Caution: the odd poem may contain swear words.
CONTENTS: Ecstasy? / My fixed assets / Quicksilver quacks / All work, no pay / The girl on the glacier / Boys’ bits n pieces / Red luft balloons / Fred / Skylie-Mylie / Secrets / Chokos / Brockas / The shirt shirk / Real life after death / Sandy / Covid dreamin’ / TBHS Exceptionals / Deserted, ’til next time… / Ugly as a hatful / Charlie / Nitmuluk sailing club / Pizza delivery / No fitting room / What’s in a name? / Surprised at Surprise Creek / Clear n present danger / The intervention / Cave critters / Disdain! / Respect / The last old cutter / Major look, ya silly chook / History interrupted, gone / Hindsight / Can ya believe it? / Old Laurie / What odds? / Little Vee / Unfinished business: living rent free / Fixed or foxed? / Good bombs? Too right… / Heads up / Styza / Nude fishin’ / Professor Longhair / School reunions / The leaf / A rum deal / The game / Treated by a mushroom / Sewing’s for so and so’s / Ode to the old broad / The final cut
Ecstasy?
Saw two grasshoppers doing the deed
Camouflaged, dead palm frond, taking no heed
No fear, oblivious, as I picked them up, unshy
But nervous retreat, from that big camera ‘eye’
Suddenly her hindlegs splayed, frozen, no spasms
Made me wonder: do insects have orgasms?
My fixed assets
Judge me not by what I keep
Like bits of metal, all in a heap
Flat, folded, curved or pipe
Awaiting the job for which each is ripe.
Stripped my car for a new paint spray
Door glass carrier rusted clean away
Two month wait, new one from Japan
Can’t finish the job said the paint shop man.
So checked my ‘assets,’ piece of stainless channel
Multi-cut, radius bent, rewelded the panel
Fitted glass and took it to the paint shop
Declared perfect fit, no wobble or slop.
When it comes to timber, the same complaint
Stacked here and there, pretty it ain’t
Until the day it’s carved and shaped
Furniture or artwork on floor or wall draped.
Make it, fix it, improve a design
A genetic need or flaw of mine?
Waste versus recycled opportunity
From cheap and shoddy DIY gives immunity.
One man’s junk, another one’s treasure
Seeing and transforming, source of pleasure
Working out how, getting ‘junk’s’ measure
Hobby, obsession or constructive leisure?
Quicksilver quacks
I wonder, yes I wonder
now at what I saw
In my mid-childhood,
watching the kids next door
Cupped handfuls of Mercury, wonder where they got it?
Fed it to their ducks,
then laughed in exult
Ran straight out their bums,
they caught the result
Cupped hands filled again, same game repeated
The ducks would be butchered,
then cooked and eaten
Wondering if their maker,
they’re now all a-greetin’.
All work, no pay
It’s bin day again! So soon, so fast
When you get old, time doesn’t last
Bloody inflation’s digestive enzyme
World spinning faster, eating away time.
Less time to do things, so many chores
Re-roof the house, meaning less snores
“Isn’t it time…” you old sew n sew
Re-upholster both lounges, lawn to mow.
Fix the camp trailer, a trip up the Cape
Family re-union, re-play the old tape
Big city wedding, visit the grandkids
Off to the beach house, check time n tide bids.
Ripped off retirement, lost annual leave
Gone Friday’s glee, the weekend’s reprieve
No special spirit, public holidays gone
Bin day’s reminder, sense of time’s gong…
The girl on the glacier
The track to the glacier was rocky and long
Ice age retreated, melt-waters’ tumbling song
Then suddenly a fence, and a warning sign
“No entry unless…” crampons, conditions times nine!
So I jumped the gate, continued on to the ice
Broke a piece, chewed it, millennial, tasted nice!
Soon came across a young woman and a bloke
Ice picks and adze, cutting ice steps for tour folk.
Challenged me: “No guide, crampons…” assured them, my goal
Steps melting, asked, “How often d’you do this patrol?”
She,“Every two days.”
Me, “Shame, soon gone with climate change heat.”
She, “Oh, I don’t believe in that climate change bleat.”
“How long you been doing this job?”
“About two years when…”
“How high up the cliff face was the ice back then?”
Pointed out a boulder, ten metres up: “Up there…”
Sudden look, brain joined dots, aware, left her to stare…
Postscript (10yrs later):
Told this yarn to nice young Teacher from NZ
“Hike there now, no glacier to even see,” she said
“The small scrap left only accessed by helicopter.”
Sadly my prediction to the anti-change adopter…
Boys’ bits n pieces
Rebuilding an engine, old Landrover, for an old mate
Laying in pieces, a long forlorn dusty, rusty wait
Re-bored block, ground crank, new pistons over-size
Shaved head, ground valves and valve seats: wise.
So fitted the crankshaft, new bearings, tensioned caps
Rear main seal, with sealant for potential leaky gaps
Gudgeons joined pistons to con rods, then ready
To insert ringed pistons, new big-end bearings, steady.
Rotated the crank and pistons to check if all good
Too tight! Too much friction, not as free as it should
So strip it down to locate the hidden problem
Wrong rear main bearing supplied, “Sod them!”
So ground off the bearing edge for journal clearance
Re-assembled, all good, so camshaft-sprocket coherence
Then guides and push-rods before the engine head
Head bolts tensioned, in order, for new gasket to bed.
Timing chain and tensioner, synchronised positions:
Crank, camshaft drive, and lobes, valves pre-ignitions
Then distributor and oil pump, covered by the sump
Intake and exhaust manifolds and the fuel pump.
Front pulley, water pump, timing cover and fan
At other end, flywheel, clutch in bellhousing flan
Alternator, carbie, rocker cover and dipstick
Then mate it to gearbox, alignment’s tricky trick.
All these parts! Designer smarts, steels and other alloys
Cast, machined to exact tolerances all in counterpoise
End result: eighty percent of fuel to heat, light and noise
And servicing costs, worn parts and polluting boys’ toys.
So bring on electric vehicles, so simple by comparison
No gearbox, clutch or cooling system plus much more to shun
No noise, no fossil Carbon, but heaps of torque and grunt
Fuel cells with Hydrogen, give expensive servicing the punt!
Epilogue:
24volts, disconnect ignition, remove plugs, to crank it over
All good, replace plugs, so started the tight motor
Timing light on timing marks to tune the ignition
Whoosh/gush of coolant, new Welch plug blew its position!!
Red luft balloons
At Steep Point, WA, most westerly place of mainland Oz
Superfecta to complete, Cape York, Wilson’s Promontory
Cape Byron, the cardinal points, and a photo because
It’s tradition, and proof, to back up this true story.
Inky Indian Ocean, swell-crashed cliffs, blue sky backdrop
But wait! “What the…?” Red balloons, all four of them
Weaving, bobbing, maintained height. Suspended? Floatation strop?
Photo first, drive round cliff, to solve mystery, phenomenon problem.
Drive round corner, blokes camped near cliff-top, beers, waving
“Come in!” So do a U-ee, drive into camp, they all turn away
One bloke says, “Thought you were two sheilas, us misbehaving.”
“From Perth, been here a week, no fish, just sharks, last Tuesday.”
Impressive camp: generator, hammer-drilled rock bolts for tent pegs
In limestone, with wind forty knots, offshore in direction
Good for balloon fishing, perilous for tents and drunk legs
So concreted pipes, rod-holders, reel and safety harness, each cliff-top section.
Standing at cliff edge, rod-lines-tethered helium balloons floating offshore
With dropper line, down forty metres to sea-surface, gang-hooked bait
Skipping, with wind changes, lines, balloons, adjusted, obey physics’ law
Patience, anticipation; alluring, tempting fish to their barbed fate.
Bloke chatting, face to me, back to rods, others in camp drinking beer
Suddenly, a rod smashed, I say, “You’ve got a fish on.”
He looks around, but rod is back up: “Nah, nothing here.”
Turns back, rod smashed again, I say, “A fish, I’ll bet, no con!”
Looks round again, rod is back up again, balloon steady
I say, “You turn round, we’ll both watch together!”
No sooner done, rod bows again, he yells, “Fish on, Freddy!”
Well… Blokes toss full beers, come running full tether.
Wide-eyed I watch, a rifleman prostrate on rocks, shoots all balloons out
Another, clipped into big-game and safety harness, pumping the fish
Another, large rope, lowers multi-gaff hook clipped to line with a shout
The fish pulled to cliff-edge, gaffed, hauled up, “don’t lose it” the silent wish.
A two-metre mackerel, “aboard” at last
Cheers, high fives, their first fish in a week
Me, the hero, long-haired “sheila”, a lucky blast
Beers all round, photos with me, and the fish so sleek.
