Comedy

I see the human condition as a comedy in which all of us take our part. We project or suppress our characters, we deliver our lines, we wish to entertain, we endeavour to engage with our audiences as we perceive they want us to, we offer intrigue by often thinking other than we act. We consider our individual lifelong performances to be important and then we die. The joke is really on us.

Creek

The creek is dry
sandy bed bleached instead
the creek is low
paddle depth for a toddler to enjoy
the creek is frothing
splashing cascades for bum jumping
the creek is running free
smooth water turns and swirls
the creek is high
turbulence and turbid as
the creek is full of
deep dark fast water
the creek broke its banks
shallow eddies in the paddock
pools rapids in the gullies
the creek is awash
scouring the walking track
eroding the embankments
undercutting the trees
the creek is in flood
rushing water rips at posts
waves break the surface
vegetation speeds by
logs twist and turn
the creek threatens the town
roads are awash
sandbags are filled
roads disappear
cars float
stock are isolated on islands
or washed away
the creek becomes a lake
houses are inundated
some become mobile then collapse
businesses go under
boats take to the rapid water for rescue and supply
the creek abates
there are mud piles and debris carcasses and wire
the clean up begins
the creek will do it again
such a small creek

Mallow

Marshy contemplates his next masterpiece.
Homer Mallow or “Marshy” to his friends
was a very accomplished poet
his preferred topics were politics and sport
although on reading him you wouldn’t know it

"Marshy" loved a dig at the pollies
as much as he loved a pokie or a flutter
he liked to dig deep into the issues of the day
in a recent interview his mum said,
“It could have been his bread and butter!”

His political commentary definitely had merit
this one was a favourite
how could you ignore his most sophisticated poem
called “What Scott?”for which he was best known
when Morrison was PM
Marshy characterised the man as an incompetent dog
he followed with a pearler of a rhyme
saying the PM was as useful as a hopless frog
I’m sure you dear reader can spot the clever double meaning

Unfortunately, Marshy will never be recorded amongst the great Australian poets
it’s enough to make you weep
much of the exercise book he kept his writing in was used
(in the backyard dunny)
while he was away from home for the first time crotching sheep

However, looking back through a rediscovered school text book scrawling
certainly reveals a lost talent
a heart of poetic gold and an ear for a great hook
found at the local Salvos Opp Shop
many written on the hop
hidden gems were revealed in the pages of these books, such as
“Beatrice Kennedy has a nice arse
any day now I’ll make a pass”
to set the record straight
the Beatrice Kennedy in question of the twelfth grade
denies any pass was ever made.

We will never know exactly what Marshy could have accomplished
he died in an explosion in that very same dunny
while visiting his parents between crotches.

The Coroner’s findings indicate this was caused
by ignition of an unexplained build up of gas.
Not one known for straining at his jobs,
Marshy was known to light up the odd ciggie
while waiting for things to happen.

RIP Marshy, may you get to continue
writing on that great dunny in the sky.

With deference to the once marvellous Fred Dagg (aka John Clarke)

My sovereign right

There is no bargain with death I see
where death when ready can claim me
there is no contract to which I agree
no time of death's choosing do I concede
my sovereign rights death violates
my free will death does mitigate
under what authority does death reign supreme
when to live forever is my dream?
I’ll wave my sovereign rights in death's face
my personal waiver and reaper's disgrace
when his grim coming calls me away
"No claim have you!" this citizen will say
when death withdraws as he surely will
I’ll have demonstrated my right to live still
all others beholden to the laws of nature
will look in awe at my individual power
more sovereign citizens across the land
will march to their own tune sing to their own band
we will refuse death with our rightful demands

Heart

My friend stabbed herself in the heart today
the blood ran down her chest and across her belly
it formed a self authoring suicide note
almost black and sort of treacly in a spidery scrawl
probably nanotech of some sort
amazing what they can do these days
she chose arachnoid stylised helvetica size 14 bold no underlines
why? it is beyond me
I always thought she was a calibri kind of girl
but I guess that says something about me doesn’t it?
not knowing
“I was feeling heartless,” the words said.
at this point I wanted to puke
(sic) because she was the most full of heart person I knew
I don’t know anyone like that anymore
“I needed to know if there was anything in there.
The cuts on the arms and legs just weren’t doing it.
I decided I’d have a stab in the dark.
At least there would be a some sort of real outcome,
at least I would find out one way or another.
If you are reading this it means I am dead -
and I had a heart afterall!”

