Friday, December 30, 2011

Den


Den

Pommy, hey Pommy, d'yer know whadda roudis Pommy?
Black Marie'll show ya for a coupla bob.
Take no notice says Den, they're geein' you up.
Third year. Nowra.Sixty three.
Pimply faced, soft voiced Den, angular, synchronicity jarred,
elbows and knees jerking the bike
like a jackrabbit snapped in a trap.
Smart bugger Den. Fine tuned brain.




Pommy paddles out from the cove sun clings warm
Wead waving slowly clear fresh salt splash
Flush with the swell
plow to the point where rollers rise in symmetry
like prayers in a rosary.

Sarah, hey Sarah, do you run to a cuddle Sarah?
Den's dad Pat, nose red rolls a ciggie winking
You bally old fool she shoots back, behave yourself.
Narrow weatherboard house, aroma of decades,
cracks of defiant endevour puttied and painted
muted now, whispers in slow conversation
of deeds delivered and deeds to come.

Behind the break a balsa board blobs on the
belly of the ocean he marvels at
the scale and joy
how the warm swell of fortune drowns the
dry wraith of the discrete English sitting room.

Pommy, hey Pommy, did ya take a bath in Pommyland?
Find a new script Bowlsey says Den.
Cicada shells cling to trees dead eyes staring,
beware their ghostly song which seeps and snares
into the night.
Den and Pommy walk the pipeline to the dam and back
sharing a snack on soft white river sands.



I was lifted on high by the Hand of God.
The wave sucked all thought memory
desire, nothing but the
will to ride the wall shot to eternity
surge and swing and drop and rise and turn again.

Denny, ask Pommy see if he wants to join us fishin'.
The hut a fortress from bush rat and ranger
Bastard got in but, says Pat. Sinkers and tackle stole.
I'd shoot the thievin' rat. Dinks. Beans tonight, bream tomorrow.
Stepping along a bush track Den jumps back shit so close
Death Adder, kill ya, quick as a shot.


Den avoided the beach, not a swimmer.
I cherished this new world so alive with
chance it rose and dove
in warmth and wave opon wave the sunlit
shimmer of silvery dreams alive so alive alive oh





Den and Pom at the bucket end of Pitt St, all debris,
dust and grime. Some flea bung establishment.
Shangri La. Ha.
Cop breaks in at dawn. What're you two up to?
A Day in the Big Smoke. Eyes like possums. Cop snorts.
Constable Webb. He paddles in filth Den says quietly
Dip your beak in the gutter you paddle in filth.

Slice the face of the wave godlike and blind
momentum in concert with life flow aligned
immortal, sublime
but somehow
tripped some tick Divine and suddenly smote
and plunged
down
through
the
devil
deep
ocean.



I hadn't heard, then Pat sent word that Den was dead. Suicide.
Run in with the cops down in Tasmania. Did the bolt.
Came home somehow concussed. Lost inside himself said Pat.
Wiped out, godless and drowning, down through the
devil dream ocean
deeper than sunlight,
where the song of the cicada is silent,
so far down there was no way up.
A place where sorrow
is washed away.
















Wednesday, November 09, 2011

A Dog to Break the Back of The Red Bellied Black





The Australian Cattle Dog with its dingo ancestry will deal with a snake instinctively.


The Staffordshire Terrier, aside from being a most lovable pet, has great bravado and will attack anything, no matter what size.



Thus it was that I, together with Luke and Darcy who are named after the famous footballer, were finishing our walk on Cooleman Ridge and descending to the car via a narrow nature trail. Darcy the Cattle Dog was leading Luke, the (female) Staffie. About half way down Darcy lunged off the trail and suddenly was vigorously shaking a thick red bellied black snake in his jaws. He held his head high, doubtless to avoid the venomous bite, but trophy like. I held Luke back and moved in to grab Darcy's lead; alas the Staffie also dived into the fray. I managed to pull both away, hauling Luke by her coat; Darcy saw his job was accomplished. The snake looked finished, ragged but still moving. Both dogs appeared fine but Luke collapsed when we reached home, blood coming from fang points on her snout. Luckily the animal hospital is close by and I zoomed down there as quick as a Stig. She was saved. The cost of the anti venom alone is $AUD960. I wrote the following verse as a tribute to Darcy and his DNA. I'd like to point out that I appreciate snakes and was sad to see it damaged, but nature will take its course. 














