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.