Fred
Hard to find a more decent bloke
Generous, kind, cheeky, ready to joke
Honest and knowledgeable, easy to like
‘Blimmin’ this, blimmin’ that,’ the most he’d gripe
A chuckle, a laugh, his work punctuated
His worries shared, acceptance indicated
Foot-sore limp, he’d amble off home
Having brightened the day, wherever he’d roam…
Skylie-Mylie
Skylie-Mylie what do you know?
Turly locks of hair just so
Swipes and taps the phone app row
Cheeky grin says Poppy “Hello”
Lots of faces she can grow
Climbing up the stairs she go
With her sore, bruised black toe
Moo-cow, Dolly, Minnie in tow
And dance the beat of 5Rocks disco
With lipstick painted bright pink mo
Nanna have her thongs back? “No!”
Walked up Orange Bowl very slow
Her smile and wave, she did show
Saw Kek and Didi, climb sand blow
Then in the creek to float the flow
Playing with big kids, a pocket dynamo
Into Nanna’s make-up, little tornado
Naughty mozzies bite? She say “Yo.”
In the bin her food she throw
Still drink mookie in belly below
Then off to sleepy-bye in night glow.
Secrets
“What’s the matter? You don’t seem right.”
“Nothing’s the matter, I’m alright.”
To me, “I’d like to go somewhere.”
“Where?” “Somewhere nice, I don’t care.”
“Well how about here, or over there?”
“No, that’s boring, like, totally nowhere!”
“Which of these, do you need?”
“whatever you like.” ( decision to cede)
“Do you want to… (insert various)?”
“If you want to.” (onset wariness)
If it doesn’t work out, not up to scratch
It’ll be my fault, with blame to match.
To me, “When you did… (insert numerous)”
False suspicions, motives egregious
Answers given don’t match the question
Vagueness, evasion, blame-shift suggestion
I’d like to help, but not allowed close
Recurring problems never verbose
Nothing ever, gets resolved
Intimate relationship not evolved
Hindsight judgement, life precarious
My perceived intent, so nefarious
Change the subject, on the offense
Attack seen as the best defence
Reminded often, my faults, with regrets
Tell me straight, tell me your secrets?
What are the things I need to know?
Stop the wonder, understanding grow
Help me reach the hidden rainbow.
Chokos
The weathered house we rented had a huge old Peach tree
It hosted a rampant Choko vine, bulk Chokos picked for free
Each evening at dinner, the boiled Choko, nightly I’d gag
Age seven, couldn’t eat ‘em, my sorry plate they’d lag.
Ten pm, not allowed to leave, everyone else in bed
Made to sit, there or eat them, dinner table instead.
Then one night, old man home, from the pub pissed
Dragged me out, lump-of-wood thrashed, as his anger hissed.
Flogged me ‘til my arse bled, I slunk off then to bed
No Mum checked on me, cried self to sleep’s bloodshed.
Woke up, blood-glued to sheets, for the morning’s dread
To school, painful plank timber seat, wiped blood-stain red.
Nothing said, no apology, like it never happened
Still never ate Chokos, my stubborn resolve maddened.
One of many childhood floggings, including a king hit
From behind, busted my ear drum, lifelong Tinnitus remit.
When sixteen: “Go earn some money, watermelon picking!”
Dropped me off, middle of nowhere, school bus shelter sitting
No farm house, people, cars seen, no food or water to drink
He never came back to pick me up, not knowing what to think
Deserted or abandoned, like some stray, wayward pup?
Or punished, given a scare, or a controlling threat heads-up?
Mid-afternoon walked to the highway, hitched back to city brink
Some kindly Indigenous blokes, a more fatherly transient link.
Studying at home for Senior matric exams for the next day
Old man, “That’s enough study!” turns lights off straight away
Me: turn on, he: turn off, ‘til he rips fuses from the meter box
Same each night, did my best, per the two-hour exam clocks.
So finished school, ran away, new town to make my own way
Decades later, old man’s last days, sat bedside for a day
He started to say something, an apology? but refrained
Shrugged his shoulders, couldn’t do it, never saw him again.
And still today I marvel, at blokes whose father’s passing
Brings mourning, grief and sorrow, lost love everlasting
So sad but uplifting, their memories treasured, enduring
Their start in life amazing, normal and securing….
Brockas
Always a smile with which to greet
Always a laugh whenever we’d meet
Always inquiring, “How’s things going?”
Departing gift: another smile growing.
His percussionist prowess and musical bent
Playing the lark with mischievous scent
Bluesmobile, on the tools, having a beer
A genuine, decent bloke with cheer.
Happy go lucky, handy hints flowing
Lending a hand, always showing
By his qualities, forever we shan’t
Ever forget our good mate Grant.
The shirt shirk
Staying at our place, a nice young fella
Some actions, revealing, the real story teller
New girl to impress: ‘Can I iron my shirt?’
Showed him where, his ironing skills to flirt.
After ten minutes, no result, still there
Went to look, iron in hand, dumbfounded stare
Twenty one years, (his mum) never ironed himself
Taught my kids: do naught they can do, for themself.
Else pandered, spoiled, can’t/won’t help themselves
Adults, to relationships, they bring empty shelves
Teach kids to see, care, clean up their own mess
Consequences later, divorce, no life-long redress.
Show me a useless, lazy, (chauvinist?) today
I’ll show you a parent who made him that way
Then one day paired up with their significant other
Marriage a licence, to root a new younger mother.
Real life after death
All those leaves, and multi-limbed trunk
Macadamia’s growth form’s fate self-sunk
Cyclonic winds blew it, arse-over-head
But its life not in vain, now that it’s dead
Trunk inverted, carved feet on the ground
Other bits n pieces, useful, hanging around.
Sandy
They arrived on a Sunday, Main Street deserted
“Where the heck are we?” an inner voice blurted
Iris Muller’s rent rooms, then an old house
Then bought Barry Street, bargain for those with nouse.
A renovator’s dream, for a man so handy
As Rob is, with endless plans by Sandy
And a job at the High School, the new science Labbie
A forty year career, solid gold, nothing shabby.
A dickhead science HoD, neglectful, uncaring
Sandy joined the fashion stakes, dresses, accessories wearing
“No closed-in shoes in my science labs!” she defiantly declared
As the stories, the daily gossip, she readily shared.
On at least one occasion, Sandy got randy
Nine months later, a boy, all fine and dandy
A new target to fuss, a new face to boss
More than backfired, Jessie argued the toss.
And like most teachers, no-one knows the real story
The dedication, after hours, not done for any glory
Sandy defined her job, with list upon list
Friday arves in F Block, rowdy, half pissed.
Hands on hips, pursed lips, “Who took that prac?”
“You’ll get piss-bugger-all, if you don’t put it back!”
And then the health wobbles, cured by the wine bottle?
Saw Sandy back on track, back to full throttle.
Always thinking, pushing change for the better, scheming
Never time, for idle day dreaming
Stopped or flat out, and asleep with one eye open
If there is perfection, she wouldn’t be left hopin’.
Sandy’s enthusiasm, or OCD? was never lagging
Nine calls before first bell, my resistance flagging
I invoked the inverse, third law of nagging
Ignore, but do it Sunday, reluctant heels dragging.
But a heart of gold, do anything for anybody
Easy to like, have a laugh, and a toddy
But cross the line, not care, disrespect everybody
Be prepared to be hit, with a verbal waddy.
A real mother hen, she’ll take anyone in
Giving’s always been her mortal sin
But don’t bother phoning, she’s never home
Rob will answer, “She’s out somewhere, on her social roam.”
With ‘whoreable’ for horrible, and ‘hairy’ for Harry
Her accent sometimes, confusion would carry
But the maple leaf autumned, true Aussie she became
Touched our lives, endearment, never to be the same.
And now the big break, “Hell, I’m retired!”
Unwind the watch spring, the brain hard-wired
Now Rob’s full-time, hectic task master
Sandy, we thank you, salute you, as time now goes faster.
Covid dreamin’
Reminiscing recount: my youth at an abattoir
Subconscious brain response: my slumbers noir
Got my Moderna Covid booster
REM-sleep dreaming like I’m used ta:
~…I’m at my beach house, for Xmas feast
Had slaughtered and butchered a feral beast
Came home after a couple of drinks
The fridge side covered, by absconded meat ginks
Amoeboid steaks had escaped the door seal
Like bloody fridge magnets, moving, unreal!
Opened the fridge to giant macrophages queer
Jokingly said, “One of ‘em’s opened a beer!”
Snatched it roughly off the bottle’s crown
Lid still held while it sucked beer down!…~
Four a.m. woke me, to reality’s fright
Slight sinus headache, jab shoulder plight
Gold Coast mansion and grey dawn’s creep
Better write this down before back to sleep…
TBHS Exceptionals
Some came, some saw, some conquered
Some squandered and got stonkered
Music, fashions, opportunities
Exciting, changing communities.
