Ex-Boarder
You bastard —
friendly that first day,
so I said
you could stay.
Soon we parted in anger.
Missed your thefts later.
Fellow Passenger
You sat hard.
The front seat slammed back
on my toes.
Then you talked
for the whole trip, fast and loud.
I’ll say goodbye now.
Interested Stranger
Yes I know,
you ‘re a real nice bloke —
advising
perfect cures
for my husband’s health problems
on first acquaintance.
The Guy Behind Me
Do you think
I like that nudging
of my chair?
What long legs!
I keep inching forward, but
you keep reaching me.
Day 27 - The friendliest person you knew for only one day (I've skewed it a bit).
29 April 2011
26 April 2011
The Last Person I Pinky Promised
Well, I don’t know who you are
but it must have been long ago.
I have forgotten the promise too.
And I’m sure we didn’t call it ‘pinky’.
We didn’t have that word here then.
It came across from America later.
We would simply have linked
our littlest fingers and pulled them
tight, to set the promise.
It wasn’t done in my core family.
Maybe you were my cousin Anne
who brought exotic ways from overseas.
Maybe you were my Aunty Ev,
half friend, half substitute mother,
teaching me innocent fun I never knew.
And maybe you were the son
who grew up to become a stranger —
when you were still a youngster, and my pal.
These maybes are too full of loss.
Both life and death take people away,
and the promises we made just disappear.
So I’ll say you were a little girl at school.
Probably you sat next to me. The promise
was something we’d never tell. See, I didn’t.
Day 26 - The last person you made a pinky promise to
Oct 1 2011: Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #68
but it must have been long ago.
I have forgotten the promise too.
And I’m sure we didn’t call it ‘pinky’.
We didn’t have that word here then.
It came across from America later.
We would simply have linked
our littlest fingers and pulled them
tight, to set the promise.
It wasn’t done in my core family.
Maybe you were my cousin Anne
who brought exotic ways from overseas.
Maybe you were my Aunty Ev,
half friend, half substitute mother,
teaching me innocent fun I never knew.
And maybe you were the son
who grew up to become a stranger —
when you were still a youngster, and my pal.
These maybes are too full of loss.
Both life and death take people away,
and the promises we made just disappear.
So I’ll say you were a little girl at school.
Probably you sat next to me. The promise
was something we’d never tell. See, I didn’t.
Day 26 - The last person you made a pinky promise to
Oct 1 2011: Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #68
Tuesday is over: tanka for April 2011
Tuesday is over
in this part of the world
but elsewhere right now
they wake up yesterday
or go to sleep last night
6/4/11
autumn morning
clear blue ranges
in high sun
the peak of Mt Warning
I‘m too old to climb
12/4/11
the small gecko
on the outside of the pane
keeps very still
hunting, doesn’t see me
the other side from his eyes
20/4/11
the singer
in his last interview
on YouTube
discusses his chemo
blowing smoke from his fag
since 15
he played in smoke-filled rooms
wot-the-heck
if you can’t beat ‘em …
it’ll kill you either way
***********
Crows calling.
I’m looking at a picture
of a dead man,
thinking of the many times
I looked at his living face.
26/4/11
in this part of the world
but elsewhere right now
they wake up yesterday
or go to sleep last night
6/4/11
autumn morning
clear blue ranges
in high sun
the peak of Mt Warning
I‘m too old to climb
12/4/11
the small gecko
on the outside of the pane
keeps very still
hunting, doesn’t see me
the other side from his eyes
20/4/11
the singer
in his last interview
on YouTube
discusses his chemo
blowing smoke from his fag
since 15
he played in smoke-filled rooms
wot-the-heck
if you can’t beat ‘em …
it’ll kill you either way
***********
Crows calling.
I’m looking at a picture
of a dead man,
thinking of the many times
I looked at his living face.
26/4/11
25 April 2011
I Light a Candle for My Friend
I light a candle for my friend
while reflecting wryly
he wasn’t the kind for that.
Still, you do what you do.
He was living more intensely,
he said, with his days shortening.
I spend this day, first weeping,
then feeling crabby. Just on dusk
I burst out of the house for a walk.
