The Chocolate Box

The Darryl Lea family owned chocolate shop chain (85 years old) has gone into voluntary administration. Here is a repost of a poem I wrote about my first impressions of Darryl Lea’s Chocolate Box at Indooroopilly Shoppingtown.

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The Chocolate Box

I opened the heavy door, bell ringing, to Darryl Lea’s
Chocolate Box
with my young son following in my footsteps,
just as I followed in my mum’s footsteps
at the age of five,

a store he’s never seen before
on his first spree into the CBD of Brisbane,
giant buildings among drawcards when you live
in a coastal village
with a 2 storey limit,

the condensed aroma
of chocolate and liquorice
and all sorts
of other delights
envelops me
like my children’s hugs when hurt,

the angora blanket wraps me warm
and transports me to that day
when Mum surprised me
ok, we can go in just this once
heart beating, I am Charlie
in the chocolate factory

swirling lollipops too big for my eyes
toffees, caramel brittle
chewy nougat, rocky road
ribbons of twisted liquorice
little pillows of boiled sweets
with even sweeter colours
shimmering in little glass jars
with blue lids,

a carousel of sights and smells
making my senses spin
you can pick one thing
the edge of her mouth smiled
as my little hand
grabbed a tooth shaped
plastic container filled with
some sweets, I now forget,
but I’ll never forget that giant tooth

and that day at Darryl Lea’s Chocolate Box.

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tipota (for fortnight of funnies)

Here is a trip down memory lane from the splendiferous artist and poet tipota of spaces between trees blog.

 

worth the price of the ticket

i used to make jokes of the sharply observant kind. i grew up doing it. it came, i think, from having noticed my mother’s fierce intolerance of bacteria on tiled surfaces and all that lysol scent had an effect on me.

i would probably call them “bummer jokes” – tipping toward some unspeakable something, maybe foundational from every place of quiet or place of fear, which responds in some way to the need of the now moment. something you would never think fast enough to hold back before it got out. a way to gain an edge and facilitate structure-comprehension, a subject i think should be an educational requirement. not sociology, psychology, political science alone, but something bigger that teaches about structuring in general. “the mathematics of structure” so a person can begin to develop rational discern with all the crossweaving that goes on. continuously. one needs to work up a sweat doing daily structure-leaping exercises and construction chores and get them all done. because you never know where the dragnet falls next.

it wasnt kosher to joke about having creative block in the sculpture class, i was just doing my thing, but sheesh, they gave me such dirty looks!  ok, admittedly, i hunched over like quasimodo and flapped bat wings when i said it, it’s possible the largest share of communique’ resulted from that

i stormed a dylan concert once, walked right in w/o a ticket because i had an american flag wrapped around me like a sari and so they must have thought i was in the show. if anybody had tried to stop me or especially put a hand on me including gate police, i would have screamed “hands off the flag you treasonous
fool!” and if that didnt work “rape of freedom!” even tho wearing the flag is actually illegal, not one cop even reached for me.

haha

i know i know but cmon my act was worth the price of the ticket.

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Thanks tipota 🙂 That is one hell of a story.

Don’t forget you can join in the fortnight of funnies by emailing me a funny (poems, art, photos, stories etc.,) this week or next if you are a regular follower and commenter on this blog.

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School Holidays

Two weeks of school holidays have been and gone and we survived 🙂

There was some lazying about

A quick roadtrip to Brisbane

Some having fun

A gorgeous boy turned 11

A water Ddagon in the botanical gardens thought a turtle’s back would be a good place to sunbake

Ducks were ducking and a diving

Swans and cygnets were doing their thing at Lake Alford

Bryden’s were a resting (after visiting the Queensland museum)

It’s good to be back home 😉

It takes me back

It takes me back

My daughter is 7
I’m taking her to visit my sick mum,
her grandma,
she sleeps in a room with me,
her brother, 9, stays at home
with his Dad.

I’m am 4
and visiting my Nana
with my mum,
we stay in Nana’s little flat in Melbourne,
I sleep in a room with my Mum,
my brothers and sister stay at home
with our Dad.

Nana’s had a couple of strokes,
she doesn’t smile much,
she is nearly blind,
a bit scary, I think,
her thick Irish lilt
settles me, a little.

Mum and Nana talk and talk …
I don’t know what about,
I spend my time investigating,
a budgie in a cage outside the kitchen window,
a cat on the wall,
cement driveway, brick flat,
fancy thick glass sliding door to the living room,
don’t go in there, Nana says,
children must do as they are told.

Fragments of sticky thoughts, lasting decades,
Nana isn’t happy,
Nana doesn’t like me,
never connecting the dots,
(nothing to do with strokes
and blind eyes)
assume things, remember things,
far from true.

The Chocolate Box

The Chocolate Box

I opened the heavy door, bell ringing, to Darryl Lea’s
Chocolate Box
with my young son following in my footsteps,
just as I followed in my mum’s footsteps
at the age of five,

a store he’s never seen before
on his first spree into the CBD of Brisbane,
giant buildings among drawcards when you live
in a coastal village
with a 2 storey limit,

the condensed aroma
of chocolate and liquorice
and all sorts
of other delights
envelops me
like my children’s hugs when hurt,

the angora blanket wraps me warm
and transports me to that day
when Mum surprised me
ok, we can go in just this once
heart beating, I am Charlie
in the chocolate factory

swirling lollipops too big for my eyes
toffees, caramel brittle
chewy nougat, rocky road
ribbons of twisted liquorice
little pillows of boiled sweets
with even sweeter colours
shimmering in little glass jars
with blue lids,

a carousel of sights and smells
making my senses spin
you can pick one thing
the edge of her mouth smiled
as my little hand
grabbed a tooth shaped
plastic container filled with
some sweets, I now forget,
but I’ll never forget that giant tooth.

