Friday, November 29, 2013

November Poem-A-Day 29


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


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


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 –

His passion
for compassion
for “unofficial
has me feeling
as helpless
as a child
on a leaky boat.

I arrive home to
beautiful invitation
to save the date please.

Anzac Day weekend
a wedding uniting Greek
and Aussie battlers.

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.

beautiful invitation
helpless as a child
bullets – kisses - dollars

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

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.