Net Curtains and Chauser’s Adjectives

Beautiful, picturesque, charming, pleasant,

delightful, sunny Cotton Tree whose tide

flows out exposing creamy sand flats as

pelicans preen themselves in readiness for spring

and cormorants steal the fish off the end of your line.

I feel immediately refreshed, exhilarated,

rejuvenated, revived and stimulated,

as I sit down to take in its

natural beauty, to wonder on the

magical nature of this great country.

It is a poet’s delight, Chaucer would

be in ecstasy as he breathes in the fresh air

tinged with rolled tobacco cigarettes.

Three not so eager fishermen,

non casting their lure,

hands are busy rolling the next lung buster.

But nothing could disturb my mood.

They look like nice fellows, like a trio of

likely lads who would regale you in

conversation at the surf club bar.

Each one is puffing in unison

as though there is safety in numbers.

I puff, you puff, we all puff together.

I imagine their lungs and they remind me of my

mum’s net curtains and their cough of my long

gone not so old teacher who would

also regale you with wit and repartee.

Beautiful, picturesque, charming, pleasant,

delightful, sunny Cotton Tree where I feel

immediately refreshed, exhilarated,

rejuvenated, revived and stimulated.

Not Here, But Everywhere

You are not here, there is a

distinct lack of your physical self

in this home, in this bed and in my life,

but this house has you in every corner,

on every chair, in all places at all times,

even in my tool cupboard.

I see you at the computer,

in the kitchen dancing to Michael Buble,

I see you cuddle and kiss the children

and pick up their things from the floor.

You are in Bali painting Steiner's colours,

but you are here reminding me at

every turn that you are my wife, my twin, my ghost

I feed the dogs standing to count the stars

looking back at our home watching you

in the children's area tidying up their

enthusiastic mess, curling your hair

around your ear as you bend to rescue

Little Leo from the clutches of Shredder

I do not miss you because you are

in the faces of our children

and in all the subtle nuances in my life

as all my subtleties stem from you.

But now I go to sleep and

I want to feel your warmth,

so come home safe to me

and fill this house with you.

Willow Tree

Tell me willow tree,

do you remember me?

The boy who sat under your shade,

a fishing rod in hand.

Casting my worm and float.

Enticing a perch from farmer Gibb’s pond.

Those sweet sun filled afternoons.

Not a care nor a worry,

as I watched your branches sway.

I see them now touch the water’s edge,

sending ripples on the glass surface.

A caress for your giver of life.

Your soft branches look so gentle.

Inviting me to sit by your side.

Willow tree! You do remember me!

Yapping at the Stars

I walk my wheely-bin up the laneway,

as my neighbour’s dog yaps at me.

I place my wheely-bin next to the kerb

ready for the garbage truck,

as my neighbour’s dog yaps at me.

I walk down our picture post card laneway

back to our House and Garden home,

as my neighbour’s dog yaps at me.

The stars are out, the Southern Cross is in full sight,

the Yapping Dog constellation beside it,

yapping at it from the safety of its own back yard.

It is not morning and I am not getting into my car,

as I picture my neighbour’s dog yapping at me.

I am not tending the gardens by my neighbour’s fence

as his dog yaps at me.

I imagine my neighbour’s dog yapping at me

ten times more than it actually does yap at me.

My neighbour thinks it’s cute.

Tree Change

We trade a ten night cruise

for five nights in a tent,

the lap of the sea for frogs at dusk

and cackling birds at dawn,

a four berth cabin with attendant

for a leaking air bed and sleeping bags

and Pacific Long Island Ice Tea Cocktails

for tea in an enamel mug.

Bye bye French Noumea, tropical Port Vila,

hello lumpy-ground Mount Warning, mozzies, bugs and snakes.

It would be marvellous to wax lyrical

over the family fun that a Coleman tent may bestow,

but the comparisons are shallow and the ocean is deep.

Had the cruise not been at our finger tips

Mount Warning would be our port,

a holiday destination promising excitement and mystery.

It’s like downsizing from a mansion

to a five bedroom house with bling.

The house would be a dream

if there never was a cruise.

Squiggles on paper.

Daddy why are you always writing

and why can’t you draw like Mummy?

Mummy can draw beautiful things

and she lets us draw all over the paper you bring home from work.