Impressionist Cinema

Impressionist Cinema

Each memory is a hazy frame
in the making of a movie
of my life.

~

Long, hot, mouth burn of a chilli pepper
eaten in error,

scent of lemon trees on a hill
in a Greek fishing village,

first cold beer at the RE
in the sun on that Sunday after swimming at Colleges Crossing,

never-ending red centre
viewed from the thick window of a whining plane,

playing netball the day after Split Enz
made my ears ring.

~

things not remembered
have perished,

things remembered
are just memories,

impressionist cinema.

Shrapnel

Shrapnel

I heard the news in the 2nd year of school
of a little girl’s mother passing away,

my blue-eyed friend
with delicate Hungarian features
and long hair carefully braided.

I didn’t understand,
not possible,
everyone had a mother, to be there
always.

Who would hold your hand on the walk to school
stroke your blond hair with fortitude
soothe your troubled dreams
forgive,

but your sweet mother had gone to heaven
forever.

I didn’t understand
how hard it was for a man, your father
to bring up three kids
while driving a bus for a living, balancing the shifts
learning to cook
overnight
learning how to wash, iron, clean, make lunches, be there for you
overnight
learning to be alone with three kids
overnight
while his empty heart
rattled
with shrapnel.

At your father’s funeral
memories and feelings
emerged
to tell a story spoken out loud
for the first time

and nothing could stop my tears
as I began to understand.

________________________________

For you Marilyn

Magical Memory Maker

Magical Memory Maker

Once upon a time there was a little fairytale worker’s cottage in Murarrie
where a grandma with big bear hugs squeezed the air from little chests
and ginger nut bikkies and ginger ale were devoured
by knobbly kneed kids, unaccustomed to such delights.

This Grandma was a magical memory maker
and cast her spell on all her grandchildren
so that one day they would also become magical memory makers.

She had ginger hair, turned grey, deftly brushed and restrained
with brown squiggly hairpins, into an abundant bun, always.
She was short and plump, but strong in arm and opinion.

A macadamia bush would greet us, alongside Grandma, at the front gate,
dark green and rich with nuts, more scattered on the grass
leathery casings with lips cracked open to reveal the shiny brown prize
the macadamia nut
eagerly collected by the grandkids, and placed carefully in a hole
in the cement three step staircase leading to Grandma’s kitchen.
Crack!
Hammer smack.
don’t eat too many or you’ll get a tummy ache
wise words dismissed without delay by hungry children.

Running like crazy around yard and house
searching for new surprises,
close scrutiny of bookshelves was a must
scrabbling through the ever-changing hodge podge
collections of tattered paperbacks
Biggles and Boys Own Annuals
the three boys had grown and left home but the books wanted to stay.
Reading material was given, taken, returned, taken again
an intergenerational book merry-go-round.

Wood and glass cabinets were full of dust collectors, but
endlessly fascinating for the mind and eye of a child.
Old styled dressing table with large mirror, so full of stuff
large hairbrushes, bobby pins, talcum powder
dangling necklaces, jewellery boxes,
old fashioned perfume decanters
perfume dispensed at the squeeze of a fabric covered air bubble
yellow tinged formal photographs
of a long time ago, with
Grandpa, black and white and well dressed
for the annual photo of union leaders,
heading up the plasterers.

A pot belly fridge choking with ice
grumbled at the back of a tiny kitchen,
resenting little hands
opening and shutting,
opening and shutting
don’t let the hot air in.

Monstrous mango trees cooled the little Queenslanders’
and protected skin, tin and timber from scorching rays.

A dilapidated wooden fence peeked out from under
the the tight embrace of a mulberry bush,
the luscious fruit blushing.

A crooked, cracked pathway on a lumpy backyard
led to the outhouse
one room backyard dunny
placed as far away from the house as the garden would allow.
A bucket of wood shavings beside the grim toilet was used to hide offerings.
Grandma would say discretely
I’m off to visit me Aunty
or
I’m going to drop a penny
when needing to go to the backyard dispensary
and I wondered where this lady was hidden, and what happened to the coins.
At night it was always wise to journey to the outhouse in pairs
hearts pounded fast, only slowing when safely back in front
of the old black and white box television, with alien antennae.

Grandma the cat lady
cats, cats and more cats
there was the inner circle, her own cats,
and there was the outer circle,
the motley crew of strays,
diseased, skinny, mouldy cats
scary cats
the smell of dried and tinned cat food
competed with sunlight soap
for a place in our memories of
Grandma’s place.

Then there was the thick, putrid smells from the local tannery, punishing our nostrils
when the wind made a bad choice in direction,
hanging about like crows in the school yard,
waiting for the children to finish lunch.

A Westerly wind would answer our prayers
and the smell was gone
replaced by freshly mown grass
marble cake and tea.

Time spent at the gingerbread house
under the spell of the memory maker
weaved some magical memories indeed.

The End