DARCY , DOG OF DOGS



Darcy is a dog's dog. A god's dog. A dog's god.

Darcy is a god's dog, Le Roi Chien.

Mongrel of mongrels. Sniffer of sniffers.

Barker of barkers. Wagger of waggers.

A dog to break the back

of the red bellied black.



The line is drawn by the dog that is Darce

An old testament dog, in black and white

cast

in bone crunching recrimination

for transgression and/or

altercation



no boutique dapper yapper like you'd see

in a snappy North shore latte cafe

no perfumed manicured accessory

perched on a lap for perfect display

of perfumed manicured accessories



The line that was drawn by the god Darsay

was not seen by the fat red bellied black

who lay in the sun by the side of the track

who thawed himself from winter's chill

whose tale was as old as the will

which binds us.



Yea though I walk through the valley of the

shadow of death I shall fear no evil and

Darcy shook the serpent surely in the

jaws of retribution its belly swashing

brilliant red in blue morning light.



I yelled no no, but to no avail and

its dying now lives in history

the writhing moments of leaching life

inscribed upon on this Friday sun.



And I wonder if god in his prescription

of breaking world in a perfumed garden

with Eve and Adam in blush beauty born

had Darcy rolling on Eden's sweet lawn



I wonder if Darce while sniffing and snuffling

at Eden's pert pores like this doggy does

had spotted a tail, a Tempter's tail

would the tale have been better

for each one of us?



























Saturday, October 08, 2011

Asylum Island


















Pacific Solution Revisited - Asylum Island
To the tune of the Irish rebel song,  “Join The British Army” (Trad. Arr – Barry McGloin)


AM
Well I was young and proud and free
G
They took my home and family
AM
And now you see a refugee
C G AM
Searching for asylum

Too ra loo ra loo ra loo
They’re looking for monkeys up in the zoo
Said one if I had a face like you
I’d stick you on an island

Australians all let us rejoice
We have a hope we have a choice
We have a vote we have a voice
Not searching for asylum

Too ra loo ra loo ra loo
It’s Sanctuary Point, not Woolloomooloo
They’re looking for monkeys up in the zoo
To stick upon an island

The privileged and the disposed
One is cursed and one is blessed
Which one are you, I bet you've guessed
Out upon the island

Too ra loo ra loo ra lee
I’ll process youse eventually
I’ll stamp your bum and test your pee
While checking on your history

Ah don’t complain this ain’t the Ritz
It’s Alcatraz not St Moritz
If you can swim out to the ships
The sharks can be relied on

Too ra loo ra loo ra lie
A pat on the back, a poke in the eye
They're looking for monkeys in disguise
Out upon the island

The privileged and the disposed
One is cursed and one is blessed
You have fuck all, well now it’s less
Out upon the island

Too ra loo ra loo ra lie
A pat on the back and a poke in the eye
I'll boot your balls if you don't comply
Out upon the island

Well I was young and proud and free
I loved my home and family
But now you see a refugee
Searching for asylum

Too ra loo ra loo ra loo
They’re looking for monkeys up in the zoo
Said one if I had a face like you
I’d stick you on an island


Tuesday, September 20, 2011

The Weeping Cherry

The Weeping Cherry

Once more she is a Spring princess
in her gown of bridal white
cascading delight from top to toe

and she astounds in her audacity
yet each year I am enthralled to see
such self effacing dignity

and now the bees at ease come a courting
with simple courtesy and each flower
will open
to each whispered suggestion
of consummate honey













the princess bride weeps not for sadness
but in pure sweet joy when each year
finds her beauty reborn. 

