November Poem-A-Day 29

Commercial

Belief in a non-existent demographic

produces brown vinyl “platforms”

on which to sit after shopping.

The commercial mind makes no room

for the elderly unable to sit where no

support exists for rising again.

What profit is there in having customers

lean on walking frames waiting for sons

or daughters to rescue them?

Tired legs shaking, backs bent, they

imagine a future of home delivery

and no weekly exercise whatsoever.

November Poem-A-Day 28

Bird

Is he the new generation?

He seems smaller than his predecessor.

And alone. Where’s his brown perky mate?

It’s two years since the last

invasion of my sentimental self. How

distracted I could be by a sudden appearance.

I never could find, though,

any feathers of that particular blue, from azure

sleeveless vests to be worn only for special occasions.

We call him Superb and Fairy wren.

I watch him emerge from the geranium creepers

check out the decking and patio, apparently

always conscious of being “admirably fine and

excellent” even as his wiry legs begin their

jerky leaps in pursuit of ethereal insects.

November Poem-A-Day 27

Local

If you drill down all the way

what is “local” to one of the

25 billion bacteria in a probiotic?

Do ants proclaim neighbourhoods?

Are parrots and sparrows using

my overgrown back yard as a local store?

Where does “local” start and end?

I am boarding a train tomorrow

for what is not available in my “local area” -

those special crafted chocolates

luncheon with long-known friends

a class to improve writing skills.

While I’m  in the Big Smoke I may be

mistaken for “local”. To be flattered

or prove otherwise? That is the question.

November Poem-A-Day 26

Freedom –

1.

His passion

for compassion

for “unofficial

immigrants”

has me feeling

as helpless

as a child

on a leaky boat.

2.

I arrive home to

beautiful invitation

to save the date please.

Anzac Day weekend

a wedding uniting Greek

and Aussie battlers.

3.

Why am I asked to provide

one hundred and thirty-nine dollars?

Why not one hundred and thirty-nine kisses

for the angels building tent cities

or one hundred and thirty-nine bullets

to shoot the builders of barrel bombs?

From one continent - one country

the border crossings seem inane,

my circumstances seem so simple:

a mortgage, rooms to play in, music

and literature to calm the soul, a

secure job, & loving family intact.

4.

beautiful invitation

helpless as a child

bullets – kisses - dollars

November Poem-A-Day 25

Bounty (a remix)

Thinking of Christmas and the arrivals

with children, I take the camp bed

we no longer need

and come home with two green skirts

(my  favourite colour) and a felted

gumnut hat with stalk.

The very next day I can wear the hat!

The day after, it is warm enough

to wrap a skirt around.

I have drawers full of picture and photo

frames, toys on  shelves in garden,

wooden bowls, Bakelite.

Oh sheds and shops of donated goods

you constantly surprise me, gift me

a sumptuous life.