~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
aluminum tree gleams,
a cold miracle~
electric blue, then pink,
spun from the future.
flannel pajamas,
stiff with newness,
crackle like wrapping paper
under the tree.
toy guns bark in the den,
plastic rifles with no recoil.
Tiny Tears weeps
her forever-damp dress.
Barbie waits, legs arched
for a life she can’t bend.
Silly Putty lifts
the funnies right off the page.
Mr. Potato Head,
eyeless in the morning light,
grins with his spare parts~
a face we assembled ourselves
using real potatoes.
‘Twas Christmas 1955
Altho' it's not E=mc squared,
Albert was heard to theorise
when he declared,
"Carrots are relatively good for the eyes,
it's a fact
they'll make you see well and look good too,
I'm blinding you with science,
it's not hoodoo or a voodoo act."
He then asserted,
with a wicked grin,
"It only hurts when you put them in."
No mechanical diggers digging
Standard oblong shaped holes
The only effort needed being
To manipulate the controls.
We dug our graves by hand
And the sweat of our brow
A craft that seems outdated
And no longer any use now.
Each grave was dug to
An Individual coffin’s shape
With an allowance made for
The handles and the rope
No deviation of the sides by
Even the slightest little bit
Ensuring each grave allowed
An almost snug tailored fit.
Beating down the earth
To compact the ground
So there was little shrinkage
Of a grave’s earthen mound,
The relaying of the turf
The floral tributes laid
Mourners final thoughts
Carefully displayed
We took pride in our work
Felt each family should expect
Their deceased loved one to be
Sent off with honour and respect.
No, no mechanical diggers
Just a man’s strength and skill
And a gathering of the villagers
To show support and goodwill.
Its history was written
in tragedy
The period to the last sentence
—was death
(The New Room: November, 2020)
i was tired
physically and mentally
long drives controlling haemorrhoids
christmas presents cards
quarrelling wife fighting children
demanding boss dwindling pay
i am tired
cold and windy murky light
cleveland avenue six pm
i notice
she was there again
in the first of the reserved
elegant and beautiful quiet
calm and serene
third stop empire theater
we are getting crowded i need
to ask them to get up for the elite the rule
i am just a peon of the great system the structure
three of them stood up she refused politely like a lady
i am an employee to follow rules and obey i dont hate any
person whether elite or reserved i dont agree with the system
mostly but i need to keep my job to feed my fighting children sorry
she was adamant but peaceful and i have to summon the peace keepers
they took her in chains she was calm before a storm collected and beautiful
i am tired
it is getting late i need to go christmas shopping
I am a prophet of peace,
A procurer of leaves;
Catcher of breeze.
Visions of thieves?
No such disease
I live in the trees.
Free from taxes and fees.
Share it with me?
Comparatively, believe
unless you're bereaved
to heave
a shiv
into thine rift
of sand that sifts.
I do uplift
my fist
to the outspoken
of wrist
to tap, even if a twit,
on this pit,
the internet skit.
Cubbie worker…
So you worked on an out station on Cubbie…
Saw the cattle tracks and also the sheep …
You were only a poor boundary rider …
On your straw bed the hut you did sleep…
The Manager ate in the dining room ….
Jackaroo's, silk shirts and ties were so neat…
Station workers they ate in the kitchen…
The rest of us on the wood heap…
The Pommy overlords sent out the workers…
Housemaids, Jackaroo's, the book keeper…
So the Aussies were duffing his cattle…
Thought Lost in the drought the grim reaper?….
Down near the river the old tribe had cut….
Left handed holes in the Coolabahs hides…
These left handed men are gone, but…
now in Goodooga descendants reside….
You saw the tracks went through the fence….
The boundary fence had opened wide ….
The cattle tracks unbranded young Micky bulls….
And Heifers were side by side….
I’m Paddy the Aboriginal I can track..
The Bunyip or Porkypine….
Boss don’t never give me a fair bloody crack….
It ain't no business of mine….hey
Don Johnson
A dampened spray; a slapping sheet
Tar and gravel; my bare feet
A windy view of rooftop world
The deeping sky with clouds unfurled
An outlined fort of broken bricks
A winding lane of artists' tricks
The army of the parking lot
Wanders home, its battles fought
A Sunday park, an emerald pond
The chalt's view, a city's song
A parkbench lunch; the marble shrine
A twilight ride at evening time
Sunset flames on chimney brick
Summer evening, sweet and thick
Against a sky of deep claret
The smokey city's silhouette
A lamplit room where heavy heads
Are climbing into tall warm beds
Somewhere outside the city sleeps
As rain falls on the rainbow streets
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