But Daddy why do you just write all those

squiggly lines that don’t mean a picture?

And why can’t I write my drawings on your page

without you telling me I am a naughty boy?

I think that you should draw like Mummy

and paint big pictures to put on our walls.

Why Daddy do you always squiggle in your book

and then put it away when you are finished?

Are you not happy with what you have drawn?

I think that you are not happy with it because

you can not understand those squiggles.

What do those ones mean?

He is learning to read all the major words

and wants to spell everything.

I tell him that when he can read, a whole new world

will open up and exciting adventures can take form in his head.

But who will write these fantastic adventures

if heads are not full with stories to relate?

So I will stay here until something springs forth to start

a creation that will set minds ablaze with imagination.

And I am still here……….waiting……..

Stop Playing That Song

That bluesy song repeats itself through my day,

I keep playing it in my head.

The whole band is in there playing guitars and drums

and the lead singer is having a good old time.

But that bluesy song won’t stop

and I want to sleep.

This band sings the song well,

why do they need the practice?

It’s time to put that plectrum down

and lay the drum sticks on the ground,

or, I will no longer like that bluesy song,

I will not buy your album,

I will buy songs that stop when I ask them to.

So stop those vocals and let me sleep,

change your riff to a lullaby.

Leave that stage at the back of my head

and go wreck your hotel room.

Just make sure your room is not here.

Eating Your Garden

Curried glass noodles may sound heavenly to some,

it may sound divine, but to others it may signify

the demise of all culinary endeavours,

time to heat up a pizza.

I have no comment, lest I never be fed again,

left on the footpath to fend for myself,

to improvise my next meal using

grevillea buds, bottlebrushes and gum nuts.

I could become the famous Bush Tucker Man,

only I would be the Urban Tucker Man,

producing kitchen delights from

people’s unlikely backyards, rummaging through

their mulch to pick up a few tasty morsels.

My restaurant franchise, Urban Grub,

will tip my bank balance off the scale,

profits soaring from the use of ingredients

found around other people’s abodes.

People pay to consume their own gardens

and rave audibly, while I laugh at

the ridicule I have for its brilliance.

My chef’s style arrogance will soar above

anything ever seen, anything ever to have

graced a kitchen with a funny tubular hat.

Chefs around the world will be envious

of my towering pomposity

and cower before me.

Crashing Caravans (for a friend who wanted a rhyme)

Sat in a caravan

A view of the sea

Rain on its roof

Children watching TV

They are finally settled

They were shredding our nerves

We put on the Blues Brothers

No more sound have we heard

Just police cars crashing

A world record amount

Crash after crash

We have long lost count

The noise is deafening

But we don’t care

We could be in a tent

Rain dripping on our hair

How we love our home from home

All dry and snuggled up

And now the sun is shining

Oh what incredible luck!

Ninjago

“Dad why don’t you put some

Ninjagos in your poems?”

We have just finished

building his Ninjago Lego,

the one where the good ninja

triumphs over the evil ninja skeleton.

His imagination runs to places

mine has lost the path to.

Ninjago, the secretive, mysterious

warrior who flings Lego pieces

into the air to fall from the sky

onto his master’s head.

Why he would want to do this, only

a boy’s imagination would know.

I mean, why make your master angry by

dropping Lego on his wise and spirited head?

Stockard Channing Wears a Low Cut Dress

She plays the First Lady

and a feisty one at that,

always ready for a good fight,

a permanent furrow upon her brow.

But tonight she wears a low cut dress,

my wife kindly points out.

She looks demure, instead of threatening.

I am reading, now I am watching

the West Wing like it is the 6 O’clock news.

I have never seen the magnificent cleavage

of the President’s wife and, I suppose,

I could still say that I have never seen

the magnificent cleavage of the President’s wife,

only the magnificent cleavage of Stockard Channing.

Ponderings at Cotton Tree

I sit here, my head full of nothing,

beautiful Cotton Tree spread  across my view of the world,

the Maroochy River swelling to its fullest,

as it ripples and it swirls.

A young Japanese couple,

in matching tee-shirts, point to the water.

They look like they have lost their tour guide

and wonder if she is on that boat.

Questions written all over their faces,

wondering how they lost their whirlwind tour group

and found themselves alone and intimate.

