My Furry Friends

You are furry like a dog

sit at my feet like a dog

follow me around like a dog

always under my feet

but you don’t woof.





You are my slippers,

a handsome, friendly pair.

My ex never liked you.

She said I’d be wearing

a dressing gown next,

smoking a pipe,

reading cozy murder mysteries

in front of a log fire

but now it’s just you & me.





You often hear the phrase

‘let me slip into something

more comfortable’

as a prelude to sex

in steamy novels

but comfortable to me

means something else.

You can’t get into much trouble

wearing yr furry friends.

  • pic courtesy of Pinterest

			

The Problem with Aldo


 
Aldo thrust his hand forward
eager, anticipating.
What could I do but shake it?
I didn’t have a coronary,
a brain bleed
or a meltdown
but shouldn’t we have touched
elbows instead, feet
[‘The Wuhan Shake’],
given a fist bump to each other
or even the Tibetan Tongue Greeting
though it seemed as warlike as a haka,
something a little less intimate
than a handshake?
Are we loosening up too early?
I wash my hands furiously with sanitiser
& keep 1.5 m from myself
for the rest of the day.
You can’t be too careful.
 
 

Is Your Poem Looking Wan?

If you come across a poem that looks unwell

a little wan

tape it to the window

let it soak up some sun

bring colour to its cheeks

let its eyes feast on the great outdoors:

the tall cedars tapering to the Xmas tree skies,

the yellow-shouldered honey eaters bouncing on boughs

like kids on a trampoline

cobwebs in their silvery finery draped

over the gate that no one enters.

Invite some other poems over, maybe

Too much navel gazing is not good for a poem.

Offer it a coffee.

a sliver of Mrs. Kipling’s  peach and vanilla slice.

a jaffa cake for zing,

Take it for a workout at the gym.

.It’ll soon be better.

And so will you.

And You Laughed

When I drove my daughter to her friend’s new place

in the Adelaide Hills

she turned on her phone’s GPS system

as we took

one branching road, then another,

scores of roads branching up, down, across

that went on for miles

deeper & deeper

into

the dark woods

& you said, we’re getting closer, only a few miles now

& I said,

Christ, how do they ever find their way out of here

each morning

& you laughed

but eventually we found it, we got there.

You be okay finding your way out, dad without the GPS?

& I said, sure, how hard can it be?

then I took off

winding my way back and forth

for miles,

there were so many possibilities,

almost running out of fuel & patience

till I stumbled upon multiple forks any of which looked good

so I took one

& that’s when I learnt the difference between

a labyrinth and maze:

a maze is multicursal [ many branches] while a labyrinth

is unicursal [one branch].

I was in a maze.

A labyrinth is easier.





  • pic courtesy of pinterest

Some Hard Questions

I wonder how often they make love out there in the garden?

It gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘hard on’

I wonder is it a man and a woman?

I creep up to get a better look but they turn on me with a stony gaze.

I just hope they are discreet when the grandkids come over

or disengage for dear old great grandma.

A sight like that could finish her off.

I must say though they do have a marmoreal presence

and no unseemly sounds come from them.

Perhaps they are conscious of passers-by like me, voyeurs

and let it all hang out at night when only the stars and the big white eye

of the moon are watching.

I just hope they don’t get too rambunctious though:

that tap on the right looks a bit dodgy;

it wouldn’t take much to snap it and water come spurting out

like … like …

Discretion forbids me to extend the simile.

It Must Mean Something

I was driving to the clinic about my disintegrating blood

thinking about the riots in Washington,

the four deaths,

when Barry McGuire came on the radio, singing his anthem, from the sixties

‘Eve of Destruction’. You know it?

And I thought:

it must mean something, a message maybe but could something

written that far back, sixty years,

speak to the present?

Barry thought so, his voice just as urgent,

just as polemic

as it was then.

Sure, the finger on the nuclear button seemed shrill,

a little hysterical — it’d be more measured now, wouldn’t it? —

but the hate in Red China and the riots in Selma, Alabama,

seemed less so.

He was really getting worked up.

I thought his passion would pulverize the speakers.

I was getting a little scared, feel my blood fretting.

Just as I pulled in the car park,

the song came to an end.

God knows what apocalyptic anthem

would confront me on the way home.





pic courtesy of Wiki Commons

Burger Art

at Barry’s Burgers

at Semaphore

on the esplanade

they’ve put up art work

on the walls

to keep customers amused

while waiting:

drawings

fresh, inventive, zesty,

a little wacky

like Barry’s burgers

themselves

My Wine Bottle has Pretensions

My wine bottle, I am told, has pretensions.

It came from the top shelf where the expensive

bottles are kept, for starters.

Too good for the hoi polloi.

It has airs, she states.

See how stiffly it carries itself.

Why, it even comes with a cork in it!

Too good for a metal cap.

And to top it all it has been aged in bourbon barrels.

What’s that all about? she says.

I take a good hard look at it.

It does look a little snooty.

We both glare at it off and on during the evening.

I don’t know what it makes of us.

The Poem Outside my Window

There’s a beautiful poem outside my window

a shrub two and a half metres tall

with coquettish purple flowers

and a little frost of throats.

There are other colours too

lavender and white

a trinity of colours.

It has a botanical name, of course,

though I much prefer its common name:

Yesterday. Today and Tomorrow.

I’ve written about it before but not like this,

Yesterday was our 215 th day with no community transmissions.

Today we have 20.

Tomorrow?

We watch the News Bulletins, updates from the Chief Medical Officer,

Blooms of anxiety.

Viral blooms.

That Bloke at OUR table

There was someone sitting at our table. This was the second time in less than a month that this had happened. My friend in the wheelchair was ropable but I suggested, good old level-headed me, that we cool it.

Mind if we sit at our table? I asked.

Be my guest, he said quaffing his ale.

We won’t bother you, I said and then after we got our beers we became companionable.

Our friend introduced himself.

Steve, he said extending his arm for a handshake. I didn’t want to seem prissy and Covidy, so I shook it with all the manliness I could muster. [I go to gym :)]

Unlike our former usurper, the bloke with a book, Steve was not a reader. He was a man of action who spent much of his life as a pneumatic/hydraulic mechanical engineer working in mines throughout Queensland and W.A.

He was a good drinker too, downing four pints to our one. And he was still lucid and like our former companion a Catholic who still attended mass.

How come, I said to my mate after, we always end up with Catholics?

And loners, he said.

Maybe it says more about us than them? I suggested.