Mother danced in the hive of love,
so she said
a bridal princess amongst the troops
gaiety, nylons and cigarettes

never the same one twice she laughs
then winks significantly,
those were the days hey
now look at me, I'm eighty three,
what happened? God almighty!

Once more she is a Spring princess
in her gown of bridal white
cascading delight from top to toe

in movement and symmetry
aligning the earth to planetary
purpose
to the heavenly tap tap tap
perhaps perhaps

And what music plays to this courtly season?
The skeletal tinkling of water on stone...
or perhaps an eternal elemental drone?
The melancholic mystery of the duduk call
or Glen Millers' swing... hey...
the Wood-choppers Ball?



















Sunday, September 11, 2011

The Poetry Group Dismissed

''nothing exciting there'' he sniffed on
my wilful construction of verses
my creaky wooden stairway of an absurdist poem
each word a step hammered in, as I do now,
some straight and some askew
rickety but rising,
reaching for a teetering tenement
of titillating tone
ascending nonetheless
until the mallet of his pompous pronouncement
shattered the assembly to matchsticks
scattered in the dust of endeavour
and nobody, not one from that cocky clique
uttered a squawk of dissent.
I said nothing, my nom de plume
intactus...
And so I shall sweep up my splinters and
I shall not return
and I wish them all
gonorrhoea
and....
may they plonk their bare arses along a communal
tenement trough and
I'll light a ball of paper upstream
and like a burning barque
it will glide down the flow of piss
beneath their pink and pampered posteriors
its flaming tongues to caress and kiss
to singe and sear their private
inferiors
and may they douse their
raw, blistered and blackened bums
in buckets of dung
steeped in
lime, salt
and vinegar.







When the warriors returned we applauded their accomplishments. In the evening we celebrated with goat and lamb roasted over embers.
Then the musicians played to our hearts and sang songs of bravery and triumph, and kept us warm from the cold kiss of night.
They sang songs in praise of our God who had delivered us from our enemies.
Late in the night under a dream washed sky we savoured soft songs of melancholy, of lost homelands, of lost love.

I was but fifteen, not promised I believed, and my virtue unsullied. My mind was innocent, my soul not realised, my spirit unbounded, my possibilities immense, and my joys were many.

My father may God be with him sold me to a merchant, Salomon, a man with four wives.
Salomon was a brute. He plucked me as you would the petals of a flower, then ground the petals between his palms and cast them away. His wives then trampled them into the dust. I became shackled like a dog, fed the scraps of his exhaustion.

My father visited, goaded by my mother and by his own conscience; he knew me not.
In the morning he returned and slit Salomon’s throat from ear to ear. Salomon bled like the pig he was, squealing in silence. His wives wailed to the sun and to the moon.
We fled that country, my father, my mother, my two younger sisters and I, hiding by day and walking by night, avoiding towns and villages, eating what the earth provided, following the river.

After two weeks we joined a caravan travelling east. My father's smile returned and he became tender to my mother and to his daughters. That night he held me and wept. He told me that Salomon had assured an easy life for me, with respect for my youth. He begged my forgiveness for his foolishness. I told him that my family was the bread of my being, the honey in my heart.



On the following morning the sun arose, a gigantic blood red eye, its liquid bloody vision tainting the earth, reaching to our faces, smearing our souls.

When the raiders came upon us that night, our leader bargained for passage but their greed was immense and their slaughter was without mercy. We cried to our God to save us but His need for our martyrdom was greater than His need for our lives. I somehow slid away between boulders and hid beneath shrub trembling, a small frightened animal.