I make myself notice
rows of white camellias,
an old lady walking a puppy,
a gaggle of little children.
A magpie perches on a roof
grooming under one wing.
Soft grey clouds
rest gently on the air;
pale sunset pinks
come in behind them.
All our days are shortening.
The dark settles down.
I puff my way slowly
up the hill to home.
Three birds suddenly
erupt from a tree,
almost into my face,
flying at desperate speed
to get away from me, squawking,
surprising me into laughter.
while reflecting wryly
he wasn’t the kind for that.
Still, you do what you do.
He was living more intensely,
he said, with his days shortening.
I spend this day, first weeping,
then feeling crabby. Just on dusk
I burst out of the house for a walk.
I make myself notice
rows of white camellias,
an old lady walking a puppy,
a gaggle of little children.
A magpie perches on a roof
grooming under one wing.
Soft grey clouds
rest gently on the air;
pale sunset pinks
come in behind them.
All our days are shortening.
The dark settles down.
I puff my way slowly
up the hill to home.
Three birds suddenly
erupt from a tree,
almost into my face,
flying at desperate speed
to get away from me, squawking,
surprising me into laughter.
War Years
Anzac Day 2011
My Dad never went to war.
Never had a hope.
Got run over by a cart at the age of ten,
spent years in bed, finally getting up
to walk lame, often with a stick,
always in pain, with a wound
that never healed, had to be re-dressed
daily — deep pink mercurochrome
painted on his white, exposed shin-bone.
He never went to war.
For Mum and me
he might as well have done,
sent away for months at a time
to a camp in Central Australia,
training for last-ditch invasion defence.
When he came home, I ran in fear
from his loud male voice, and didn’t understand
being banished from Mum’s bed.
He told me years later
that his best mate and next-door neighbour,
handsome Maurie Lightfoot,
was his Sergeant there. (What,
I wonder, was his disability? Maybe
eyesight; something invisible.)
Instead of ‘G’day Rob! How about a beer?’
it was, ‘Stand at attention, Private Robinson!’
Back home, they returned to normal.
Dad's workmate, Allan Beecroft,
that gentle, friendly man,
he went to the war. He was
a Rat of Tobruk. Afterwards
he spoke of it very seldom.
He respected Rommel, he said.
And he told one story, of a man
who ‘put up his arm’, never used it.
It wasted; he got sent home.
I remember ration books,
men in strange clothes (uniforms)
and the doll I loved and still have,
Julie with the rag-stuffed torso
and plaster hands, feet, head.
My Mum cried to have to give me
such a cheaply-made doll
but I had nothing to compare;
to me she was beautiful.
My Dad never went to war
but the war was all around us.
In the absence of men of fighting age,
women were surviving for themselves.
No-one’s life was untouched.
Our Foreign Minister is remembering now
on television, speaking from France;
and my husband, who never went to war,
listens with his shoulders shaking.
(Not part of the letter poems I've been doing this month; inspired by a friend's Anzac Day poem.)
Submitted, 8 June 2014, for Poet's United's Poetry Pantry #205
My Dad never went to war.
Never had a hope.
Got run over by a cart at the age of ten,
spent years in bed, finally getting up
to walk lame, often with a stick,
always in pain, with a wound
that never healed, had to be re-dressed
daily — deep pink mercurochrome
painted on his white, exposed shin-bone.
He never went to war.
For Mum and me
he might as well have done,
sent away for months at a time
to a camp in Central Australia,
training for last-ditch invasion defence.
When he came home, I ran in fear
from his loud male voice, and didn’t understand
being banished from Mum’s bed.
He told me years later
that his best mate and next-door neighbour,
handsome Maurie Lightfoot,
was his Sergeant there. (What,
I wonder, was his disability? Maybe
eyesight; something invisible.)
Instead of ‘G’day Rob! How about a beer?’
it was, ‘Stand at attention, Private Robinson!’
Back home, they returned to normal.
Dad's workmate, Allan Beecroft,
that gentle, friendly man,
he went to the war. He was
a Rat of Tobruk. Afterwards
he spoke of it very seldom.
He respected Rommel, he said.
