all it took was a drag on a hydrogen joint
somewhere in nothing
& gradually all that loose dust sucked together
& pulled apart
then heated up & got cooled down until
us guys turn up
in the edsel with our booze & a porno dvd
now sometime the old clock that’s in there
is going to wear out
what with them nervous little Suns
the old hit just isn’t what it used to be
& the party’s over
because the olds are home & they’re pissed -
with a bit of luck we won’t be around
because it’ll be too hot
or too cold or both but eventually gravity
will get to nothing,
you can hear Mum out among the night stars
snoring again (& again ….
MY FRONT VERANDAH
Opening my morning front door I find
overnight my verandah
has become a purple pool
of Jacaranda flowers.
Rippling waters of lilac perfume.
my cracked leather mud-caked boots
clomp across the wooden floor.
I leave by my back door.
at my vegetable garden table
a family of fairy wrens.
Vivid-blue coat deep black collar ruff.
Mama drab in her greyness.
Two babies bobbing behind
in the slip-stream of her mindfulness.
walking into twilight
Sun behind me
not looking back
to the horizon
out of sight
On the first night between us
between me and her –
she said, “Today, I am killing myself.”
I was quite distressful to hear that.
Early the next morning
she expressed her will to live on.
Living, she said, was in itself
a cute achievement for her.
She further said,
she found me by her side
early in the morning, inside the mirror
on her very face.
What a wonder!
A power of maya?
It was the mirror’s truth apparent to the eye.
My nation reflected in her eyes,
her own nation reflected in her eyes
were a similar words in succession.
Hence, I started loving my nation
and started loving her nation too.
Looking into the mirror
that I was still living.
*maya : the illusion that life and world are real
I delete the first shadow of a poem approaching, shallow and grey as the sky today. My head is full of jumbled memories, yet the birds sing outside to herald something coming, something more than memories, something more than now. There is no breeze and their gentle songs crisscross like philosophical chatter. All the meanings of things are lyrical from where they sit, below the sky, above the earth. We overthink things too often and our songs fall flat as leaden echo. They sing and lift the line from the road, they lift shadows from trees, and celebrate the sun as it breaks through the clouds. We can learn from them to enjoy things as they are.