In the silence of the pale morning I slipped into the blackened smoking camp. Among the bodies, the limbs and the prowling dogs I found the head of my father. I closed his eyes and I held him to me. I kissed his lips. My blood had frozen, my heart had stopped. I looked to the left and I looked to the right. Nothing but destruction, death. Where was my mother? Where were my sisters? I looked to the sky. Where was my God? My screams erupted from my body like the Nine Demons of Sheol. Each one louder and more terrible than the last. The sky bled with my anger. My God cowered in His bower.

The year had opened in warm certainty and the possibility of youth. Now I felt the cold fingertips of Fate. Fate is the company you dread. You watch his shadow dance before you as he rides up behind. 


This excerpt is taken from a manuscript found in a cellar in the town of Anjar in Lebanon in 2004. Anjar has been suggested as the location of ancient Syrian city of Chalcis. A Roman road connected Antioch to Chalcis. The purported autobiography of Sybilla of Antioch was translated into French in 2009 by Paul Hazan, Doctor of Linguistics at the University of Cairo. It is claimed to have been written in the 11th century by Sybilla, the so called Queen of The Brigands (Hazan uses the French 'brigand'). It is reputed to be a fake by some experts despite carbon dating in 2006 which confirmed the sample material to be 11th century.  Others regard it as biographical romanticised fiction from around that period. Even so it makes good reading. 

A disclaimer here. Purely by coincidence this post went up on the tenth anniversary of 9/11. Actually I posted it on 10/11 here in Oz (the dateline). It was not intended to have any direct reference to the dreadful tragedy, or indeed the subsequent ongoing tragedies of Iraq and Afghanistan. I did use it in 2023 as a metaphor for the ongoing Israeli - Palestinian conflict, reignited with over 10,000 deaths, including many children. 


Friday, August 05, 2011

Starving CHILDREN


East Africa Famine, Drought, Conflict


A deadly combination of drought, on-going conflict and escalating food prices has placed over 11 million people in need of life-saving aid in Kenya, Somalia and Ethiopia. Over two million children are malnourished. Please help UNICEF Australia by making a donation online (www.unicef.org.au/eastafrica).

Thursday, August 04, 2011

A Feast of Spring



The magpie alights at the top branch of the highest tree

his assassin eyes laser territory

at three sixty degrees snap

steel trap state of the art weaponry


trees yesterday crusifixii bones loom stark in the mist

now thrust and bud in Spring,

budding and thrusting and bursting

sun kissed and caressed

the emperor's wild wattle shouts


rejoice and bear witness

we rise from the chilly tomb of

winter

reawakening we suck on our sun

and flex new limbs and wave

in the wind





the aroma of Daphne is angel breath pervading

the garden of Eden deep pink buds open

to small white sepals

such

a simple perfect beauty


The wind ripples the pond where the last duckling dives to hide

the fox snatched her brothers,

an eagle lifted her sister

and the snake struck at supper

for a Spring time feast.



Monday, August 01, 2011

Notes from oversea: Wales, Beers, Yorkies at play



ok I had to put something up about the trip - I've been lax, so some notes (actually an e-mail...) below.


Welsh and Cornwall photos:
https://photos.google.com/album/AF1QipP6Kh0kkHPZKzyMh_L30mAbrgNZeH9knWWvURNB


Yorkshire photos: 
https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipM0hneibg7YkHhsNkHqRE-TgGgG4hz4M05UD8PqEaspI7JoFhW1UbE_EMJnLZy7kw?key=N1N3RGNRMU9yTUJCSDJObEYxbWV5OWZqdzRONzhn

Cara, now in a camping ground in Wales, the name has a Y in it....like a proper Welsh camping ground boyo, the only place we could find after driving from Macclesfield where we picked up the motor home. We're sitting here after a day in Conwy a medieval town bordered by turreted walls and bolstered by a castle all built by the order of Edward 1. The castle was pretty well impregnable but interesting to note that it was captured in the reign of lofty Edward IV by Welsh insurgents who had batted and bowled for the other side (Lancashire I think) and Edward had confiscated lands owned by the lords who had then spat the dummy and captured the impregnable castle. Nothing is certain.