And he told one story, of a man
who ‘put up his arm’, never used it.
It wasted; he got sent home.
I remember ration books,
men in strange clothes (uniforms)
and the doll I loved and still have,
Julie with the rag-stuffed torso
and plaster hands, feet, head.
My Mum cried to have to give me
such a cheaply-made doll
but I had nothing to compare;
to me she was beautiful.
My Dad never went to war
but the war was all around us.
In the absence of men of fighting age,
women were surviving for themselves.
No-one’s life was untouched.
Our Foreign Minister is remembering now
on television, speaking from France;
and my husband, who never went to war,
listens with his shoulders shaking.
(Not part of the letter poems I've been doing this month; inspired by a friend's Anzac Day poem.)
Submitted, 8 June 2014, for Poet's United's Poetry Pantry #205
24 April 2011
Death of a Bluesman
I’m sorry for your pain. It’s mine as well.
Not that I loved the man the same way you did,
but I knew him even longer. He was a friend.
He played and sang at all my children’s parties
while they were growing up, and ours as well,
no matter how famous he got — and finally,
when my boys were men, at their father’s wake.
He told me then his secret: ‘Jack Dancer,’ he said.
Yet he stayed alive and kept on singing
and doing shows for another sixteen years.
He’d only just retired. He said he was feeling well,
but in recent photos he looked frail and haggard.
I don’t know any details. Did the invader return?
He said he felt good, and twelve days later he’s dead.
Day 25 - The person you know who is going through the worst of times
Not that I loved the man the same way you did,
but I knew him even longer. He was a friend.
He played and sang at all my children’s parties
while they were growing up, and ours as well,
no matter how famous he got — and finally,
when my boys were men, at their father’s wake.
He told me then his secret: ‘Jack Dancer,’ he said.
Yet he stayed alive and kept on singing
and doing shows for another sixteen years.
He’d only just retired. He said he was feeling well,
but in recent photos he looked frail and haggard.
I don’t know any details. Did the invader return?
He said he felt good, and twelve days later he’s dead.
Day 25 - The person you know who is going through the worst of times
A Favourite Memory
Dear Bill, it’s hard to pick
one favourite memory
out of so many,
but in twenty-seven years
of adventuring together,
a lot of them are due to you.
I wouldn’t have seen
half so much of my own country,
let alone South-East Asia,
without your unstoppable
drive and imagination,
the almost foolhardy daring
that had you, at fifteen,
new to this country, set out
to hitch-hike over the hill
from Melbourne to Sydney
and get home by dinner —
till the first driver set you straight.
But I digress. I started
to write about one memory,
one of my own memories,
and yes, I can pick one
that comes back sometimes
unbidden. A simple one.
After the long, tiring
birth of our first —
when you weren’t allowed to stay
and anyway had to work
hard, to finish by deadline
on your father’s building site
(you told me, when it was done
you’d just sat down in the gutter
exhausted, wiping your forehead,
when your friend turned up
with the news that you had a son
... but I heard that later) —
finally, cleaned and rested,
lying back on the pillows,
I opened my eyes to see you
struggling one-handed
into a white gown, the other hand
clutching a bunch of blue iris.
Above the gown and flowers
your eyes were their brightest blue.
(Why is it — I dreamed of negroes
and Sikhs, but all my husbands
and most of my lovers had blue eyes?
Such shining blue.... Again I digress.)
You never took your gaze from mine.
‘He’s beautiful, darling!’ you said,
whispering in your awe, and came
smiling, to embrace me, your face
alight with joy, your eyes
their brightest blue....
Day 24 - The person that gave you your favorite memory
one favourite memory
out of so many,
but in twenty-seven years
of adventuring together,
a lot of them are due to you.
I wouldn’t have seen
half so much of my own country,
let alone South-East Asia,
without your unstoppable
drive and imagination,
the almost foolhardy daring
that had you, at fifteen,
new to this country, set out
to hitch-hike over the hill
from Melbourne to Sydney
and get home by dinner —
till the first driver set you straight.
But I digress. I started
to write about one memory,
one of my own memories,
and yes, I can pick one
that comes back sometimes
unbidden. A simple one.