A troop of Germans argue over something Germanic,

maybe they compare the Baltic Coast

and its wind-swept silvery beaches,

the dark Baltic Sea lashing at the coastline

with the anger of Neptune,

wanting to break over the land and reclaim the world.

How different to Beautiful Cotton Tree.

Fishermen cast a hopeful line

with an unhopeful worm attached to the end.

I would not be that worm for anything,

or be the fish to catch it.

Caravan owners relax outside their luxury tents,

confident of their comfortable sleep to come,

the knowing smile of someone

who does not use the public facilities,

whose hard ground is a queen bed.

But they are Baby Boomers, who started out in a tent

dating at eighteen, buying a home at thirty-two

with only enough to furnish the living room,

so now the luxury feels earned.

I earn joy from my observations,

for joy is wealthy and wise

and I will now go about my business

with my head still in the skies.

Cleaner, Faster

My car goes faster

after massaging its metallic paintwork

with a soft and fluffy mitt.

It zooms along happily,

the engine revving

like its pistons have been re-bored,

feeling like a frisky greyhound

after its weekly bath.

The tyres stick to the road like a

post it on your computer screen,

all because the wheels sparkle

under the wink of the sun’s gaze.

All four cylinders fire off,

making its six cylinder cousin

look pregnant and out of breath.

It feels full of energy when doused

with water and the grime

weighing it down is lifted from its bonnet.

Life’s clean and shiny things gleam and go faster,

like the mind driving them.

Old Friends

A comfortable seat, an old friend at my side

Conversation feeling warm and familiar

Laughing at old jokes and memories long ago

No need to think of what to say or watch for empty holes

Stories flow, opinions are matched and differences welcomed

Our connection lifts the soul, relaxes the heart

and makes all that passed before seem like gold.

Darkness, Bullfrogs, Politicians and Vampires

My puppy lies on the mat outside, one eye on me,

I can hear his brother treading through the leaves,

nose to the ground sniffing for a skink in the darkness.

The bullfrogs compete for the loudest braggart trophy,

their chests puffed up bigger than an Australian politician’s.

I think of Julia Gillard out there,

she’s the one who croaks the loudest, longest and most consistently

and will always be the last to jump into the pond.

The other bullfrogs wonder how a Sheila can out-croak them

while at the same time taking their leader’s crown.

The cicadas act as one voice with a crescendo

that overwhelms, no one there tries to run the show.

I sit here on my bed looking out into the darkness,

thinking out of all the nocturnal creatures,

which one would I rather be.

None of them comes the easy reply,

I enjoy this human form, it is fun.

If I had to choose, it would be a vampire

who would see the light, walk in the day.

I would suck the blood from my neighbour’s cows

and suck their yappy dog dry, then return home

after an exhilarating night of fast movement and flight.

The days would be full of play, coercive mind

techniques used to get my own way.

It would surely be fun to be a vampire

and talk to the leader of the bullfrogs.

Children at Twenty-One

Life at forty-two begins with children

All that came before was preparation

The fun to be had, adventure’s call

I would trade it all for children at twenty-one

The next life spent having fun with family

An adventure from the soul, love abounding

A fullness of life watching life grow.

A Stubborn Pen

My pen does not want to write,

it lies flat in my hand, listless and uninterested.

It will not think of one easy line to start off the flow of words.

Ink will not touch paper, until it feels inspiration

to put life on these lines.

Why must it be so full of whimsy

and not feel the frustration of an empty page.

It is not tempted by a dalliance in the margin to wet its appetite.

This pen is empty of all thought,

there is a void where words are first to appear.

How am I to ask it to lend potency to its ink

and let it flow like pebbles in a tumbling river,

words rolling over one another in their eagerness

to please and to fill this parchment.

I implore you my pen, please do not leave me here

to dry up in a literary desert.

Fix this reluctance, end this resistance

and give joy to whoever wants to read your words.

I will lay you down, never to pick you up again,

you stubborn stick of woe.

But your slender lines and easy roll will win back my heart

and let the poetry create worlds for us to imagine.

Is your ink transparent?

Letters

The log fire crackles sending shadows dancing.

The rug before the hearth promises romance.

But you are not here.

The wood is chopped and piled against

the cabin.

I have chopped enough for long nights.

But you are not here.

The pen you bought me is in my hand, no

words will come to mind. I can only write

You are not here.

