Day 25 the last straw
The Last Straw
There’s never a last straw
where there’s war
There’s always another
straw in war -
straws galore, on the wind
and the jets bring more.
There are the many straws
the mothers bore -
those lads and larrikins
walked out the door.
The wounds raw, deaths
glorified in lore.
Perhaps there was in fact
for some a last straw
the legacy of war.
Day 26 a water poem
I expected to cry.
Isn’t that what the mothers do?
I expected lots of conversation.
Instead the priest and chanter
wove a spell, promised God
these two would be fruitful.
Outside, rice and sparkling red
confetti rained upon the happy pair.
The sky spat only slightly
at photographers and family alike.
Carried away on river current,
they left us with nothing to do.
I was told rain was a good omen.
They ascended into honeymoon skies
before the cold front brought showers,
and a necessity for driving carefully.
Day 27 a monster poem
Chooks, she said, are descended
from Tyrannosaurus Rex. Have you heard?
They’ve forgotten how to eat meat,
I said. The beaks I can just connect.
And the feet. But what about meat?
And how much they seem to enjoy
the company of humans. What’s our story?
Descended from Rex’s friend?
We watched them scratching dry earth,
clucking earnestly. We listened
as they announced the next egg with pride.
Another’s, not their own.
Related to Rex? I said. That’s monstrous!
Day 28 a settled poem
Suddenly there is another woman
with my surname.
Suddenly I have another daughter.
Suddenly my son is a husband.
That’s settled: I have to learn
Greek language and dancing.
Day 29 magical/realism
The stars turned over
poured stardust into
our dreams. We slept on,
transported from beds -
sheet changes overdue -
to sleek silver mattresses
that sailed above surf waves
explored underwater caves
threw us up cliffs
ensuring we had less path
to make a good-looking
effort on, breathing normally.