After the long, tiring
birth of our first —
when you weren’t allowed to stay
and anyway had to work
hard, to finish by deadline
on your father’s building site
(you told me, when it was done
you’d just sat down in the gutter
exhausted, wiping your forehead,
when your friend turned up
with the news that you had a son
... but I heard that later) —
finally, cleaned and rested,
lying back on the pillows,
I opened my eyes to see you
struggling one-handed
into a white gown, the other hand
clutching a bunch of blue iris.
Above the gown and flowers
your eyes were their brightest blue.
(Why is it — I dreamed of negroes
and Sikhs, but all my husbands
and most of my lovers had blue eyes?
Such shining blue.... Again I digress.)
You never took your gaze from mine.
‘He’s beautiful, darling!’ you said,
whispering in your awe, and came
smiling, to embrace me, your face
alight with joy, your eyes
their brightest blue....
Day 24 - The person that gave you your favorite memory
23 April 2011
To the Last Person I Kissed
Dear You —
as long as we’re both alive
you’re likely always to be
the last person I kissed,
and also the next person.
Mostly there’s only us,
and mostly that’s good.
Today, though, the house
suddenly felt empty.
I found myself thinking
what a quiet street, and how
if you die and leave me,
this could be an isolated life.
Then you said how strange
it felt, to be the only ones,
no other people here with us;
how you kept looking for them.
Even before that, you asked,
‘Where’s all our family?’
fretting that your cousin in Scotland
is slow to answer your emails.
The year draws in towards winter.
It’s a long holiday weekend.
We haven’t got a car, and it’s hard
for your painful legs to walk our street.
Yet, when I lie beside you
and say, ‘Yes, it’s just us two,’
you smile and say, ‘That’s good!
‘You’re enough for me,’ and we kiss.
Day 23 - The last person you kissed
as long as we’re both alive
you’re likely always to be
the last person I kissed,
and also the next person.
Mostly there’s only us,
and mostly that’s good.
Today, though, the house
suddenly felt empty.
I found myself thinking
what a quiet street, and how
if you die and leave me,
this could be an isolated life.
Then you said how strange
it felt, to be the only ones,
no other people here with us;
how you kept looking for them.
Even before that, you asked,
‘Where’s all our family?’
fretting that your cousin in Scotland
is slow to answer your emails.
The year draws in towards winter.
It’s a long holiday weekend.
We haven’t got a car, and it’s hard
for your painful legs to walk our street.
Yet, when I lie beside you
and say, ‘Yes, it’s just us two,’
you smile and say, ‘That’s good!
‘You’re enough for me,’ and we kiss.
Day 23 - The last person you kissed
Dear Gaia
I’d like to give you a second chance.
There is still time, if you’re quick —
time to turn around those natural laws
so that we people can have our comforts,
our conveniences, our pleasures,
and still have a healthy planet too.
You could fix it, I know you could.
Aren’t you the great Goddess?
Grow your trees faster! So, if we burn,
say, the Amazon Basin, or half Indonesia,
millions of replacements can sprout up. (Oh —
you want to know where to put them?)
Well anyway, surely the oceans
are vast enough to be retrieved. Surely
you can make it so oil spills are contained
and fish uncontaminated. And hey,
while you’re about it, let’s save the whales!
No, really. (What — we have to ALL want it?)
Gaia, I’m getting desperate here.
You don’t seem to realise things are grim.
Couldn’t you have set Japan
on firmer ground? Somehow turned the tide
of that tidal wave? (Whaddya mean,
you didn’t cause the radiation leak, we did?)
Dear Gaia, you’ve always been
an excellent Mother. I can’t complain.
I know you tried to warn us many times,
I know you’ve done your best to teach us
right from wrong, and consequences.
Could you now be forgiving? Could you
give your wayward children one last chance?
Day 22 - Someone you want to give a second chance to
Submitted for Poetry Pantry #69 at Poets United
There is still time, if you’re quick —
time to turn around those natural laws
so that we people can have our comforts,
our conveniences, our pleasures,
and still have a healthy planet too.
You could fix it, I know you could.