As young and free and restless
Rebellious, reckless, not feckless
We engaged our world with passion
Our spirit was without ration.
Long hair, new music, tie-dye
“Make love, not war!” the cry
Hippies, Groovy, pants aflare
Some flowers worn in our hair.
Our teachers no doubt frustrated
Our schooling, future, postulated
Encouraged by those high achievers
Worried by we non-perceivers.
Laughs, memories, good times
Friends, hanging out, prank ‘crimes’
Dissolved gas in water, rapid
Hughesie made Nitric Acid.
Drink taps, lunchtime, a loud fart
Bob, me, sprayed water, our part
Some Fartric Acid to make
“To the office!” the cuts, hands ache.
In the summertime, we pedalled
As progressives go, we medalled
Our Trinity days we spent
Becoming ourselves as meant.
It wasn’t the school so much
But the mix of people as such
Backgrounds, suburbs, cultures
We Aquarius change- vultures.
Lives enriched by maturity
Global pursuits a surety
Of talents, goodness, purity
No time, no place for obscurity.
So we meet again as Oldies
Nostalgic bliss not mouldy
The bonds still there, as one
Just like it’s just begun.
As we sadly miss those passed
Fond memories forever last
We’ll raise a glass to toast
Of school friends we can boast.
Deserted, ’til next time…
Driving near Cape Peron, deserted sheep station
Sandy track, tricky, near beach, sudden distraction
A scarecrow man, sitting, mid-air on tree tops
No… sitting atop marquee, on beach, revealed past copse.
Deserted marquee, white 4WD, six tinnies beached
Eight trawlers anchored, miles from nowhere, not a soul breeched
Made camp, calm sea, launched tinnie, five K’s up the coast
Found reef, fish certain catch, such remote outpost.
No sooner baited, white caps, ferocious breeze
Up anchor, bash back to camp, safety unease
Idyllic beach, now one metre waves wop onto shore
Sure to be pooped, so reversing in, over rubbley reef, calm before.
Yelled to wife, “Hop out, help me pull boat, once ashore!”
Looked around, she’s gone! Just two hands on bow I saw
Only heard, “Hop out…” Now up/down, hanging on bow
Yelled over surf, “Keep yer feet up, stone fish will endow.”
Now white knuckles, and panicked toes, showing at sharp end
Up/down dance, as the one-metre waves, I continued to fend
And thus head to sea, we managed , dry land to reach
Motor up, jump ashore, drowned rat and all, the tinnie to beach.
Then safe, dry in camp, a beer to contemplate
Same scene, deserted marquee, trawlers, intrigue conflate
And suddenly, a bloke appears, from tent, a relieving piss
Wind blew out tent side, mass of bodies inside, hidden bliss.
Soon after, another bloke launched a tinnie
Driving out to trawler, in the rough wind-swept sea
When it flipped, bloke clinging to hull upturned
Me, only witness, otherwise concerned.
About to raise alarm , when a would-be pisser appeared
Saw tinnie drifting seaward, yelled, help volunteered
New tinnie towed ashore wreck, way down the beach
Flipped it as well, when almost in reach.
So 4WD drove down to tow them out
Swam rope out, as landlubbers pointed, continued to shout
Idiots bogged it, on incoming tide
Thought morons will ask me to rescue their pride.
They managed to push it, much to my relief
Then back to ‘normal,’ deserted, tent-bound aperitif
And twilight revealed, it all became clear
Young women, prostitutes, work break, on beach strolled near.
They played ’til late, then early at daybreak
Trawlers slipped moorings, riddled with headache
Girls drove out, marquee closed, waiting, same deserted hue
Wives, girlfriends oblivious, to the secret rendezvous.
P.S. On the track to Peron, many Birridas to be found
Flat, pale, crusty, six to hundred metres across, mostly round
Don’t drive on them, you’ll break through, bog, get stuck
And lose your vehicle, drowned in calcium sulfate muck.
Ugly as a hatful
Funny how some things stick in your head
Something you saw, someone said
Tucked away somewhere, seemingly gone
Then suddenly triggered, memory on song.
Early primary school, about age eight
Morning recess, near port rack, line up, wait!
Choking foul stench, teacher found where at
Billy Bock, on school bus, had shat in his hat.
Climbing off roof, onto ladder, eight metres high
Cursed baggy shorts’ leg, over ladder rail, caught my thigh
“Bloody baggy Billy Bock shorts,” (he always wore)
A hatful of turds triggered, as I quietly swore.
Charlie
Born and christened, Alan Charles, the year was thirty nine
Before my time, but for thirty-five years, a stoic neighbour of mine
Good fences do good neighbours make, or so poems spake, but Charlie and me, we had no fence
With such a good bloke, and Rozie’s invoke, it simply made no sense.
With Blue and Carol and us, with our new kids on the block
Mount J’s Country Club welcomed us, warmly, we readily joined the flock
With Charlie and Rozie, own teenage family to raise
My kids saw “auntie” Charlie, with, an aura of praise.
In his early years, it was footy and beers, and teaching by age eighteen
A social whirl, married his girl, the Mount Julian house in between
Stripping plant cane, a family he’d gain, and surviving cyclone Ada
The block at Conway, more jobs to do one day, he’d get to it sooner or later.
And many a year with plenty of beer, did Charlie and Rozie donate
With school on weekdays, Sailing Club weekends, as volunteers locate
Helping, serving, always reserving, their time, kids’ lives to better
And friends, gathered round, a drink, a yarn, and whistles to gladly make wetter.
A lover of history, pioneers, of places and faces, and, a hard-won tale
Restored old machinery, displayed downstairs, each with storied regale
Remote place visits, shooting and fishing trips, with Eddie, or sobriety’s Frog Davey
The only boat, which rum kept afloat, in Whitsunday’s Merchant Navy.
And through all this, with no hint of bliss, Charlie taught all the kids
Maths, grammar, maintained standards, “They don’t get past me,” he firmly forbids
While home on the Grange, no chance for change, with Charlie and the mower
The height set to “lower,” worm-food stower, the attentive, best, lawn grower.
The retirement years, the mango farm, veggies, the best corn ears, did Charlie’s garden grow
And cooking for Rozie with culinary skill, now with need to know
His life-long girl, to his love-strong pearl, though sometimes a little cranky
Make no mistake, with nought forsake, care, devotion, honest, not wanky.
Then ill-health struck, like a rogue Mack truck, but Charlie stood his ground
Typical Charlie, blunt and gnarley, for Rozie’s carer, a cure seemingly found
And blessed we were, with some good years more, his qualities did not dim
He just got on with it, just bein’ Charlie, dilemma, bad luck ne’er defined him.
When you lose a good mate, it’s hard to contemplate, the days of future passed
That familiar thing, that saw-blade “tring,” as wood is so neatly parted
That roller door squeal, and Hilux’s knock, diesel, daily being started
The muffled “splot,” as Bauple nuts got, dropped into buckets plastic
The comforting sight, the afternoon’s plight: “Which veggies to pick?” Fantastic.
So come what may, all will say, with Charlie’s final curtain
A bloody good bloke, a laugh, a joke, a rum or two for certain
“Righto,” he’d bray, and make his way, to offer a helping hand
We’ll sadly miss, on days like this, a man so plainly grand.
Nitmuluk sailing club
Nitmuluk, Katherine River, we hired an open canoe
Paddled up, forded rapids, through the third gorge’s rusty hue
Snorkeled, freshwater crocs, turtles, a barra swam up to my face
Swam in side waterfall, climbed escarpment, interesting scenic place.
The wind always blowing, downstream flowing, the gorge’s snaking track
Found some old rope in flood debris, time to head on back
Broke three sticks, a mast and two cross-arms, so as to configure
A beach towel sail and two sheet ropes, Nitmuluk’s first square rigger!
Wife up for’ard, feet to hold mast foot, sheets to position sail
Me, aft with paddle, a rudder to steer, shipshape hearty and hale
It sailed so well, we passed the other paddlers, the looks upon every face!
With effortless ease, we ran before breeze, our sailing skills to showcase.
Two blokes paddling, urgently upstream, came into view late in the day
Changed their course, to pass close by in an inquisitive way
As they passed by, looked at me, “You idiot!” with plain European accent
Heard his mate astern, “We will do that ja?” with envying hopeful assent!
Pizza delivery
Echidna Chasm, at Bungle Bungle, The Kimberley, WA
Started as a waterfall, monsoon mountain-side display
Over time, eroded its way back, in, nearly a K
One hundred metres, deep but narrow, arms-width today.
We sat at the end, at the base, of the thankfully dry waterfall
Thoughts of a horrid death, if there, after a wet season rain squall
Eating our lunch, left-over pizza, camp oven-cooked last night
Then noises, a tour group, young lady soon walked into sight.