So Edward sent his chief negotiator Boris Two Fingers to fix it. Boris in his agreement stated that the lords could expect their pardon and be walking their lands freely but that they would have to hand over a number of their men. Now, it would appear that this proposition may have placed the lords in a conundrum. Which of their men would be handed over? The story as I read it does not tell what happened and leaves open tantalising endings, some perhaps tres tragique.


It seems that all Wales is populated by about 10 major families, these being Jones, Williams, Thomas, Owen, Hughes, Davies, Lloyd, Edwards, Morgan, Jenkins and Lewis. No Fortesques, Montmerencies or Snipes, only unpretentious working appellations, in fact you would not be surprised to find a Hugh Hughes, a William Williams or Thomas Thomas, thus emphasising the Welshness and lack of frills moniker. That said the Welsh seem to be anything but dour. They are friendly and love a laff, as indeed do the Yorkies we met. A double barrelled surname would seem incongruous here yet there was that artist, Reece-Jones, and I wonder if there is a Thomas Thomas-Thomas which would be a sort of train crash of monikers.

We spent two nights at our fine camping ground at Ty'n-y-Groes a comfortable, lush, picturesque spot with mountains in the background and a fine pub within 10 mins walk or 5 minute march. Denise bravely ordered the black beef Welsh curry and I had the minted Welsh lamb and her curry was so good that I ordered it the second night. The award winning fish and chips in Conwy was especially good.

Beers – there are so many in the UK that it is impossible to keep track. I tried numerous Yorky beers and not a bad one among them – one of the Aysgarth was distinctively aromatic. These of course are nothing like the Aussie lager which is bland by comparison, the closest there would be Coopers ale or one of the micro brewery beers- but they tend to replicate the European styles rather than the English which is more of an acquired taste and generally low in alcohol content, although some ales can be table thumpers. Ciders are very refreshing after a long arduous walk.

Wales. The scenery here is splendiferous. We drove from Tin-y-groes down through Snowdonia
where the mountains rear like ancient beasts breathing above and beyond you, hard, jagged and
callous, no compensating vegetation as in the Scots highlands, no soft waterfalls, all grey black fierce rock. They fear nothing and challenge in their inviolate power but are content to sit in almighty ease. They stopped the English for years, We drove through unable to find a place to park our rolling monolith of a motor home and take a photo, however it was enough to see them in their glory on a summer's day.

Another highlight was walking through our first field full of sheep at Grassington. I'd read about an abbot being killed by a rogue sheep in the 12th century – I hadn't told Denise. We were about a quarter of the way across the field, and I think that I may have looked at one while wondering if it was the abbot killing variety and funny thing but some sheep do tend to look aggressive, like pugnacious as if saying ''who you looking at huh, HUH ?'' A wild look in the eye that says ''what's a nice boy like you doing in my paddock.....''

I swear this sheep growled. Anyway they all started making these deep sheepy braying noises, one of them sounding like Tom Waits with a hangover and ganging up behind us, must have been about 20, getting closer, and I said to Denise ''don't look at them....'' Fair dinks it was one almighty racket following us and I was wondering how this old abbot met his demise – was he butted from the rear and pummelled to death or did a mob surround him while he was praying or what?? Forget your ''baa baaa black sheep'', this was a roaring herd of malicious smelly monsters who could read my mind and knew that I had eaten countless Sunday roast lambs, inserting the knife blade and stuffing them with garlic and rosemary, they knew...... I could feel that they knew...

Yes we got through the gate ok but you know I don't think we ascribe enough to animals – they are more switched on than is commonly thought. Rinnie will wink at me. I kid you not. And Darcy, Ted's dog will know, as will Rinnie if you say the word 'walk'. I think they are forbidden in their doggy state to let on that they understand – being transitional from the human world until they become fit to enter back into the human form. Karma, they've done something in a previous life which has caused them to be reborn as a dog. One wonders what. Don't discount the doggie. Now, yer cat.... well some folk are cat folk, some dog, some pro labour, some liberal, some drive Holden and some Ford, some like Aussie Rules and some like rugby. Some like Chisel and some like Oils, Some like Coopers ale and some drink cats piss Tooheys. Guess which is the cat lover.

