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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