American girl, intrigued, stopped, looked at me, the pizza, me, postulated
Hands on hips, “Oh my Gaard, that is so sophisticated!”
Thought we’d flown in pizza, nearest town 300k’s
Guess one might think that, with US cultural ways..,
No fitting room
Most folks know the terror of the arachnoleptic fit
Frenzied slapping, face and head, and the odd spit
To remove the spider and its sticky silken thread
After blundering face-first, into cobweb dread.
So here’s me on a box, up on plank and trestle
No handholds, just a wall, for a tippy-toe wrestle
To remove a huge wasp nest, on the peak of the eave
Paintscraper pushing, a-cutting, with hope to cleanly cleave.
Most came off, one piece, chiselling at the rest
Next thing to my horror, I came off second best
A hand-sized Huntsman spider, parachutes on my face
Eight metres up, blinded swat, I somehow kept my place!
What’s in a name?
The date was set, I’ll never forget, that caesarian December day
Remember when, no scans back then, girl or boy to say
Just shape of bump, high or slump, things of much conjecture
With silent hope, the birth to cope, and hindsight’s certain lecture
“A boy, I knew!” called Maharmadoo, David, Potsum, even Fletchumdoo
Darling Kontaseric and nicknames more, than enough to perhaps imbue
An identity crisis, or some sort of -itis, in any normal kid
But the one wot stuck, just pure luck? is Fiddie cut short to Fid
Gave wistful memories, on wilderness itineraries, of fish and lines pulled taut
Cape York, Borroloola, Cape Keerweer, Arukun, “Good one Fid” the retort
But the boy born then, grown now amongst men, his name is not the key
Proud as I am, it’s not the glam, it’s his qualities plain to see.
Surprised at Surprise Creek
On a bushtrack shortcut from Lichfield to Daly River
Came across Surprise Creek, literal truth giver
Walked to the top of the first waterfall plateau
Delighted to find a giant namma hole inflow.
Perfect four-metre circle, cylinder-like
Smooth vertical sides dropped down out of sight
Donned mask and snorkel, jumped in to look
Stunning clear water, swimming in ‘air’ mistook.
The walls adorned with dinner-plate algae, grey-green
The bottom, forty feet down, the likes never seen
Completely covered with spherical ‘drill’ stones
Awaiting the next flood to grind the bedrock’s bones.
Back to the surface to wife’s concerned hue
(Despite clear water, I’d disappeared from view)
A young couple, had arrived, just after I’d dived
Conversation awkward, amiss, contrived.
After they left, wife clued me in, embarrassed
Newly arriveds, poolside, me below, forgetful, careless
Freed from my pocket, emergency spare floated up
Surprise Creek delivered, a tampon blowup!
Clear n present danger
“I’d hate to be, inside your head.”
She said to me, like I’m brain dead
Harder to know, what she’s saying
I can’t follow, logic fraying
Topic is jumped, with no segue
Pronouns bumped, he, she and they
The front is back, the left is right
Directions lack, try as I might
I get confused, ask a question
Then I’m abused, dumb suggestion
I’m left stranded, no way out
She talks left-handed, I cop the pout
I’ve learned to be, patient and mute
True love’s trustee, bears sweeter fruit.
The intervention
“So what’s your problem?” I asked surly Jack
“I don’t have a problem!” he sulkily spat back
“Thirty kids in your class, you’re the only one here
Sent by your teacher, your behaviour: nil endear.”
“You have any medical problems, causing your betide?”
“I’ve got ADHD,” he quickly replied
“How do you know that?” I keenly inquired
“I’ve been to the doctor, a certificate supplied.”
Said I, “A spectrum disorder.” He: “That’s not what I’ve got”
I explained: One end, real problem, the other end, not,
With every shade, of behaviour in between
Some kids no control, others, not ever seen.
But studies have shown, that of all kids diagnosed
Only two percent have, the real problem posed
The rest have bad behaviour, matching, similar
Due to environment, abuse, neglect, parenting in particular.
I asked him his thoughts for his future guide
What job, career, and resume required
“I’m gunna be a fireman,” he emphatically said
“I’m pleased, most your age, uncertain instead.”
Shrugged shoulders, no answer, a look of defeat
When I asked him how, what to do, what he’d need to beat
Those others, in few years, with whom he’d compete
For the few jobs on offer, he’d feel the heat.
His ignorance of resumes, job hunting established
I said,”OK, let’s pretend you’ve been short-listed, lavished
An interview, the questions, what will you tell them,
Of yourself, how your quals match the job, or system?”
“What d’ya mean?” My patient entrapment, intuition:
“I’ve done fire training, I know firefighters’ job definition
At a fire, it’s team work, attention, strict work behaviour
Your work mates face danger, you must be alert, a saviour.”
“So at interview, will you tell them you’ve got ADHD?
That you can’t concentrate, behave rules, complete tasks, to be
A trusted part of a trusted unit, crack emergency response team?”
“No way!” he cried, to which I said, “Why not? What d’you mean?”
“I wouldn’t get the job, if I told them that.”
“So you’d keep it a secret?” “Exactly, kept under my hat.”
“But people know you, now, in the future, and
Referees on your resume, interviewers, may show your hand.
“If I were you, and I truly had ADHD
I would make it my business, at all times to be
A person behaved in a manner to hide
All trace of my problem, attract praise and pride.
A flicker, a realisation, flashed on his face
He went back to class, my dialogue to his teacher I’d grace
And never again to my office he’d pace
His bad behaviour, now a null space.
But another boy sent, (there’s always another)
Soon, the naughty chair, his arse did cover
With serious hearing deficiency, in class equipped
Him: headphone aid, teachers: radio mic conscript.
Dialogue revealed a well-intentioned mother
An attention-seeking boy, spoilt by smother
Whose ambition, a “Steve Irwin” animal handler
How can that be, your hearing so obvious to pander?
So I told him a story, of a boy’s ADHD
Whose fireman’s career wasn’t to be
Unless… you know the rest; I left his subconscious brain
To join the dots, never to hear of him, ever again…
Cave critters
As speleologists, cavers, we were plainly rank amateurs
Make it up as we went, risk entrepreneurs
Exploring blind, sometimes lost, and forgetting turns
Look back, recall the way out, the desperate soon learns.
One cave ‘ended,’ progress stopped, by a long crevasse
A steel cable, suspended pulley, haul yer ass across
We had no pulley, a butcher’s hook our only cheap device
Hanging via Swami belt, the friction, no progress suffice.
So we used to chimney down the narrow crack
Then walk the cravasse’s guano bottom track
Then, muddy feet, chimney back up at the other side
To enter more caves, branching up, down, far and wide.
Flowstones, stalactites and shawls, all sparkley white
Hairy Maries, (cave centipedes), and bats, loom into sight
Our simple Dolphin torches, gave about five hours’ light
And ‘cave breathing’ groaning noises occasionally gave fright.
One cave we stumbled upon, surprised at what we saw
Previous visitors, carelessly or otherwise, left peanuts on the floor
Next time they’d sprouted, geotropism, one inch tall
Two weeks later, translucent yellow, knee height one and all.
One cave had a thirty-metre, right-angled, tight ‘crawl’ tunnel
Shed helmet, torch etc. slither arms-first down entrance funnel
Your head side-on, push gear ahead, inching, not for the faint-hearted
Return trip same, hours later, stinking, if someone had farted!
Another cave’s entry, a metre-wide hole, chimney down forty-metre shaft
To a huge cavern, hundred metres long, five sink holes, very deep draft
Secure our rope, abseil down, then many choices to explore
My only regret, no camera, no photos, in those days, simply too poor.
One night (always went at night, warm in winter, cool in summer)
Abseiling down, my long hair caught in the sticht plate: bummer!
Thought: loosen rope, abseil further, pull loosened hair back out
Hair pulled in further, me bent over doubled-up, ‘I’m stuck!’ I shout.
Flick torch on, spy a chance, yell to two mates already at the bottom
One climbs other’s shoulders, to reach ledges, relieved to hear, ‘Got ‘im!’
Twenty metres up, I stand on his shoulders, frantically remove my hair
Hours later I prusik back up, at ‘life-saving’ ledges I humbly stare.
Two a.m., on my motorbike, cold, making my way back home
Car roars up, on my back wheel, I ‘squirt’ ahead, avoid the hoon syndrome
Car flashes up, prepared for the worst, I spy the POLICE door sign
Pull over, dismount, rapid-fire questions, they take the aggressive line.
They, the only car that I’d seen! Me the only vehicle that they’d seen
They’d spotted my caving clobber, backpack, time of night: ‘Where’s HE been?’
Keen interest, asked all about caving, chatted for quite a while
They thought I was a cat burglar, plying my trade with guile!
Disdain!