If Men are from Venus, Women from Mars

Venus, the one lone bright star in a pale blue sky.

She is out to greet us before the day darkens,

her long white robes flowing,

her beauty beguiles like a siren beckoning,

shining brightly, a beacon of love for Mars to follow home.

Mars is nowhere to be seen,

he’s still at the pub putting the world to rights,

talking shop and arguing law,

while drinking nectar from the Gods.

Would it be different if Men were from

Venus and Women were from Mars?

The man at home shining his love

for her in a blaze of white light,

she returning safely to his masculine

embrace to receive love’s true kiss.

His angry and jealous emotions lying

just beneath the surface ready to pounce

should she deliver him an excuse

to feel rightly aggrieved,

for he is not a good house keeper

or able to be kept by the hand of his lady.

The world would be unbalanced if Mars

subdued his war cry and Venus changed her robes..

And if Venus were to extinguish her beacon of love

then who will shine their light for all to see,

be that bright star in the sky giving strength and

hope so that eternity can follow a path of love?

She is the strength necessary for all men to exist.

A reason to want to put the world to rights.

A Pedestrian Walkway in Central China

There's people everywhere, thousands and thousands.

a never ending procession of life filling either side of the road,

longer than any dragon's tail.

All living in harmony with their many neighbours.

Every soul in close proximity dealing within a small space

encroached upon by others dealing within theirs.

Life is such, just getting through the turns of the day,

seeing to what is most important.

Adversity is part of their history, part of their life

and in their culture.

Everyday occurrences in every day dealings

would seem as catastrophes to the western mind.

Bribery and corruption are not considered the same

when a bribe puts you where you want to be.

Relationships are what makes this world turn, they are cultivated

and kept strong for the day they are needed.

A place at art university for the master's daughter

or the correct treatment by the right physician.

It's a well oiled machine each part requiring greasing

before it works at full speed.

Family is as strong as a tempered chain,

each link being as important as the next.

Friendships maintained for such times they are needed

so links in the chain are not broken.

An introduction to another introduction

and another after that, then a relationship is made,

another link added.

These subtleties are missed by the western mind

as we march through their lives, stepping on toes

and bumping into others.

There are no people bumping others among the thousands

going in different directions.

It is understood that there are differences,

there are other meanings and the world needs to move.

Their world has changed so many times, they can let be

what is, let change sound its bell.

The dragon's tail, made from links in the chain

and each chain linked to each other by some degree.

They move so close to one another and move so quickly.

Thousands moving in unison.

Naughty Proletariats

How bourgeois to be eating oysters,

shelling prawns, barramundi melting

in the mouth, but always accompanied

by the great British delicacy,

the deep fried chip, the Proletariat,

the common man at the table.

It’s like a group of builder’s labourers,

wearing steel capped boots

and dirty white T-shirts

mistakenly invited to the Duchess’s tea party.

Everyone laughs at the course humour

to a point where having too much

begins to lay heavy on the stomach.

Then one returns to the delicate texture

and taste sensation of a freshly opened oyster,

the pearl in the ocean,

whilst the plate of chips growls at the rest of the party

for being ignored, no longer tolerated.

Too much of a naughty thing

no longer feels like a good thing.

Bunching in Numbers

Evening spreads its thin grey veil,

night will shroud us in darkness,

white clouds turn grey,

grey turns to black.

The warm autumn temperature cools,

giving a slight release to the heat.

A breeze wafts passed cooling all,

I lift my arms to receive it.

The rainbow lorikeets have taken to safety,

they bunch in numbers in the same tree,

all crowding together, squabbling, chittering,

some making comfortable noises.

All become quiet, once darkness is here.

The kookaburra will laugh through the night.

But the kookaburra will still be in groups,

protecting each other from harm.

They set each other off cackling away,

a comical sound merry in its way.

Cicadas nearly smother all of evenings call,

they are powerfully loud in numbers,

that familiar sound of the tropics,

reminding those of home who are gone.

I breathe in the cooler air scented with jasmine.

My mind wonders to other jasmine moments,

a Beijing evening watching the crimson red sun set

above the Forbidden City setting fire to the clouds

over the western mountains, with jasmine scenting the air.

I revel in the chance to be alone

with all of evening’s creatures.

I settle my thoughts, slow my mind.

