Our world, the great melting pot of ideas.

Archive for February, 2014

Sunday morning Brisbane

There’s a secret world on Sundays
In the suburbs while you’re sleeping

Morning yoggers yogging,
And last night’s hook-ups creeping

Cyclists balance at the lights
Their pedals glint like fish

And the morning air is what
A kiwi might call frish

Singing loud and bad to Gotye,
I shoot down Ipswich Rd,
The wind whipping my earrings,
My voice as smooth as a toad

Somewhere snuggled lovers
Await their harsh alarm,
But in delight realise it’s Sunday
And nestle back in tangled arms

The world rolls by in sepia
Through my sunglassed eyes

It’s on the ordinary days
It feels best to be alive

The Care of Tiny Humans

Though you cannot speak, you are full of authorative demands
Each day I try to teach you things
Like avocado is not moisturiser,
And bark is not avocado…
To no avail.

Each day you teach me things that no one else has managed
Like patience
And how to laugh at the ways of birds again.

In the park we swing quietly,
The smell of your baby hair and the rain for company
Your fingers like a gathering of chipolatas
Clutch with determined frailty the chain
How funny tiny humans are.

On the ground you chatter like an old cash register
And afraid of nothing set off to the bench
Mashed banana thrust in offering
To the Sudanese couple
And everyone must laugh, as he takes it and says thank you,
Wiping the goo away

And so three strangers discuss the best upkeep of dreadlocks
And what it’s like to move to Australia,
Because your government wipes out whole villages

Walking home I realise why
Society needs all ages.
We are not born with social walls.

We stop to collect every. single. leaf
My unexplained patience surfaces
You who know nothing of the world
Is teaching me


The Clock Struck Nine

He made his way to the counter
Moving slowly through the hot air
Thick as gravy

Life had shrunk him down
Age had dressed him in browns and grey

“Another tonic water please”
I poured it over extra ice
The smell of coffee. The sun blared.

I have a lot of time for the elderly-
Since they don’t have much themselves
“And two vodkas”

“On ice?”
“No thank you”
“With lemonade?”
“Just in the glass”
And the old hands stirred the tonic on its ice

I put the glass before him
Heavy hexagonal clunk
“And what table sir?”

The click of a cash draw
Hot gravy air
And looking up I saw-
through sheer speed of my glance-
The last drop of vodka
Disappear up the straw

Old hands shaking in their paper skin
Returned the straw to its tonic

In silence my heart cried
For this little man
As the clock struck nine

He handed me a lobster
Hands shaking in tweed sleeves
Green eyes looking into blue ones-
A look they’d seen before

“That’s $1.25 change”
Back through the gravy air
To his table
Redundant tonic clasped

And all Sunday I wondered what sadness
Had driven a life this way