Nanna driving Kelly, then aged three
To the hospital, new brother to see
‘Nanna why don’t you have a baby too?’
‘Nanna’s too old, no longer can do.’
Silence for a bit, thoughts carefully laid
‘So why not Mummy’s sister?’ age connection made
‘Babies need a Daddy, no man in her life.’
‘Why not her brother then, she’d be his wife?’
‘Girls can’t marry brothers, but stiil need a man.’
‘But what’s the man do, if that is the plan?’
‘He adds a tiny piece, to make a new bubby.’
Quiet contemplation, thoughts now troubley.
‘I know a baby grows, in the Mummy’s belly.’
‘But how does it get in there, to grow all swelly?’
‘Well Mummy’s got an egg, waiting there inside,’
‘For the Daddy’s bit, to make it decide.’
More ruminations, dreading next to hear
‘How’s the Daddy’s bit get in?’ Realised fear.
‘Umm…’ Confirming with her answer: Nanna’s got the ‘sillies’
Dismissive of her nonsense: ‘Oh Nanna… Willies!’
Respect
Was walking up stairs to class one day
Books in hand, recalling what and when to say
When a full-bodied spit, lobbed onto my head
Looked up, spied culprit, ran up the rest instead.
Grabbed the lad roughly, by the collar
Pushed against wall, lectured him, on scholar
Sent to the office and forgot all about it
When he left school, he’d stop and chat, quite a bit.
Two decades later, a mate phoned me up
Was coming up north, to help fence or shtup
A mate’s new hobby farm just down the road
Come and catch up, with drink I will goad.
I drive to the fence line, get outta the car
Blokes drilling post holes, stretching wire, near and far
“Isn’t that young such n such?” I say to George
“Yeah, at smoko, just now, he did disgorge.”
Said when at school, he’d spat on your head
All four of them spitting, got you instead
Was secretly pleased to see what you did
‘Cos at the time, you throttled the wrong kid!
The last old cutter
Drove into Strahan, mid-afternoon
Gestated rain clouds, cold-front ‘monsoon’
No rooms for rent, so put up the tent
Met old-timer, good yarns, time well spent.
Took some beers, him wheelchair bound
Life story, a treasure, as I found
At age fourteen, his life’s work started
The last Huon pine cutter now departed.
Rowed his boat, clinker-built, heavy
Up harbour, Macquarie: rough, tidal levy
Then up the Franklin, Gordon, cold counter currents
With regular cold fronts, oft-flooding torrents.
Steep-sided gorges, deluge, no chance to spread
The recurrent floods, nature’s dread
But for Huon Pine, choice moist habitat
Fine silt mud, ‘intertidal’ zone flat.
Very slow growing, extremely long-lived
Huon’s survival, chemicals, phloem tube sieved
Poisons residual, its timber the best
Boat-building treasure, no rot, nil pest.
Old Bernie toiled, in this cold damp clime
Hauled the boat, waist deep in rapids, sapping time
Camped in steep forest, a tarp, a billy
A camp fire for warmth, privations willy-nilly.
The trees were felled with cross-cut saw
De-branched and topped, as well, before
Hauled into river flow, with block and tackle
To float downstream, caught in log-jam shackle.
With enough logs, after weeks of work
Row miles downstream, rope log-raft cirque
Drift out-going tide, down to Strahan
Where sawmill, from logs: timber, fiddleback born.
He spoke with awe, of the beauty of Lake Pedder
Oxbows avoided, boat dragged up mountain, then down sledder
Flood retreats, up forested hillside
Once seventy feet, forced two-week reside.
But the cold, the cramped, harsh energy spent
Arthritis crippled, limbs stiffly bent
Decades of work, the end of rowing boaters
Came new-fangled things, called outboard motors!
Major look, ya silly chook
Was out in the boat, driver training this day
Read riot act, students onshore, behaviour: Stay!
Saw one boy running, diving through long grass
Thought when I get back, I’ll kick his arse.
Reprimand ready, packing boats to go, I saw him working
A plump red chook, tucked under one arm, smirking
“Caught it in the long grass, Sir, I’m taking it home!”
Said, “I’ll hypnotize it, you can work, it won’t roam.”
They thought I was joking, but soon gathered round
Dismayed, chook laid on its back, on the ground
Brought my finger down slowly, between its eyes
No touch, just calm withdrawal, straight, then rise.
Repeating this roughly circular, finger-tip motion
A chook will freeze, entranced, without any notion
The restraining hand’s gone, it’ll lay on its back
Hypnotized, ‘til woken by, a sharp noise, clap or whack.
Students all pissed themselves, disbelieving gawks
Then I clapped and woke it, took off with squawks
Boys diving, air swings, skinned knees, but re-caught
Most surprised, them or chook, at the lesson taught?
History interrupted, gone
Went to the War Museum, Boulder-Kalgoorlie, in for a surprise
Little old building, glass-top cabinets, full of ghostly cries
Letters from the trenches, to partners, parents, girlfriend
Factual, larrikin, pining; lovingly, chillingly, fading ink penned.
Museums and archives are filled with detailed documents
Letters: personal and official, preserved hand-written testaments
Events political, expressed opinions, intimate love and relationships
History’s nuance, personal, mundane, stuff of yesteryear’s comic scripts.
Then digital disruption: letters now text, email, pics and phone calls
Numerous but ephemeral importance, deleted as storage space falls
And lost forever as devices die, upgraded, stolen, lost or dumped
History erased, none to display, culture’s future introspections bumped.
Hindsight
Bullied and bashed throughout my childhood
Narcissist father who never should
Had the favour of my long-suffering mother
Servile life to an abusive drunk’s smother.
Speaking up, a defiant slow learner
Abuse and flogging, a regular earner
Never, not once, heard the word ‘love’
The scars remain, from the iron glove.
To adulthood some issues, unrealised
Subconscious, not maleavolent, but still despised.
But self-education, awareness, steadfast wife
Self-improvement, the real me, a better life.
Can ya believe it?
Some people suffer chronic disease
Others by accident, maimed with ease
Some are burdened with refugee status
But we’ve got unlucky catastrophe conflatus.
Some people homeless, struggle to survive
Others abused, sad memories revive
Some encumbered, for life, a huge arse
But us? Well we’ve got long grass!
Yarse, yarse, we’ve got long grass
All my fault, a pain in the arse.
So I puts on me hat, (early warning device)
When the sky is falling, best health advice
Been away two months, now all forlorn
Lo the dawn, go mow the f’n lawn!
Start the mower, knee-deep in grass
Cough, splutter, it died in the arse
Carby Jets, filters, all choked up
Out with the tools, mechanical checkup.
Yarse, yarse, we’ve got long grass
Pressure is on, hope it starts.
Strewth! Plastic carby fixed to fuel tank
Remove starter, linkages, and ignition bank
Cowling, crankcase breather and two head bolts
Just to clean jets! Designed by dolts.
Engine fired, see Dearest: “Long grass gone.”
“Stupid bastard, you’re always wrong!
Still there, needs raking, now it’s shorn,
And all that’s left is dull brown lawn!”
It came to pass, I mowed the long grass
Unlucky in life, with sparse lawn farce…
Old Laurie
Camped at McGowans, North Kimberley coast, fish and oysters aplenty
Went into town, Kalumburu, sought traditional owner’s identity
To seek permission, to camp further north, up near Old Pago mission
Town Clerk’s office, said see old Laurie, ask him his favoured position.
Silver-haired fella, three score n twelve, old by Indigenous standard
But cheeky by nature, I liked him at once, like old fiends we chatted, candid
‘Til slimy white bloke, the bishop, it seems, sat beside us eavesdropping
Laurie’s elder status, what business with stranger? Snooping never stopping.
A spark, respect, he piqued my interest, I asked to return to chat
And not a week later, we sat on the ground, two hours we did just that
But the day before that, fish no lack, back to town for supplies
Found a conspiracy, pack of lies, to our disgust, not surprise.
Got into town, church fuel station, Irishman came to serve me
Paper-white skin, accent so thick, here one week, the heat be
All he could bear, something not right, silently thought, what secrets?
Brought such a bloke, to a place like this, whose future regrets?
Then on to the… “Shop closed,” big town meeting
Slimy Bishop, to crowd, microphone bleating
Saw shopkeeper lonesome, stood under tree
Went over, “Goin’ on mate?” Reply really riled me.
His town council’s only shop closing, surely sent broke
Cos Bishop started “Takeaway,” flocked customers stoke
Bellies: deep fries, battered sav trans fats, two litre coke
At prices exorbitant: heart attack, diabetes, and stroke!
The town store stocked, a fair range of goods, considering its remoteness
Frozen meat cuts, vegetables, fruit, most with reasonable freshness
All that’s needed, to cook decent meals, but the sneaky takeaway con
Hissed Bishop Slimy: “Open only meal times, no competition. Come on!”