Aren’t you the great Goddess?
Grow your trees faster! So, if we burn,
say, the Amazon Basin, or half Indonesia,
millions of replacements can sprout up. (Oh —
you want to know where to put them?)
Well anyway, surely the oceans
are vast enough to be retrieved. Surely
you can make it so oil spills are contained
and fish uncontaminated. And hey,
while you’re about it, let’s save the whales!
No, really. (What — we have to ALL want it?)
Gaia, I’m getting desperate here.
You don’t seem to realise things are grim.
Couldn’t you have set Japan
on firmer ground? Somehow turned the tide
of that tidal wave? (Whaddya mean,
you didn’t cause the radiation leak, we did?)
Dear Gaia, you’ve always been
an excellent Mother. I can’t complain.
I know you tried to warn us many times,
I know you’ve done your best to teach us
right from wrong, and consequences.
Could you now be forgiving? Could you
give your wayward children one last chance?
Day 22 - Someone you want to give a second chance to
Submitted for Poetry Pantry #69 at Poets United
Dear Gardenia
Gardenia of the dangling hem
Gardenia of the tangled hair
big, awkward girl with hanging head
you were the dirty girl
Mummy told me not to go near
because Things might hop off you
and I didn’t go near, didn’t even
look at you more than I had to;
I turned my back, I turned my eyes
I never said a word to you, I pretended
you didn’t exist (how dare you be here,
in my school; how dare you be?)
so when the letter came
from your parents, complaining
that three little girls had picked on you —
mean Lexie, rough Janet, and me —
I protested, indignant in innocence,
‘I never did anything to her’.
The others confessed. ‘I hit her.’
‘I kicked her.’ But I got into trouble
for telling lies. Until roll-call.
‘Oh, you couldn’t have done it;
you weren’t here yesterday!
Why didn’t you say?’
(Because, Stupid Teacher, I wasn’t here,
so I didn’t know this was about
something that happened yesterday.)
Gardenia, I don’t think you ever came back.
I wonder what you would have looked like
clean and cared for — or were you
a big old dumb girl kept down in class,
never going to catch up, unable
to keep yourself nice? I’ll never know.
But I do understand now
that you weren’t just talking about one day,
and why you said I picked on you.
Day 21 - Someone you judged by their first impression
Gardenia of the tangled hair
big, awkward girl with hanging head
you were the dirty girl
Mummy told me not to go near
because Things might hop off you
and I didn’t go near, didn’t even
look at you more than I had to;
I turned my back, I turned my eyes
I never said a word to you, I pretended
you didn’t exist (how dare you be here,
in my school; how dare you be?)
so when the letter came
from your parents, complaining
that three little girls had picked on you —
mean Lexie, rough Janet, and me —
I protested, indignant in innocence,
‘I never did anything to her’.
The others confessed. ‘I hit her.’
‘I kicked her.’ But I got into trouble
for telling lies. Until roll-call.
‘Oh, you couldn’t have done it;
you weren’t here yesterday!
Why didn’t you say?’
(Because, Stupid Teacher, I wasn’t here,
so I didn’t know this was about
something that happened yesterday.)
Gardenia, I don’t think you ever came back.
I wonder what you would have looked like
clean and cared for — or were you
a big old dumb girl kept down in class,
never going to catch up, unable
to keep yourself nice? I’ll never know.
But I do understand now
that you weren’t just talking about one day,
and why you said I picked on you.
Day 21 - Someone you judged by their first impression
22 April 2011
Stylish Blogger Award
Whoopee! I was just given this award by bttrflyscar who won it herself for her blog The Originals. Many thanks for the honour!
I am now to pass the award on to ten other bloggers and also acquaint you with seven things about myself.
I've chosen to do this on my SnakyPoet blog, so as to leave this one for poems. I enjoyed deciding which bloggers to pick, and explaining why. Now I'd better tell them!
I am now to pass the award on to ten other bloggers and also acquaint you with seven things about myself.
I've chosen to do this on my SnakyPoet blog, so as to leave this one for poems. I enjoyed deciding which bloggers to pick, and explaining why. Now I'd better tell them!
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