Political Speak

Political Speak

I want to spend more time with my family,
the grey-headed politician
moans on his backbench
as ambitions take a dive
faster than a stash down the toilet
when the cops arrive
unannounced.

It was just a loan between friends
the minister cries out
from minimum security,
I have a lot of friends
who want to ensure
my financial security, without the need
for favours returned.

I did not sleep with my secretary –
we simultaneously retired,
it’s tiring working endless days
slaving away for my electorate,
far from my family who
I’d like to spend more time with,
I was on the job.

Environmental issues are critical
but complex, not easily understood
by those who are not important ministers
with access to the necessary details
to grasp the complexities of the arguments.
My head is around these issues
no-one is holding a gun to it.

No comment,
I do not recall,
These issues are out of my hands,
These matters are for another department,
Yes minister.

There is a place,

There is a place,

children

There is a place,

a breathing space between where the neat hedge stops
and the garden next door splays,
where the moss spreads cool and green,
where the stars wink with aged beams,
where the spruce hare relaxes and dreams,
warming her fur in the yellow-berry rays.

Let us go from this place where the shrill wind screams
down blackened roads and acrid dead ends,
clear of the coal mines and gravestone heads,
walk steadily forward, ignoring the dread,
and the clothes that are sullied and shred,
in search of that space between garden and hedge.

But the way is blurred and the path overgrown
and the memory of clear weather has strayed,
with time the burnished metal has dulled,
with time the mind needs to be oiled,
with time all the sparks have been culled,
so let’s search for the children to show us the way.

__________________________________________________

Note: This poem was inspired by Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends.

 

Heaven on Earth

Heaven on Earth

 

BrolgasJune2018 020 (4)
photo by Gabrielle Bryden

We have been blessed to have Brolgas visit us recently – they are one of Australia’s largest flying birds standing about 1 metre tall and a wingspan of up to 2.4 metres. It’s a bit like watching an emu fly – which would be very strange 🤔

Haiku:

Brolgas in the sun,

watching with admiration

the wings of angels

wine connoisseur

wine connoisseur

poetscorner

wine connoisseur

 see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
spit
blahblahblah vibrant drop blahblahblah
see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
spit
blahblahblah full bodied blahblahblah
see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
spit
blahblahblah woody notes blahblahblah
see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
spit
blahblahblah complex flavours blahblahblah
see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
spit
blahblahblah strong finish blahblahblah
see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp, sluuuurp,
blahblahblah flubalubalub blahblahblah
hic
hic hic
zzzzzzzzzzzzz

The Volcanologist (Mr X)

The Volcanologist (Mr X)

abstract active ash color

The Volcanologist (Mr X)

Looming cautious, he peers like a jaguar in a tree,
an addict, on the edge of a big mistake –
mind split, fractured by equal needs to flee
and stay, here with the sacred magma lake,
to gaze, heart aching, on such magnificence,
ever moving, potent beauty and force,
he stares and drowns in true ambivalence,
to leave or join Gaia, to stay the course.
~
Obsession took its hold from early days –
a younger Mr X devoured all the words he could
on the marvels of earth’s seismic rage displays.
But that was not enough, he understood
his studies heart would need to be insitu,
so travelling far he searched volcanic forms –
those most fiery, not subdued.
This fascination deepened into swarms

of thoughts, so strange, they frightened him, in ways
not clear, but also a calm, they did provide,
a balm to life’s disasters and dull days,
a twisted but faithful beacon to guide.
~
The earth rumbles, lava blobs and hot spits
sulphur breath into the air, hissing yes,
or was that no, his ears are playing tricks
and his feet move closer, as if to acquiesce,

his face glows in the heat of his adored,
his lips dry and crack in desiccated air,
but his eyes crave more than he’s had before,
never tiring of this burnt burgundy affair.

So he moves in, closer still, skin all but touching
the creature that is this moving lava flow.
Such crushing heat and smells, the flooding
of agony through every synapse – No!

Sheer panic rises in his throat, he turns for flight,
the heat so strong his boots have all but melt,
his shirt melds to his skin, the glaring light.

He flees, goat-like, far from this earth’s death belt.

_____________________________________

I may have tracked down Mr X 🤣:

Hawaiian local suffers serious leg injury being ‘lava-bombed’ while sitting on porch

Note: Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

OCD

OCD

room

My parents divorced when I was five;
I swore never to eat another tomato.

I  line up condiments and cutlery, never
step on the cracks, and everything

must
pair.

I will check that the stove is off,
once, twice, thrice and again.

I will touch wood lightly
four times, before speaking.

a place for everything
and everything in its place

the house is neat and clean,
but the weather outside is wild,

the house is neat and clean,
and I am calm inside.

I grew tired of matching the colours
of pegs on the line,

so now I use
a clothes dryer.

I will not eat a tomato;
my parents are still apart.

_________________

Note: This poem is based on an old friend of mine who has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) – she told me the tomato story and it stuck with me – she knew how irrational it sounded but she understood that that is the nature of OCD – the desire to control the uncontrollable world around us.

Nuddernote: OCD stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Time flies …

Time flies …

Baby Tessa

What happened to

yellow rubber duckies, floating with permanent optimism,
tough board books with simple pictures, words and chewed spines,
soft pink and white elephants and squidgy rattles,
tiny stretchy baby suits that were too small too quickly,
(stretch the clothes, not the baby laughed Mum)
nursery rhyme nurseries with stick-on stories,
musical mobiles, warm nightlights and rocking chair
soothing on sleepless nights,
pastel coloured throws, floor mats, and nappy bags
with enough supplies for a trek to Nepal,
baby slings and prams, capsules and car seats,
and choice magazine advice for new parents.

They have all disappeared, along with the babies,
replaced with children who need less scaffolding.

I will come back to haunt you

I will come back to haunt you

 werewolves

 

I will come back to haunt you

Slumped nightly in your La-Z-Boy sprawl,

collecting zzz’s before the game is finished,

predictably inebriated with ghastly breath

expelled and sinking in the airless living room.

I will yank back the stale, putrid curtains

and shove open the window,

so the rain, thunder and air, chilling to the bone,

can make an entrance,

that would wake the

dead.

I will press my icy fingers on your lips,

a kiss would be too much for your heart,

and place the burden of my discontent

on your cowardly chest, for greater weight.

And you will wake, with clammy skin,

heart palpitating, knowing absolute terror,

force of the unknown, dread of the end,

you will try to stand,

like the hairs on the back of your neck.

You will struggle to scream and flee

but your limbs will feel restrained like a

dead man

in a cement boot anchor,

ready for the mantle of the river,

and your voice will go missing,

like I went missing.

 

__________________________________________

Published in ‘Werewolves and Other Bitches (Prospective: A Journal of Speculation)’ 2012