The Green Gazebo

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

Crack

Crack

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.

Some tittered.

Mr. Hairy was oblivious.

*pic courtesy of pexels.com

Sea Slugs

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 — & Other Wild Things

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?

Ants

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

Anita + Heydon: Hard Love

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?

Is it okay to take a post down?

I took a post down the other day

but no one noticed,

said anything.

Look, it had its chance.

But no one came up and asked it

to dance.

It slumped, sad and neglected on the page,

loudly weeping.

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

Along the Way

I’ve lost Ed along the way.

Don too.

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.

Your tribe.
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,

their stories,

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

Fighting Fish: an Extended Metaphor Poem

You & me

we’re siamese fighting fish

territorial as hell

in this fishbowl

of love.

You say,

I am taking every inch

of yr space;

I say,

huh, you are crowding me

but most of the time

we get on swimmingly

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Ruffians of the Lord

Huddled

in their rumble jackets,

burly,

growly haired,

they waylaid me

at the foot

of the jetty

proselytizing Jesus;

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