpath ]
watching tv ?
I’d like to go up to the door
and ask ,
Hey ! do Anita and Heydon live here ?
But I stare at the names instead .
One day their love was fresh
as the newly poured concrete .
I’d like to think it still is.
Is it okay to take a post down?
I took a post down the other day
but no one noticed,
Look, it had its chance.
But no one came up and asked it
It slumped, sad and neglected on the page,
You can’t have that on a public forum.
It’s like that Philip Hodgkins poem, ‘Shooting the Dogs’.
I had to take it down to the basement,
put it out of its misery.
I just hope no one was watching.
Along the Way
I’ve lost Ed along the way.
And Hobbo, of course.
We’ve all lost him.
Blogging friends come and go
like friends in the real world.
But a handful, a baker’s dozen, if you’re lucky,
stay with you.
Through thick and thin.
Missteps and triumphs.
Five years is not a long time
but they’re always there
sharing their thoughts, their little poems,
knowing you won’t be judgmental.
A few drift off for a while
but they come back.
I love their voices in the night,
on bleak afternoons,
on the mornings you’re home alone,
souls you can share your inner life with.
And they listen
*pic courtesy of dreamstime.com
Fighting Fish: an Extended Metaphor Poem
You & me
we’re siamese fighting fish
territorial as hell
in this fishbowl
I am taking every inch
of yr space;
huh, you are crowding me
but most of the time
we get on swimmingly
*pic courtesy of pinterest
in their rumble jackets,
they waylaid me
at the foot
of the jetty
one thrust a pamphlet
in my face
& I waved it away
saying, not interested
& he said
in a thick Russian accent,
why you not interested
& the others milled around;
I dug my hands
into my pockets
& strode up the jetty
wondering what Jesus would make of
these ruffians of the Lord