Another Yorky highlight was taking the bus from Grassington to Skipton. It was filled with Yorkies at play and the talk and laughter was loud and incessant for the thirty minute journey. One old bloke with a face like Michael Parkinson's dad, all smiles and greeting everyone, got on board with his dog and wife – the English are dog lovers to the max – and he stood up there with the driver just beyond the sign that said 'do not go past this point and talk to the driver' and 'wives must be kept on a leash and not crap on the bus' – the English love their signs, - and he yakked away to the driver non stop for the whole journey, turning to his wife at one point who was halfway down the aisle chatting away, to let the bus know 'we're talking about you, not to you'.

Today I found an Owen Owens ale. I haven't tried it yet, maybe tonight. I had a pint of Dragon ale and a pint of Celtic, both quite enjoyable, but the double O moniker impressed me.

Tuesday, June 07, 2011

Rebirth




Divest the clothes of lineage
our rainment arretay
our heretage of ancestry
to pool the soul at play

Now glistening from chrysalis,
now light alights from shade
now form aglow in reborn bliss
alone, alive a sparkling day

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

Stars




The stars are alive in the sky tonight

a glittering eternity

leaps to eye and time takes flight


a necklace of dewdrops

a-glitter in the sun

forged infinity, each and every

one


childspeak, she murmurs

in her sleep

at home

in a blanket of stars

and the soft spawn of infinite light

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Nanna's Bedtime Story


Sydney Snake – The Tale of a Reputable Reptile

Each morning when the sun was up and the ground comfortably warm but still glistening with dew Syd Snake would slither down to the pond, gaze into the water and have a chat with his old friend. Syd loved to chat, in fact he would do all the chatting, his friend was the best of listeners. His friend had heard of Syd's heroics for some years now, how he had been bailed up by a ferocious hissing tiger cat, how Syd had stood his ground and looked the cat in both eyes, flickered his tongue and.... this was Syd's favourite bit, the cat had arched its back and Syd had sprung like a flash of sun, quick as a snap of twig, sudden as a leaping trout...... Syd had lots of similes.

Then to the Epic Battle. How Syd's mouth had latched onto the nose of the cat, how his fangs had sunk into the side of its mouth, breathing its hot cat breath, how its scream had torn and tissued the air. Now, everyone knows that snakes are deaf but Syd could feel and sense the rent he said, the shaking trees he said, who watched with the birds, the insects, the reptiles and rocks, and how the sky, in fact the whole firmament was hushed in awe. And when it was over and a tattered and bloody victorious Syd had inched away from the supine feline with its mouth open to the sky and the fire leached from its eyes, the trees had cracked with approval, the birds sang with applause, the boulders rumbled and all the snakes in tree hollows, under rocks and those in the holes of the bowels of the earth all hissed as one with praise, SSSSSSSSydney,SSSSSSSSydney!

Then Syd was onto his conquests. I'm a shameless philanderer he said. I admit it. Another one last night. They come to me like sunbeams to flowers, like bees to blossom, like dew kissing the earth. I say to myself 'Sydney, you are incorrigible'. I am helpless and hopeless before them. They tantalise and entice, I am unable to resist. And why would I? They all fascinate and allure and I cherish each sweet heavenly curve. And you might ask Sydney what is your secret? And I reply that I am merely me and can only be myself. Oh and I always flatter the lady. Sincere flattery mind, for how could it be otherwise? They all know where to find a good cuddle: Sydney Snake, Pondside Rock, Cooleman Ridge.

