The Baker

baker

The Baker

The baker wakes so very early
to bake his daily bread,
toasty blankets cast adrift,
he laments the rift from bed.

But once the loaves are rising,
his nose begins to fill
with smells so appetising,
he marvels at his skill.

His brioche is to die for,
jam donuts light and fluffy,
the high top loaf is standing tall,
the sausage rolls are puffy.

His fairy cakes are delicate,
soft mouthfuls are transcendent,
with butter cream of every tint,
the frosting is resplendent.

His pies have all the best of fillings,
juiciest steak and chicken,
the gravy is delectably rich,
he’s a secret way to thicken.

His flaky pastry takes the cake,
the perfect wrap for pie,
the warm light pasties make the grade
and all the mouths will sigh

and sing his praise, gustatory
king of the bakery world,
his pastries always take the prize,
his fervour is unfurled.

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Timing

This is another of my close shave poems (but when I think about it the shave was too close – more like a fatal shave). This poem is about a friend of mine who died a long time ago now – strange how people always think they will get a second chance at life.

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Timing

His inebriated reverie
featured a change in fortune,
a magical
pivot
materialising, in the nick of time,
as he teetered on the edge.

He had visions of narcan for an overdosed lifestyle,
something to snap himself back from the effects
of a depressed, nervous system.

An apparition,
an angelic stranger, providing resuscitation.
Chest compressions sparking a cracked heart,
warm breath of someone else’s life
galvanizing his lungs for another go,

but the light in his eyes was skeletal,
and his timing was out.

His time had run out.

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The Volcanologist (Mr X) – a close shave

volcano

I haven’t received any Close Shave subs (though it’s not too late folks). Never mind – it is a peculiar subject (probably a theme that I relate to more than others). But I can dust off a couple of poems that I have written on the subject.

So below is The Volcanologist (Mr X).

Years ago I read an article about a Volcanologist who became so obsessed with lava flows that he made a boat and tried to float in the river of lava – the ending wasn’t happy.

I tried to track down that story but had no success (so if anyone knows the original story I would love to find the source).

You’ll have to read my poem to find out what happens to my Mr X, another obsessed Volcanologist (they’re everywhere ;) )

Continue reading

Duck philosophy 101

muscovy resized
a rooftop view
is the lone duck’s comrade,
clear Autumn skies
~
a rooftop view
when the autumn skies are clear,
the contented duck
~
the duck observes
a clear sky in autumn,
there are no regrets

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The Perfumer

perfume-bottles

The perfumer

By night he dreams of three exotic ladies in harem pants, adorned with beads and misty coins, whirling together in a heady dance.

The dance of the three ladies, beginning with the light touch of one that awakens his senses to the fleeting now, shimmy from the top; then the heart and body of the second dancer snaking and shivering with the middle notes, the music punching the air, staccato hips; joined by the final dancer, who lingers over rich, base notes, infused in the atmosphere, undulating torso.

Arms and bodies fuse in a confluence of silk, flesh and hazy smoke, forming a pyramid of inspiration burning in his

nose.

 

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Note: the fragrance pyramid consists of top notes, middle notes and base notes to create the perfume, that the perfumer will create

 

Nuddernote: wake up and smell the perfume ;)

 

Nuddernuddernote: a repost

Warning: This Poem is Revolting

Warning: This Poem is Revolting

The reader’s face was blank
the words had not sunk in.
The poem had been read
but then he chucked it – in the bin!

He didn’t like that poem,
didn’t ascertain its meaning,
he was busy contemplating pies
and the cost of his dry-cleaning.

But this story is just beginning
for metaphor was pissed,
his very being was compromised,
he didn’t like being dissed.

Simile was similarly outraged,
like a prisoner denied a smoke,
he didn’t like this reader
who was dumb beyond the joke,

and narrative was spewing
she was livid, through and through,
she told as much to subject and shape,
and they were fuming too.

Symbolism was gnashing teeth,
a cross tattooed on her back.
Infuriated – an understatement -
she wouldn’t take no flack.

Outrageous cried the first stanza,
turning to the second,
this reader – talk about acting the goat,
is that what you would reckon?

K’noath, that’s pretty much how I do feel,
my tone is smoky red,
I’m only short but misunderstood
is not the way I’m read.

By now allusion was going crazy,
cartoon smoke came out his ears,
bit like the lies from Abbott’s mouth
before he safely engaged the gears.

Now rhythm and rhyme were plotting,
they were going with the flow,
let’s take revenge on this dim-witted dude
he knows not how low he will go.

The attributes of the poem united
in ranting, and bristling and bridling.
The theme would be taking revenge
and in this there would be no dam idling.

They gathered their weapons so swift -
there were knives, a chainsaw, an axe -
oh yes, they were ready for battle
and reader was not watching his back.

The reader’s face was blank
as you’d suspect from someone dead,
he had failed to hear the music,
so they cut off his empty head.

(soundtrack to the poem)

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Note: Recently there was an interesting comment thread on Aussie writer Nigel Featherstone’s blog where we were talking about a ‘poem … going to go wild and violent due to being shunned and misunderstood!’ Nigel asked me to write the poem (we will soon be making the movie ;) ).