A Taste of Chlorine.
Did you hear the possums last night? Up in the roof?
Sorry, I say, I didn’t.
It sounded like a stampede, she says. Like a wild party.
Why weren’t we invited? I chuckle. Nah, I was asleep.
I forgot, she says. You sleep deep.
I had a dream, I say.
Now you’re sounding like Martin Luther King. What was yours?
I was swimming laps in the pool. I was the only one there. I came out exhausted but exhilarated. That’s when I came in to see you.
You better have a shower then.
You smell of chlorine.
Awkward Not Balanced.
Can I tell you my dream, she says,
when talk turns to flowers.
What I really like
is a bouquet,
with one long sprig off to the side.
Awkward not balanced.
I like my poems like that too:
with fascist suns,
ladies with tachycardic eyes,
a girl with incarnadine hair,
poems with flourish,
like Tintin’s quiff.
- pic courtesy of pinterest
The Memory Paradox.
Not all words get through.
2.5 million gigabytes of memory
count for nought if words are stopped at the gate
The meaning of ‘lambent, for instance,
or the tricky title
of that Tony Joe White song,
the best cover Elvis ever did.
Not even the name of the new friend we made
at Church last Sunday,
starting with J: Jordan? Josh? Jaidin?
My daughter doesn’t remember either.
Maybe it’s a family thing.
Why do some words get blocked, while millions of others
The mind has a mind of its own.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
The Things I’ve Heard about It.
It is a cancer.
It is not a cancer.
You will not die from it.
You will die with it.
It is the cancer you want to have
if you have to have a cancer.
It is indolent. Lazy.
And that strange name.
Long as the name of a Welsh railway station.
Try saying that in one breath.
- pic courtesy of Wikipedia
Admittedly it ranks a little lower
than the mystery of the Marie Celeste.
missing Malaysia Flight A 370
or the disappearance of the Beaumont children
at our local beach on Australia Day
half a century ago
But I still want to know
to my snazzy blue, gold trimmed vest
I got for Xmas and took off for a shave
on Boxing Day
I only took it off for a minute
so I wouldn’t get it grubby.
Where did it go?
We arrived late at night. That may have been the reason.
Or maybe our reputation preceded us.
Either way we ended up in Siberia, Room 313 , the furthest most room from the front desk, next to the storage area.
Adele, the desk clerk, wasn’t much help. In her effort to be genial, she often hit the wrong note.
Eventually, we got our keys and lugged our baggage down the long, long corridor, the shadows across the carpet hulking and ominous.
By the time we got to our room we were stuffed,
We stripped off and hopped beneath the covers of the king size bed.
That’s when I realized we had company.
The figure beside me shifted uneasily
I wake up suddenly
stunned and panicky
like a ‘roo caught in the headlights
of a big rig
an eighteen wheeler
tunneling thru the darkness.
My senses are all rinsed.
I leap out of bed
into the hysterical light of morning
pour myself a coffee
settle back into my little
skew whiff home.
- pic courtesy of pinterest
You look like a newt
in yr birthday suit
she said with clear élan.
A little blemished.
A strange fit of a man.
I’ve read yr text.
I know what’s next
& up the stairs she ran
Look, she says. There are two moons tonight. Do you think that means anything?
Like end times, you mean?
I don’t know, she says. It can’t be good.
We move closer. There they are above the rooftops, one higher and to the right of the other.
Someone in the ranch-style house across the road switches the porch light on and joins us.
My ex phoned, he says. She saw it too. She’s bit of a sky watcher.
So we stand there out the front as one disc, then the other veer off in a north-easterly direction, silent as full moons.
As soon as you stand outside someone’s place,
whip out your mobile camera and start taking snaps
of something in the street,
jacaranda flowers, for instance, carpeting the verge,
an ibis making love to a TV aerial,
a drunken, tilting fence,
someone starts singing loudly in a bathroom.
conversations break out in the hallway like a rash.
windows open or close,
to let you know they’re onto you
when all you’re doing is trying to compose a poem.
When did people start growing so suspicious of poets?