The Mothering Tree.
It’s the place where cars like to park in the heat of the evening before
being driven into their kennels at night.
It’s where walkers like to pause for a few cooling minutes before continuing
their hike ’round the ‘hood.
The scruffy ibis like it too congregating for a chat before the ginger tom
moves them on.
In the afternoon the mothering tree dozes under its enormous
sun hat.
When I buy a house I’m going to buy one with a mothering tree
just like the one in our street.
This lighter on the windowsill.
You were here.
No one else smokes.
That day.
You were out the back.
Short, saccadic puffs.
I was at the window thinking
what to do.
Come on, I’ll take you home, I said.
The sun hung heavily in the sky.
the heart in my chest.
The fag end of our ten years.
I let you out.
I don’t remember that we kissed.
I still miss you.
You have grown old and wrinkly.
Couldn’t you have hung on a little longer?
A month perhaps. A week.
Would a few more days have hurt?
I only bought you a week ago and kept you
refrigerated,
my big bonnie bag of sapphire grapes
puckered as prunes.
Cocoon.
We had just left the hall,
the last hymn sung,
the sun already sliding down the sky,
a chill closing in, me shivering
in my flannelette shirt,
a hint of moon
but when I open the car door —
it’s warm as a summer’s day:
my plush little Holden Cruize cocoon.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
The Moment.
Whales!
I heard there were whales lunging out of the water
at Henley South,
“sleek and smooth as peach slices”,
one eye witness said.
I finished what I was doing and went down
for a look.
But the sea was flat and empty.
There were only a pair of cyclists on the other side
doing up their clips
and a pelican amongst the gulls gazing wistfully to a spot
Where something might have been.
No sun was out. The sky was whale-grey.
I had missed the moment.
You’re Welcome.
I like it when the little red light comes on
over the bell
to notify you, you have a comment.
I sit forward in my chair, put down what
I am reading & click —
what has the genie brought me?
A bouquet of roses, a snarl or tepid praise?
Anything is better than being ignored.
Who wants to be a wallflower?
Even a ‘like’ will do.
Some blow hot, some blow cold.
But for diplomacy and even-handedness
this one takes the cake:
‘Thank you for sharing this idea’.
You’re welcome, Anita.
I like being a bystander for once
sitting back watching the state of play
from the bleachers
reading what catches my eye
than who wrote it
an innocent on the sideline
no agenda
and suddenly just noticing
the golden buckles of my notebook
binding the pages together
A Pod of Poems.
A pod of poems
playful as porpoises
swim around in my head
ride the brainwaves
listen ! you can hear them
whoop like surfers;
look, ,some even leap
onto the page
*pic by pinterest
Hey, mate. You got a screen up there? A TV set?
What’s the reception like?
Your favorite show starts tonight, you know the one you weren’t allowed to watch
because K said, “Real men don’t watch ‘Farmer Wants a Wife’ “
but you recorded it anyway, you sneaky bastard, when her back was turned
and watched it when she went shopping.
I’m about to watch it now. Hope the boss up there doesn’t mind.
I miss you mate. It’s been ten years since you were took.
Anyhow it’s about to start. Catch you later, I hope.
Happy viewing.
What Were They Thinking, My parents …… ?
What were they thinking, my parents,
when they took me,
a kid of ten,
to the drive-in back in ’55
to see ‘Rebel Without A Cause’?
Weren’t they aware
of its rating?
the furore it caused when released in the States?
the horrific ‘chicken run’ scene ?
You know the one
where two cars, one driven by Dean, the other by his rival,
race towards a cliff over looking the ocean
and whoever jumps out first is the chicken?
Dean jumps out just in time,
the other driver, his jacket sleeve caught in the door handle,
plummets to a fiery death onto the rocks below
his bulging eyeballs
filling the screen.
It was horrific, thrilling and a great moment in cinema.
But should I have been watching it?
John Malone 