Honeyeaters

Snip

Snip

Snip

Like scissors

Snipping hair

Your

Swift

Little beaks

Snip bugs

From the air

Sultanas

You are the gin

in gin ‘n’ tonic,

the rum

in

bundy and coke;

the abracadabra that transforms,

the fruity little pellets

that add

zest and zing

to oats

that put the sing

in snap, crackle, ‘n’ pop,

feisty little metaphors

for writing

that needs to lift its lid

let out its Id

roll like a dog

in

the muck and merriment

of language.

Hosannas to sultanas.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

God Must Love Larrikins

God must love larrikins.

He calls them home early

to be with Him.

Warnie, of course. the King of Spin

and some years earlier,

The Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin.

No one saw that coming.

Least of all, him.

A stingray!

A creature from the black lagoon!

Too soon. Too soon. Taken.

And Paul Walker, my favourite,

who taught me to live

fast and furious.

God took him too.

But the dictators and tyrants

are allowed to linger,

grow putrid..

If only He loved them a little more.

• pic courtesy of Pinterest by Kobe eReader

The Loves of My Life

 
I love
Peroni pint glasses
Ohio
Blue Tip Matches
& the waifs of light
the sky at sunset snatches
 
I love a cutting comment
but not at my expense
I love Jabberwocky
though it doesn’t make
much sense
 
I love the nonchalance
of cats
who’ve mastered
the art
of just getting on with it
& not giving a fart
 
I love the lilt & lift
of ‘a brown-eyed girl’,
the ballet of a kite
& how we enter
the world
in a rush of light.
 
*what things do you love?

Love Yr Top

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

Spiral Staircase

My extension cord is kinky.

It winds around itself, gets tangled up in knots.

What can you do?

Iron them out?

I have kinks too.

The world would be a straighter, sadder place were it not

for kinks.

Our quirks, our oddities, the little handbag we carry around our talents in.

How we’re wired, the way we spin, the bands we listen to.

Kinks.

They’re in me and you.

Those pairs of long thin strands coiled like the banisters of a spiral staircase.

Our DNA.

You don’t want to untangle them.

post courtesy of dykeanddean.com on Pinterest

My WP Friends: an Ode

.

I love my community of bloggers.

They’re fun.

I love them

Each and everyone.

There’s Hobbo, Beth,

Eden, the Don,

dear old Ed

& a Coyote name John.

There’s Chel. also,

formerly Chelsea,

a big fat can of worms

Little Charmer’s pithy poetry.

There’s eob2

with her eyes of blue

her mystical poems

their music too.

Karen, of course,

her Yard Sale of Thoughts

teasing us with ruminations

her imagination has wrought.

Then there’s foresty Ulle

what can we say of him?

A man , sharply observant

with a taste for whim.

Then like a shooting star,

there’s our phantasmagoric friend:

David, jester and artificer

on a trip that will never end.

Not forgetting Jewish Young Professional

and Sarcastic Fringe Head

like my mum used to say,

you wouldn’t for quids be dead.

So to my fellow bloggers,

one and all,

each day spent with you

is a real cyber carnival.

Put a Moat Around it

I have a mote in my left eye

not the metaphoric one that Jesus

spoke of

but an actual one of grit.

I have amoat in my head too

which is metaphoric.

It cuts me off from needy people

which is kinda funny

coz I’m needy too.

Some people are overly guarded.

Too many moats to cross.

Australia has a moat,

a helluva big one

called the Pacific Ocean

on one side

& the Indian on the other

the one that boat people crossed

to get to Australia.

One family from Vietnam

lived across the road from us

for years.

I wrote about the man, the grandfather

in my first book.

[I’ll post it tomorrow]

A moat as big as the ocean

is hazardous.

Not everyone made it back then.

The Earth is surrounded

by a moat too

the vast star-studded ocean

of space.

I could go on but this poem

is starting to drift.

so I’m going to put a moat around it

and close it off.

* photo by juvnsky-enton-maksimor on Unsplash

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.

 

Love in the Time of Corona

What a thin

partition

skin

our souls

merge

sprout wings

 but greater still

 the feel

of skin

on skin