Shopkeeper said, town shop profit, was to bitumen the main street
Now never happen, all town profits going, hoovered, in order to meet
Church targets, investments, directives, issued from down south
No care, concern, not one cent returned, to one single hungry mouth.
But Laurie was born, at old Pago Mission, long, since, abandoned
His people from here, rescued overland, bombed “Koolama” crew stranded
Said during same war, Kalumburu airstrip, launched bombing raids: Timor, occupied
Japanese knew, Darwin too far, for fuel range, return distance plied.
So Japs tailed the bombers, to find their home base, then returned with bombs of their own
Destroyed the town, killing Laurie’s brother, future intentions shown
The bombers blown, not one single bomb, on runway, left undamaged
Laurie’s people fled the war, bushtucker-filled bellies, the old ways, not disadvantaged.
But regained his “white” life, found a wife, extended family, estates
And once a month, to Darwin he’d fly, a few beers, laughs, old mates
With mischievious grin, said don’t eat too many, my oysters will fill your pencil
And many a chuckle, we shared in the dirt, his humour wicked, wilful.
As we talked, the old ladies sat, a circle, card game entangled
And across the road, a basketball game, young gun’s attire be-spangled
Long baggy shorts, USA shirts, baseball caps backwards, just so
Said, “These kids learn old ways, bushtucker?” Paused, looked sad, said, “Slow…”
What odds…?
Went out to the rock place, on the other side of the river
The Ord, Kunnunurra, my petrology hope to deliver
A piece of local rock, ancient, pre-dinosaur, sedimentary
Polished samples on display, colours, evidentiary.
Bloke said,’Out the back mate, take yer time, your pick.’
A yard of rocks and boulders, a nice one now the trick
Finally found one, football size, took it back inside
‘Where’d ya get this?’ like I’d done something snide.
‘This is some of our good stuff, not usually for sale but,
Your eagle eyes found it, my mouth I’ll have to shut.’
He put it on his diamond saw, cut a piece clean off
Wetness showed the colours, observors’ eyes to quaff.
Took it home, intentions sown, ‘One day I’ll carve a shape.’
Years later, replumbed the sink, three tap holes now agape
‘I know, that Kimberley rock, the cut-off piece will do!’
Shaped it, glued it over holes, a shelf with patterned hue!
Sealant as clear lacquer to highlight age-old colours
And there it was! The most brilliant of exposures
Whole fossilized prawn, complete in sagital section
Wafer thin, a random cut, revealed it in perfection.
Went to look at the other cut face, on the bigger piece
There’s not a trace, or a smudge, or skeletal crease
Saw blade thickness took it, turned it into dust
With odds like that, my store of luck, now surely bust!
Author’s note:
Two days after this poem I wrote
Forty-seven years’ driving to note
My first prang, three-car pile-up
Two written off, no small hiccup…
Little Vee
Cheeky baby, wants ebbysing
To her moufey, little hands bring
‘Miles and ‘miling, cheeky grin
Dribbley bubbles down her chin.
Chubsey legs, always kicking
Waving armsies, her sides slapping
Dorgeous baby sings little song
Like a squeaky balloon stretched long.
Cracks up loudly in her car seat
Likes sung songs, music’s beat
Tummy time’s boring, high chair’s cool
Can look about, grab toys and drool.
Outdoors dirl, likes garping about
When sweepsie time, she starts to shout
‘Nang nang’ now it’s time to dream
Belly full of milk and cream.
Dearest liddle sausage, learning fast
Roll over , sit up, reach and grasp
Wide awake, midnight, time to play
Blue eyes, belly laughs, our hearts melt away.
Unfinished business: living rent free
He came at me surly, angry as hell
The firetruck word at me he would yell
And in between spitting, kicking, punching the wall
It took me an hour, to get him to bawl.
Not to be mean, vindictive nor harsh
But to purge emotion, find reason to laugh
The core of his problem thus revealed
A mean bully step-dad, hate’s dividend yield.
I said, “Seems you don’t like this bloke.”
“I fuckin’ hate him,” he loudly spoke
“Gunna smash his fuckin’ brain, with an iron bar!”
The cue I’d sought, the door now ajar.
“You know, this person you hate most, by far
Is controlling you, your thoughts, interactions, who you are.”
“No he’s fuckin’ not!” “But mate he is, ‘cos see,
You’ve let him in your head; living there rent free.”
“He decides how you feel, angry, upset, everywhere, at his whim
Anytime, all the time, ‘cos you’ve chosen to let him.”
“How does it feel, to know the person most loathed
You’ve given the power, control, your mind, unclothed?”
Silence, but a grudging look of realised determination
To which I added: “Good news is your brain’s extrication
Is a simple thought-fumigation of habitual encrustation
Think three times a day, in two weeks a new habit, liberation!”
Within two days, he’d moved to a new home, friends
Changed his subjects, on which new career goal depends
And I know not today where/what he’s become,
But I’m sure, rent free in his mind, there is no-one.
And thus many a kid gained a future, emotive liberty
By dumping the lodger, living rent free
Young girls raped, angry and sad
A sex-abused boy, by his mum and step-dad.
Sometimes I knew not, what caused the problem
No matter, the hated, the solution still “Sod them!”
I will decide who lives in my head
Especially long after the controller is “dead.”
And one more clue, to help you as well
Snide people, toxic “friends,” competitors who sell
Behind your back, lies, false stories, attributed to you
In order to poison, of you, others’ view.
For valued relationships, consult, educate
For losers, ignore, draw pleasure, don’t obfuscate
‘Cos their ire, jealousy, envy, duplicitous false glee
Means comfort, you’re living, in their head, rent free!
But a thirteen old, when I asked: “How playing rugby helps?”
“I can legally hurt people; my anger it palps.”
Before I could help him, he left our school, me
I can’t help but wonder, who/where he is now? In me, rent free?
Fixed or foxed?
Countless things I’ve fixed, rebuilt, modified, improved
From engines, to appliances, electronics, the fault removed
Bad design, under-built components, or just wear
Fit new parts, make new improved bits, I don’t care.
Spotting a fried resistor, re-soldering a circuit board dry joint
Cutting a brass gear to replace a weak plastic point
With technical manual help, the right torque setting
Or welding a new part, re-wiring, better outcome getting.
I’ll have a go at most things, ‘cos I can look
Pull it apart, see the fault, consult a book
But it’s amazing how much you have to know, to grow
In order to now realise how little you know.
And increasingly so, with computers, software, digitisation
Control systems, mechatronics, miniaturisation
Hidden, no visible clue, to how things work or fail
Broken? Get a new one. Repair knowhow beyond the pale.
Terminology, high tech, this increasingly esoteric multiply
The mindset: Dunno, complete mystery, don’t even try
Opens the door to agnatologists, and snake oil quackery
Void filled by trickery and pseudoscience ‘doctoropathy.’
Said she, “Can you fix my car? The electric window has died.”
An hour to remove the posh door trim, no screws, click-tabs hide
“Oh, sorry, it’s the passenger door I meant!”
“Oh.” At least the other door’s German secrets I’d circumvent.
Inside the door, a world of its own engineering complexity
Electronic sensors, motorised locks, window, airbag perplexity
All I could do was check, ensure, the maze of wire connections
Re-assembled, tried it, no success, apologetic conniptions.
“Thanks for the repair!” “Sorry, did my best, beyond me.”
“No, it works fine now!” I’d used the wrong code key!
Thought: ‘Lucky you didn’t take it to the glitzy car dealer
Would’a scammed a thousand bucks, fake fault revealer…’
Good bombs? Too right…
The black basalt boulders, jutting from the rough red road
Shattered the tyre, ten plies, no match for the heavy load
Fitted a spare, checked boat, trailer, other vital supplies
Hundreds of Ks bush-bashing, minus one spare, patently unwise.
So pulled into Laura, hit the pub, quite late in the light of day
Two blokes said they’d fix it, to their shed, make yer way
One Indigenous, one ex-German, they were dressed in their very finest
Sat’day night, at the pub, on to-do list, importance, the highest.
They worked their arses off, slide hammer to break rusty bead
Sweat poured off them, new tube, used tyre, that I’d certainly need
When fitted, not one spot of dirt, on white shirts, that I spied
“How much?” I asked. “Gis forty bucks eh?” to which I replied,
“Mate, I’d pay thirty bucks at home, just for the re-newed tube”
But not a cent more would they take, just happy with gratitude
So I said, “I’ll sleep on the ground, behind the pub tonight
And I’ll shout you beers all night, OK…? to help to see you right.”
So we had a drink or two, and then some more… and some more
The German asked, my fishing target, my secret, what’s the score?
When I told him, he said with disdain, descriptive, dangerous display
He fished with bombs he made, and, “You know you’re going ze wrong way!”