Lover’s leap

L is for love’s early phase, all hot and bothered
all fractious, disruptive restless, in doubt

E is for eliciting confirmation from others
who tell you it’s real, dubious or not

A is for arrow straight through the heart
the pain of the piercing love’s peculiar stress

P is for pain-free when new love departs
established and certain is when love is best

This week Lisa appropriately asked we dVerse poets to use the leap year as a prompt. https://dversepoets.com/2024/02/27/dverse-poetics-tuesday-2024-poets-leaping/

Tableland Talk March 2024

A small newsletter I edit for our community.

Motivation

Let memento morte inspire you to a life of health.

Let carpe diem motivate you to enjoy life’s wealth.

Bullet

if a bullet were a feather
susceptible to the weather
denied its trajectory and death wish
lost its velocity lost its hiss
only then would it always miss
its appointment with death's kiss

Angel

Angel carry your heavy payload
until god asks for it one day
Angel bitter, discard your halo
throw it worlds away

Angel fly to heaven above
dive to hell below
Angel receive peace from a dove
or scavenge it from a crow

Angel weep soul deep
until your very last breath
Angel sleep the long sleep
pray yourself to death

Angel just Angel lust Angel thrust
Angel sing Angel cling Angel wring
Angel must Angel bust Angel dust
Angel wing left wing right wing broken wing

Angel nothing

The dVerse prompts from Melissa today were inspired by Kurt Cobain’s birthday. I chose to take one line from a Nirvana song and reflect on the feelings that might drive a suicide. It was a harrowing exercise and I am sorry if it causes hurt. https://dversepoets.com/2024/02/20/happy-birthday-kurt🎉/

Tales of calm and beauty #1

 
Beauty is in the moment
Sitting by a window
Sun streaming in
From directly across the way
Low in the pale blue winter sky
But strong enough to warm the room
Through tall floor to ceiling glass
Strong black lines
The shadows of the woodwork
Stretch long, deep and straight
Across shiny slate
Framing the scene
Defining the space
Giving shape to enveloping comfort
Warming the calm
Enclosing peacefulness
As I now heavy lidded
Look out on gold rimmed trees
Vivid green grass
Foraging birds
And hear the cascading water of the creek
Beauty is in this moment

Life as a vacuum

 
Within my mind within my soul
There lies an ever expanding hole
When I try to grasp its meaning
Elusive thoughts distract my gleaning
 
Where I see a thing to do
There I lose it to something new
When I return to get more done
I find I achieved exactly none
 
I often don’t quite know who I am
Retired, a child or a working man
I sometimes see the past and future
It’s the present I struggle to nurture
 
I hear the talk around me go
When I talk I don’t always know
What I am saying to others there
I feel anxious as they look and stare
 
I lose things now so easily
I dismiss the losses breezily
With timid laughter I brush them off
Truth is I cannot understand the loss
 
I get confused and in a muddle
I no longer accomplish what was a doddle
Faces of loved ones I’m unsure of now
To answer a question I fail at how
 
I’m sure I should be I’m not quite here
There is this woman but who is “my dear”
I live with remembering uncertain fear
I forget to remember anything I hear
I want to go somewhere but the way is unclear
Why I should go there I have no idea
Is this life or farce it is certainly queer
I’m turned inside out my front is rear
No reason for existence yet death’s not near
No insight no knowledge yet I still shed a tear
Life is a vacuum into which I can’t peer

Woollybutt

Woollybutt forest, Mt Stirling

An excellent walk in the towering Woollybutt Alpine Ash forest of Mt Stirling. Find my map and description here https://walkingmaps.com.au/walk/5836

Death is to be my keeper

 
Mistake not my fondness for breathing,
to have blood coursing through my veins.
The sadness at my leaving
is in being separated from life’s gains.
 
Now death is to be my keeper.
Acceptance is my stance.
As I face the tireless grim reaper,
I doubt another chance.

