teeny
black
spider
on sparkling shower floor
close
sliding
glass
flip off the light, close the door
afford eight-legged beast copious room
Hailstones on the mat
A feral Tom cat lingers
Doors that never shut
As hailstones strafe junk mail and mat
Where feral is the alley cat
On one hinge hangs
The door that bangs
And he ain’t going out in that
The feral cat whilst oftentimes homeless, is, it seems, at no time gormless
26 January 2022
Contest: Charlie Hai-Lim-Ku poetry contest
Sponsor: Charles Messina
In politics everyone is a squatter
no one has permanent home there
exit door is daily begging for departure
yet once there inmates erase that destiny
Lunatics are there but for a moment
with ribbon on you may hate as you like
call others outside names you coin
but in politics everyone is a squatter
Fanatics are there but for a time
you may praise your icon as you can
graft anything imagined as achievement
but in politics everyone is a squatter
Heretics are there but for a moment
you may be hated and tortured
lunatics, fanatics may crucify you on stones
but in politics everyone is a squatter
My friends the lunatic, fanatic, heretic listen
while occupying space for a moment
do not accumulate social debts
exit squatter role with empty clean platter
In political cell every inmate is a squatter
before exit prepare your books for auditing
there is a village where
everyone a squatter
everyone a traveler
no one is permanent
rich or poor none is
a child each person is
but all have no mothers
all do not have fathers
but each child is father
of the father’s father
each child is mother
of the mother’s mother
yet no one is parent of the other
the tag of imaginary parenthood
hangs around each neck
and yet none is orphaned
interesting that as squatters
squatting is a taboo for all
================================
I have a feeling I cant shake...
I know not of it what to make.
I'm certain someone else is here
and this idea keeps me awake.
I first make sure the shelves are clear,
then, into every corner peer.
If someone HAS been watching me,
then I shall catch the buccaneer!
How IS he managing to flee?
He's stealthy. Or, perhaps he's wee..?
And when he runs, where does he go?
How can I catch what I can't see?
The finest victories come slow.
I've cornered (finally!) my foe
and met my uninvited guest,
now let me introduce my TOE!
===============================
02/28/2017
some bright spots shine out
of the squatter camp
coloured plastic houses
flap in the winter wind
bricks hold roofs in place
cardboard houses labeled
"For the Whitest Whites
and Brightest Colours"
shine brightly through the haze
of winter fires
a bright blue painted window
glass missing, brightens up a wall
made of Chibuku containers
a fence of scrap car doors
rattles like a skeleton
in the darkest hours of night
when prowlers prey on unlocked
homes, for these are homes!
people are living here!
as squalid as they seem
there's living and dying
drinking, cooking and cleaning
going on here
just as in other homes
a door of sewn mealiemeal bags
guards the entrance to a man's castle
his home!
Squirrel chit-chatting
staked a claim on my pear trees;
his prime real-estate!
Squatter Jack
have you lived awhile in west Queensland,
out in the red soil dust,
where the crows will pick your eyes out and,
bore water is a must,
have you seen a thin and starving cow,
not a blade of grass to eat,
the timber`s gone no Mulga now......(13% protein in leaves)
just the deadly summer heat,
the squatter flogged his paddocks out,
too many cattle there,
he thought good seasons were about,
but we know they are rare,
so now he tears his hair out,
and cries poor bloody me.
we`ll have to subsidise the lout
when he whines so publicly
the old cow bogged in the dam today
and there she`ll likely lie
the crows will take her eyes away
before she gets to die
scrub Mulga`s tucker in a drought (Mulga tree)
on the bushy limbs they`ll thrive
where some mugs had it bulldozed out
no cattle left alive
then the rain it comes after years of drought
and the grass is green and sweet
they`ll forget the bad times have no doubt
till dead cows are flyblown meat.
by D H Johnson.