Syd had lived at Pondside Rock as long as he could remember, and longer. He knew its inhabitants as they knew him, all the frogs, the dragonflies, the lizards, the turtles and birds, in fact years back these creatures had been wary around Pondside Rock. Now Syd, if he was lucky, might catch a dragonfly who had hovered ten ticks too long, an indiscreet young frog ''here I am so, here I am so'', a forgetful duckling who playfully poked around the pond bank and if Syd's luck was out, tree grubs.

These days Syd was not as agile, not that he realised it, and he was inclined to grumble. In fact he was grumbling to his friend right now, having finished the heroics and female conquests, that each morning he is awakened by loud footsteps of ''one of those infernal walkers with white hair and glasses'', not unlike this author, as he tromped loudly past Syd's rock. Now Syd resolved to do or die, he resolved to give the inconsiderate human a bite he wouldn't forget. And so it is that each morning Syd launches out of his hole with mouth agape and lands flat on his belly. He is just too slow. And then he slithers to the pond to cheer himself up by recounting his conquests to his old friend. And each evening he turns to his tail, blinks myopically and smiles a wide fangy Sydney charmer, saying “well hello you gorgeous creature! Sydney, you are indeed blessed... once again.”

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Just A Wee Bedtime Story Aye for my Grand Children





Each morning Grandad walks up the hills and down into the valley.

There are lots of birds and animals and insects and trees and flowers and bushes.

There is a pond where the frogs like to croak to each other, and the ducks like to swim.

A fox sometimes comes to say hello to the ducks, before he tries to catch them and eat them.

Sometimes Grandad sees pretty parrots like the Blue Cheeked Rosella and the White Cheeked Rosella.

Look aren't they pretty? Why do you think they are called blue cheeked and white cheeked?

They fly in pairs like mummy and daddy. Or in a family like mummy and daddy and you.

They whistle to each other and look for seeds to eat. Can you hear them?

Sometimes Grandad sees a large black sad Raven bird calling Caw Caw. Why is the Raven sad? Perhaps it is hungry? Or perhaps it just likes to make a fuss and complain. Some people are like that aren't they? You're not like that, are you? Sometimes? I think sometimes we all are.

Sometimes he sees black and white hungry Magpies looking for meat, or insects, or worms. Do you like worms to eat?

And sometimes he sees a huge hungry eagle. The eagle is the King of Birds. It can carry away a baa lamb and eat it. It can't eat a Grandad unless he is dead. So Grandad keeps walking.

But it might fly down to look. See? The eagle says Grandad is too heavy to carry away.

Sometimes Grandad sees kangaroos eating grass or lying down. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue and says Hello Skippy. They stand and look at him. So would you.

Sometimes early in the morning he sees a fox coming home. Hello Mr Fox he says. Mr Fox has a foxy smile. He has a full tummy. Somewhere a little girl can't find a chicken called Henrietta Cluck or a wee fluffy bunny called Penelope Figgs. Never mind says her daddy, we'll buy another one. Yes.

Soon. Today.

Grandad and Nanna like to walk because exercise is good for us. It helps to keep you slim, not fat. Who do you know who is fat? Is she a little bit tubby or as wobbly as?

Would you say as wobbly as a jelly?

Grandad likes to drink beer. And wine. They make you fat.

Does your daddy drink beer and wine?

And your mummy? She likes wine does she?

At five o'clock in the afternoon Grandad opens his first beer. Yum he says.

Grandad likes a ciggie with his beer. He is a naughty boy. Ciggies are bad for you.

They can make you die.

Great Nanna has been smoking ciggies for 200 years. She is called the Human Chimney.

It's a building that smoke comes out of.

Good on you Great Nanna.

Too much wine makes you silly. Nanna likes wine. Yum she says.

When she comes home from work she has a glass of wine.

Grandad says have another one love, it's time to relax.

Grandad has a glass of wine after his beers. Naughty boy says Nanna.

Nanna makes a cup of tea before bed. Sometimes they skip the cup of tea.