The mariner

I navigate life as a mariner
sailing unpredictable seas
Respectful yet wary
of what they might bring to me

the sea is my natural element
alternating tranquility with power
for me there is no better firmament
to anchor each ticking hour

the waves provide each peak and trough
of life’s brief and epic journeys
that for me is always enough
with the pleasure and pain they have earned me

afloat I bob between the layers of over and undersea
in my boat my capsule of life I bob most jauntily
when l’m aloft the view ahead is a matter of degree
when down below the view is fine,not seen murkily

time will come I’ll be called down deep by Davy Jones
my time of clear air or storms on water will be done
I’ll find a sandy bed to rest and place my ageing bones
afar from the binding land, eyes dead to the blinding sun

My insouciant self

I cherish my insouciant self
The one who never worries me
I treat this careless one as health
whose world is anxiety free

without this one where would l be?
walking around with a frown
but my insouciant self helps me see
how to turn that frown upside down

The truck

Pic: Michael Taylor
Down upon him the big rogue truck bore
Last thoughts were of those he adored
of her and those eyes so deep and brown
he fell in love with those eyes one night on the town
of the lithe girl in the backyard playing with cars
of the teenage boy inside playing his guitars
of the home he loved for its warmth and welcome
whenever he arrived back from long hauls and then some
there was the dog with tail wagging
as she greeted him excitedly
and the chooks out the back he greeted politely
what would become of his family and home
how could he leave them to fend on their own?
then the truck veered wildly missed by an inch
so close, so close no time to flinch
he shook with shock he shook with fear
he looked at his life and all he held dear
he knew what to do right away
the way ahead was clear

The original idea

Aside

Once upon a time there was an original idea. A creature somewhere on earth had a thought. Even more significant that thought was acted upon and something new happened. Are there still original ideas? Maybe every thought is original because its origin is always within a new person, at a new point in time and space.

My furrowed brow

Red-browed Finch
The Finch
with red brow and olive wings
presents a pretty picture

Upon its chosen perch
it even makes the invasive thistle look good

With pleasure I spy
scenery I would rather deny

True love

When I took your hand
much smaller hand
much softer hand
much braver hand

when you took my hand
much larger hand
much harder hand
much lonelier hand

we readied two individuals
for joint lives
never known
alone

We took on each life
hard life
sad life
brave life

we rescued each other
one became both
more than both
more than we
imagined

we shone
we continue to shine
we sparkled
we spark in ways divine
we learnt about love
we learned to love it is sublime

true love

Ruffey Creek walk

One of the nice surprises – a Gang Gang eating Hawthorn berries.

This large suburban park is full of nice surprises. There is an interesting local history trail, there are pleasant walking paths and the playground and other amenities provide for all the family.

Find the map here on http://www.walkingmaps.com.au with a full description using this link Ruffey Creek walk

We can dance

We can dance
And lose ourselves in a moment
Because that is what dancing is for

We can sway
Holding each other tightly
To confirm our love once more

We can be melody
As music inhabits us
We let our emotions go

We can swing
Together to a rhythm
Fierce, suggestive, gentle, slow

We can slink
Sexy, sultry, driven
Gliding across a floor

We can rhumba
To a beat of pure, rollicking fun
Then breathless, cry for more

We can jig
Jumping, clapping, heel toe
Folding, peeling struts our stuff

We can rock
Big, bold and beautiful
Freestyle is enough

We can ballet
Oh glorious presence
Beauty and grace refined

We can improvise
On a living room floor
Every style combined 

We can watch
Absorbed in the majesty of human flight
Awash with the joy of life

And you my love
Can dance with me
Dance with me my wife

So, dance with me my partner
Hold me in your arms
And look into my eyes so deeply
You free me from all harm

We can dance

This week dVerse poetics is from Mish, about dance and dance we will. https://dversepoets.com/2024/01/30/poetics-may-i-have-this-dance/

Tableland Talk, February 2024

Welcome to Tableland Talk for 2024, a local newsletter I edit for our small community.

For a long time now

 
For a long time now
My love and I go walking
As we walk
We find the time for talking

For a long time now
My love and I sit silently
As we sit
Our love strengthens quietly

Watching the moon

Watching the moon, grey dust, hard stone. 
Why won’t the moon leave me alone?
I watch to see if the old man there,
will he ever release me from his stare.
I dream the moon will fall to earth,
moon’s death rattle, our deadly curse.

The sun has got to do something about
that moonish sneer on that moon face snout
before kamikaze moon’s suicidal spiral
rings our bells and rattles our bones,
shakes and quakes our earthly home.
Mr Moon up there is become one with hell,
the Devil’s doing, a catastrophic bombshell.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
I watch the moon
I must I must!