The body winds itself down,

it is the natural way of things.

My mind wonders lazily over the day

thinking of what was and what is to come.

I stroll back to my own haven.

I hear laughter, squabbling, chittering

and some comfortable noises.

Luck, the Friend

My report is due, my director awaits my reply,

as I sit by the river, pen in hand,

thinking of the intricacies of life.

An old hand casts his lure into the

Noosa River trying his luck once more,

for his spot is not a special one,

the pier where hire boats bump,

people wanting to come ashore

for more beer, more laughter.

Why does he try his luck at this place

where fish are never caught?

Why ask luck for the impossible unlikely

and stretch a friendship that has seen many years?

Loud inebriation disturbs his peace

as chips and beer are loaded.

One more bump before they leave

trailing laughter in their wake.

My director still awaits me,

I feel my luck stretching.

Better to keep an easy going

friendship with luck and ask

for more when luck is likely to listen.

Smile at the rain.

Summer rain falls from dark and heavy clouds

wetting every surface and bouncing off every head

leaving no doubt to the start of the wet season.

Large puddles turn into large pools

as water dams in basins and culverts

waiting to breach the edge of its confine

and flood into a weary neighbourhood.

Children play under the large drops

revelling in the coolness that clouds

and their precipitous face brings

to the heat of a tropical summer.

I walk out into the storm, arms out straight,

looking up toward the blackened sky

with eyes half closed to the deluge

and mouth open to catch its essence.

I am revitalised by the raw energy

pouring from the skies, the child in me

wanting to play, the adult in me knowing

that I will be dry soon after in the heat that follows.

But the rain has not stopped and rivers breach their banks

eager to eat up their surroundings,

washing over streets and roads, filling back yards,

not bothering to knock before entering your home.

More rain has fallen in angry flashes

and roads turn into rivers swallowing cars and houses

carving up towns and bursting through shop fronts,

carrying unwanted guests as bull sharks go window shopping.

But rain, rivers, floods and sharks are no match

for the determination that a Queenslander holds fast.

They rebuild with signs advertising indoor pools

and look forward to more days in a beautiful country.

Once again, lifting their arms out straight

with a half smile to the rain that falls.

Sleep In

There’s a tickly monster in our bed,

its tickling my feet with small fingers.

Giggles emanate from beneath our big blankeys,

they have come alive making shapes and noises.

Meanwhile Luke Skywalker

jumps into view his light sabre

whooshing the air at 5.30 on Sunday morning.

An Invitation To Stay

He stands at the door, takes a last look back at the empty house.

Four years have seen a daughter born there and her

brother grow into a tenacious and strong five year old.

Only four years, but so many memories to take

with all the furniture and CD’s.

Memories will stay and some will fade

like the patina of their kitchen table.

The cracked window pane brings a smile remembering

the stone flying from underneath the mower and nearly

taking the father-in-law with it. Let the buyers replace it.

He has replaced, repaired and sweated over too many things,

most of which have not put a penny on the place,

houses are sometimes not homes,

they are money without the emotional attachment.

But he’s still attached to this place with its

unapproved decks and under height downstairs rooms.

It has a charm that vibrates with him,

makes the days bright and the nights comfortable.

He remembers baptising the children

and barbequing for thirty people with a big cigar stuck

in his mouth, John Aloisi scoring the penalty

and running out on to the deck to a quiet street.

The money spent on the place was worth it.

He can feel the house saying goodbye.

It has stood for forty years and hosted many people

in this transient society. It knows so many secrets,

has heard conversations that should not be repeated,

seen the happiest moments lived by happy people

and also been saddened. Its walls absorb it all

and reflect that energy back to all who enter.

It is a happy house, because of the people it has

invited to stay.

Every owner is only a tenant.

Some of whom it has been reluctant to let leave.

The home takes them into its bosom giving comfort

and joy and nursing them through harder times.

It does not refuse ownership to anyone, just vibrates

loud enough so that a good match is made by those

who feel its unique energy and are made happy by it.

Those that bring happiness to its walls in

special ways will find it hard to sell,

the home does not want them to leave.

A sigh comes from deep within as he says goodbye to a friend.

A reluctant parting but one that will bring newer

and exciting pastures. He closes the door, locking it

for the last time. He has been invited to stay in another town

by another home that will take his family into its heart.