Then Nanna likes to dance. Silly Nanna.







Saturday, February 12, 2011

Holy Cow







The end of the day

at the barbecue

wind thrashing and heaving

like some blind animal

trapped in a slaughterhouse

shaking sensibility

order dismissed

and words

rise and billow

in bubbles bursting, blasting

and bellowing from

the belly of a bellicose cow

words like anarchy

antipathy

udder and

shudder

Close the cover

contain them all

but

a singed word slips

out

letter tips smoking

and whirls away

polyglot it's not

couldn't read it

stretched as it was

to spider silk

and now the veal says

where's my mummy?

You are ...kidding....?

and


the steak says here,

mummy's here darling






I don't believe you...

and I heard that sausage

snigger.... hey you

what is this...??

and now the rissoles

raise a grizzle

aunty aunty...

Aunty's here darlings

says the t-bone

aunty didn't know you

in your new clothes

now don’t cry you're not to blame

it had to come to this

they feed us and fatten us,

they slaughter us

grind us and flatten us

one minute we graze

golden in green

agrarian bliss

and next we're

a hundred humongous

meal deal choices

or being flamed on a barby

by a fool like this

who imagines voices...

what goes around, comes around

in the words of we Buddhist

bovines

I was him

yesterday

as he shall be me

tomorrow










Organic Peach










You rise early,
move slowly
in dream and light

gaze lazily
sleep slurred eyes
lured to loveliness



then
a soft caress
tentative
skin upon skin
lips and senses sup aroma

oh such sweet indulgence
sinking
flesh into flesh
and relish, relish
warm ripe flesh

well come sweet
lusciousness
well come sweet home

tongue through flesh
tantalising touch
hard textured tip

contrast the soft
succulence
sucking nectar
high as a honey
eater

cast away moment
each pulsating
moment
blissed

eyes skyward
beak ajar
wild wing beating morning
zest

The Angelus Bell



















The Angelus Bell


The Angelus bell is silent now
the tongue torn from the root
the mouth agape in horror
at the bestial pursuit.

T'was once it sounded contemplation,
in quietude and prayer,
The Spirit sang through open fields,
the town and market square.

The temple doors now barred and bolted
congregations withered, gone
sacred sounds dissipate in
doof doof gym beat doofalong

The Burning Bush is a feature now
in rockery and shrub
with gnomes and plastic Moses,
Mary, Joseph and The Bub.

The exposition of hosts of priests
daily it seems like a dream
inversed:
Spit them out so, spit them out...,
all
Out the Judas cursed.

Of all the gifts that Heaven sent
the Kingdom of God within
gave to the poorest of the poor
love's solace from unholy law

My people are betrayed again
I rout your temples and scourge
your altars,
mud and straw, mud and straw
never needed
evermore

the Angelus bells are silent now
the call of the faithful departed
cracked and broken they bleed
in pain, my sacred broken hearted.

But blessed be the poor in spirit
and mercy be Thy name
Judge not for aye you will be judged
when the horsemen ride again

the desert eyes are opened wide
I stride through flaming sand
my feet are fired in the pot
my head is in my Father's hand

my head is in my Father's hand
to crush, Thy Will be done
oh my Father's mould be mine
I am your poor and lowly son

I see the temples time has built
such artifice of shame
a temple of my heart on fire
is all that shall remain

the god you made to your design
no sign could have foretold
my simple and my purest words
consigned so manifold

writ loud on bright and bloody sky
my name as one divine
those flags aloft and banners high
flutter in slaughter's chime

such sorrow rang out in my name
such horror hurrah drums aflame
such demon dancing sound from hell
such a rock filled wishing well

the desert eyes are opened wide
my feet are charred with words afire
grain revealed in a tree of truth
set in a blue and furnace sky

The angelus bell is silent now
as silent as the white faced moon
as silent as the blood that seeps
from history's unholy wound.

(c) Barry McGloin 2011

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