He said he’d stand on safe high banks, and spot wary fish
Then light the bombs, throw them in, with a silent wish
Said with a laugh, but certain smug aplomb
“We Germans may haf lost ze war, but we make a fucking good bomb!”
Fifteen years, I reminisce later, when telling this story to a bloke
Who a year before had passed through country, of which, I had just spoke
Said he met an old German man, said sounded like my old mate
His right arm to the elbow, missing, a bomb, his reputed fate!
Heads up
Meat head, soft head, blonde head born
Shorn head, prickle head, hat head worn
Fat head, thin head, pin head seen
Dick head, piss head, shit head been
Bone head, big head, cock head called
Cool head, heavy head, weary head stalled
Boof head, bald head, fuck head never
Old head, sure head, wise head clever.
Styza
Skylie-mylie how are you?
Skylie-mylie, peek-a-boo
Turly locks, that she grew
All hair clips she, will undo
Will not wear a single shoe
Cheeky smile, and kisses blew
Off to bed, when sleepy Sue
Wakes up mostly, right on cue
Cranksey when, new toofie-pegs due
Her shyness soon, she outgrew
She call Nana! then Boo-boo
Mum, Dada, Didi, and Kek too
Skylie-mylie says, all words new
Like a parrot, like she knew
Multi-lingual, three languages true!
Parrot, Gabble-gabble and bossy-boots ensue!
Everything seen, she knows how to
Like zips and lids, she knows to unscrew
Pushing buttons without a clue
No bubba photo, chucks a blue
Skylie-mylie, hug benji-boo
From the mower, scared she flew
Skylie-mylie like, bubple to chew
Bapes, ham, cheese, but brekky don’t do
Skylie-mylie drink macca-boo
Bossy boots: denied her due
A dorgeous baby, her faults are few
When her nappy, smell like… phew!
Mitta-moo has done a poo!
But even so, we love you….
Nude fishin’
You paid fifteen bucks, per night for the key
To the gate, Theda Station, north Kimberley
Drive through, re-lock gate, then forty K drive
Bush track to Morgan River, Honeymoon Pool arrive.
The gorge enters the pool via a perfect rock waterslide
The pool fringed by Pandanus, shady, long and wide
The name, isolation, the ambience, screams romance, rude
So we spent our days there, relaxed, completely nude.
Wearing only our North Queensland safety boots (rubber thongs)
We rock-hopped all the way (forgot our hats; nongs!)
To the top of the gorge, to the rocky escarpment
Where the river, five waterfalls, tunnels entered its torrent.
Caught three nice barramundi, more than enough
Poor wife, smashed up every time, did it tough
Left the walk home late, last K in the dark, no light
Top of the waterslide, unsighted, wife gave her lure one last flight
Good fish hit, couldn’t pull it in, felt along the line to my dismay
She’d cast up over the rock face, in a blind-arc way
So I shed the rubberies, crawled up in the dark, following the line
Disentangled it, she reeled it in, another barra landed fine.
Fresh fish for dinner, cold beers, French profiteroles in the camp oven
Life couldn’t be sweeter, night sky, camp fire sloven
Sweet dreams, the waterslide babble, then early morn sunrise
The gorge rocks reflected, the very air coloured, brilliant orange surprise.
Our days ended, clothes on, return to reality jade fade
Photos developed, me starkers at top of a gorge cascade
Wife got a black felt pen, drew on a pair of dick stickers
Could die happy tomorrow, but not showing those city slickers.
Professor Longhair
Explaining liferaft survival techniques, to a Marine class this day
When a girl asked, “Sir why wear your hair, long, in that way?”
Said, “I grew up in the sixties, hippie era, with flowers in our hair
Everything groovy, make love, not war, and always play it fair.”
Explained my generation was going to change things
Save the planet, protect the environment, shrink poverty rings
But… the reality is, my generation made things worse
Many times worse, at us, our kids’ kids would curse.
My generation had grown bald, fat and rich
At others’ cost, with excuses, lies to pitch
So my long hair was my protest, point of difference
They all stood, applauded, spontaneous, me, thus chuffed, hence.
Then in addition, to them I gave, some sage advice and stuff:
If you keep the same haircut, for long enough
So far behind the times, soon you will be
Always ten years, ahead of the world, they’ll plainly see.
School reunions
She walked right up to me, with no hesitation
Apologised profusely, her behaviour, end probation
Thanked her sincerely, but assured her that, at age forty-five
No need to dwell on things, I’d forgotten, to revive.
She questioned about school, kids, problems today
In hindsight, my answers gave her confidence to say
The cause, her behaviour, was sex-abuse since infancy
The reason for daughters, “father” told her, evil infamy.
As adult, tried to prosecute, her mother refused witness
A double betrayal, final straw, for her mental fitness
Caused life in/out of hospitals, severe depression
But now on top of things, married, daughter, happy expression.
I apologised sincerely, my ignorance, beginning teacher
Aware, strategies, kids helped, I now could’ve reached her
We hugged, we both cried, but she assured me that
They were tears of happiness, relieved, cathartic, our chat.
Now in her same science class, way back then
And present, same reunion, together again
Was a doctor, teacher, engineer, lawyer, successful businessmen
All of whom she beat, in science exams, most often.
Except for times, no study, “Dad” in her bed
Injustice aside, she could’a been anything, real Dad instead
She gave me permission, gladly, to retell her story
Same hope as me, help other kids, denied life’s glory.
To happier times, another cohort’s reunion
Post-dinner, night clubbing, my wife and three women
Same lovely girls when at school, successful adults
Told us their story, with alcohol’s impulse.
Came back to their hometown, a week before
So much to catch up, relive, compare score
Brought old school diaries each, spent the whole day
Drinks, paged memories, read day by day, come what may.
First girl read with horror, ‘Had sex with X’, OMG!
Second one dismayed, hesitated, embarrassed to see
Same day, same stud, had sex with me!
Third girl reneged, “Not reading mine, was absentee!”
“No, no, we made a pact, we all agreed
No matter what, each day we would read.”
A wrestle ensued, diary forcibly possessed
Lo and behold, same day, same X… you know the rest!
Seems Romeo, same story, had conned them all
Claimed girlfriend had dumped him, a forlorn call
Rest of day plotting, sweet revenge’s fitting downfall
Would liked to have been there, a fly on the wall.
Yet another venue/ year-level group, I went out the back
To yarn with the smokers’ club, missing from the pack
Bloke said to me, “Remember that time you threw me outta class?”
I’d forgotten, apologised, “I shouldn’a done that, alas.”
Been giving me lip, sitting near the door, a pest
Grabbed him by shoulders, lifted, hauled him over desk
Placed him upright, on his feet, on the veranda
Him pale, silent, his insults no longer to pander.
He said, “No, no mate, don’t apologise, it’s all good
Best thing that happened to me, woke up, as I should!”
Floored me a bit, just for a second
A “kick up the arse,” sometimes the best weapon.
Reunions, old unions, they are the most fun
To see former students, success they’ve become
The hard work, challenges, stress takes its toll
Scarce rewards, the adult product, prides the soul.
The leaf
Hitching a ride, one hot afternoon
Old Falcon wagon, stopped pretty soon
Walked to the window, seats choc-a-block full
“Sure you got room?” “Yeah mate, no bull.”
All six descendants, from the Kuku Yalanji tribe
Passed round flagon, me, sixteen, to imbibe
Half rum, half sherry, it sure had some kick
We stopped at a river, “Rest up for a tick.”
We talked of their families, names, their places
Nice blokes, generous, their cheeky faces
Easy to like, their yarns, their nature
Stark contrast, the public, their perceived stature.
Old Herb then played some songs on ‘the leaf’
I asked, “Could ya teach me?” To my relief
“Easy, come in the bush,” showed me the tree
Right leaf to take, age-wise, after a pee.
Back to camp, sat back on the ground
Showed how to tongue the leaf, right way round
Pissed themselves laughing, hooting at me
Music, not fart noises, easy as can be.
Handshakes, “Thanks blokes,” time that I left
Hitch into town, before the Sun went down west
“Nah mate, we’ll drop ya, we got to take John.”
“His bandage, the hospital, we won’t be long gone.”
So we jumped in the car, drove into town
Told them, “This’ll do,” pointed, “My place just down…”
Stopped, got out, “Thanks blokes,” sadly waved ‘Bye’
They turned round, drove straight back, no hospital go by!
A rum deal
Climbed up out of gorge, Karrijini, Pilbara, late in the day
Vehicle, camp trailer, new visitors, parked just down the way
He sat on a post, her some distance away, “This pair are blueing.”
Wife: “How so?” Said, “Check the non-verbals, both are stewing.”
“How’s it goin’ mate?” as we walked past to camp
“Not real good, trailer’s broke, can’t fix or revamp.”
“Give me a yell, some bits I’ve got, may be of help.”
He came over later, offer accepted: “I’m a self-help whelp.”
Looked at the trailer, chassis rail, spring hanger torn out
So got him to wire two batteries, series, more volts to flout
While I taped welding glass in hole cut out of stubbie carton
Re-aligned hanger, and welded it, strong and more spartan.
He said, “Do you like a rum? We’ll have one or two.
My mate’s distillery, Kununurra, his new first brew.”
Sat in cool night, sipped Milky Way view, their lights went out
So hit the sack, tomorrow’s gorge: Handrail to scout.
Packed, leaving, he came to apologise, wife sick
Offered half-litre of rum, but warned me to stick
To a single nip, as un-cut, absolute, ninety-six percent
Showed me bottles, labelled, wax-sealed, autograph indent.
Asked my travel plans? “Heading south, no timetable.”
“We’re between Busselton, Bunbury, drop in, stay, if able.”
Wife gave phone numbers, written on a card
Said thanks, goodbyes, an offer not to disregard.
Some time later, camped opposite Dirk Hartog, Shark Bay
Virtual desert, limestone, plastic water tank leaking. Dismay!
Patch kit instructions: ‘Clean glued area with strong solvent first.’
The rum! Unknown, un-tasted, submersed, we’ll not die of thirst.
Awoken that night, one a.m. metal scraping sounds, rapid
Mice! Chewing, stove-side against, pistachios, sapid
Light on, down from bed, wife: instructions, “Over there!”
“No, here! No… Two of them!” Squashed one, other returned lair.
Water tank fixed, rum did the job, reading, later next morning
Fact sheet on wildlife, rare pebble mound mouse, warning:
Endangered (oops! now more so… ) guessed snakes round campfire
Not bread cooked in camp oven, but plump mice they inquire.
Bunbury, month or two later, phoned landline number
No answer. Operator: dis-used CBD line, in disconnect slumber
Tried mobile, got stranger, no clue, no idea, no relation
Figured I’d been bumped, expectation deflation.
So off to the bluesfest, Bridgetown on Blackwood
Town booked out, so riverside road-end camp made good
Lo and behold, who drove into campground next door?
A camptrailer, same welded chassis, same Landcruiser I saw!
Went over to window, “Tried ringing you pair!”
She, chin down on chest, plainly guilty by stare
He told me he’s known to go rank, on the rum
So ‘missus’ conspired to circumvent, overcome!
The Game
We hear it all over, time and again
Bullied victims, their tales of woe
Of lives stressed, ruined, psychological pain
Themselves, friends and family, tears to flow.
With workplace, private lives, text, internet
Nothing’s sacrosanct, with cyber access
Bullies find ways, to get cruel needs met
Victims unknowingly, help their success.
So what motivates bullies? Nastiness? Hate?
They mostly get a kick, out of seeing a victim
Show a reaction: fear, anger, upset at the bait
By responding : a look, emotion, a reply, some dictum.
The bullying game always needs two
Bully, victim, that’s rule number one
No victim, no game, so minus you
To stop the game, before it’s begun.
But how? you say, such upsetting taunt
Ask yourself first, are they actually true?
And whether or not, who cares? Don’t daunt
Hold your nerve, don’t respond, don’t give a clue.
The bully’s response, that you won’t play the game?
They’ll try harder, up the ante on you
But harden your resolve, no response, the same
Keep calm absent hue, the bully’s best due.
But how, you say, when you’re angry, upset?
To you I’ll say, here’s rule number two:
No-one can make you angry, upset, mind beset
Unless you choose to let them; and if you do,
You’ll let them decide, how you feel
They’ve won the game, you’ve lost, so ask
Who should decide, how I feel, then deal
But ignore the bully; how will they feel? Your task.
They’ll be pissed off: you won’t play the game
Who’s won then? Yes! I thought you’d be pleased.
It’s really that simple, ignore their aim
Don’t play the game, bully gone, crisis eased.
Bullies are good, at reading hot buttons
The right ones to push, to goad your anger
Lab rats learn buttons, become reward gluttons
Outsmart the lab rats: ignore the angler.
To many a person, I’ve taught this lesson
The bully, to live in your mind, rent-free, otherwise
A habit to break, anger, response obsession
Winning the game, by simply not playing, to, their teasing lies.
One angry boy who used to hurl chairs around
Priceless grin, when I taught him, the game understood
Saw him hugging a boy, as I walked the playground
‘Pressed his buttons sir, explained the game, now making it good!’
And one final warning, for you to pass on
Don’t waste your brain cells, on hate and spite
It’s like you swallowing some poison
And expecting them to die overnight.
Treated by a mushroom
I went out on a boat tour, to an island denuded
Of plague rats and possums, where Kiwis breed, secluded
Tour guide spoke matter of fact, but, mostly bullshit
Of nature, false observations, he was surely full of it.
Near a nice beach, to my delight and surprise
Amanita mushrooms, from Christmas cards I’d recognize
White stem, bright red capsule, dappled with white spots
The origin of Santa Claus, not widely known by lots.
The shamans of cold Lapland, used in times of old
Psychoactive ‘fly Agaric,’ for wise visions to unfold
Many died of overdose: how much to consume?
Then discovered reindeers, ate them sans doom.
Only noticed side-effect, a bright red-coloured nose
But not so much, the song suggests, in the dark it glows!
So shamans ate yellow snow, reindeer piss, safe dose
Enough to alter mind-state, experience to engross.
Reputed main sensations, descended from their high
Everything bright red, while flying high in night sky
So someone wrote a song, Rudolph, fact-based fantasy
Now commercial racket, red Santa’s sleigh heresy.
Don’t think the poor tour guide, liked being upstaged
But bet today, any Amanita, my story, will be engaged
But you must now be careful, of this truth to tell
‘Cos little kids’ excitement, of Santa, you’d dispel.
Sewing’s for so and so’s
Teacher was absent, so I went to take her class
A sewing lesson, twelve year-old boys, hmmm… potential farce
Looked at the machines, faces behind them
Twenty past eight looks, not happy, solemn.
‘By the looks on your faces, you blokes don’t want to be here.’
‘We hate sewing!’ said one boy with a sneer.
‘I don’t know, I reckon sewing’s a really handy skill.’
Their expressions told me I was pushing it uphill.
‘Who’s on turtle… who’s on rabbit?’ various hands went up
‘Never learned sewing, but jobs I’ve done, it’s a really good back-up.’
‘Like what?’ said a boy with a skeptical tone
Daring me to respond, expecting academic drone.
‘My motorbike seat fell to bits, so I bought some vinyl.’
‘Used the old one, cut a pattern, sewed it, perfect fit final.’
‘I sewed the upholstery, made my own sunken lounge.’
‘I’ve sewed sails, re-covered chairs, car seats with what I could scrounge.’
Now on a roll, with the odd impressed look
‘I’d say any bloke who can’t sew is just a man-sook!’
Sullen-faced boy up the back said, ‘My Dad can’t sew!’
Oops! Found out his Dad was the head bikie gang so and so!
Ode to the old broad
When a woman grows old
And the skin doth fold
With wrinkles and lines of character,
When the urge to scold
In a manner so bold
And a temper that flares like an actor.
Possessed with gloom, pretty soon I’m thinking
I’m in, for a “kitchen sinking”
First my obvious genetic flaws,
And faults due, to said inlaws
Then, my fragile, human weaknesses
Plus all my misdeeds, that she witnesses.
She looks for perfection, compliance inspection
Fault-finding’s her constant, special detection
Kissing is spurned, with romance rejection
She’s allergic to any, type of affection
It’s just not fair, this getting old,
Regrets and memories all to hold
As the hair goes grey and you fart all day
And sometimes in, a very public way…
“They’ll think it’s you”, I bet she’ll say.
I watch her when she’s unaware
My heart melts, says she, “What’s with the stare?”
“Can if I like,” my standard reply
The power of love, the reason why.
She cooks nice meals
Her health advice heals
With a heart of gold
Good intentions to keep
When I’m constantly told:
Go the fuck to sleep!
No noise, not even a peep
Pretend I will, now counting sheep.
I let her think she’s got all the power
I wear the pants, when she’s in the shower
But at the end of the day
And come what may
She’s been my constant companion
With commitment; despite the odd sanction.
The woman I love
We go hand in glove
And for all that she does
As a mother just because
She develops not a cynical blinker,
But remains yet a youthful thinker.
So, as the old broad grows older
Beauty in the eye of beholder,
I think I’ll hold ‘er, she’s a keeper I thinks
And not just because of her tiddlywinx.
The final cut
Years ago, as memories go, a mate and I and his girlfriend
Decided to find, our fortunes mined, for sapphire, our days to spend
As a dirt-poor student, own welfare impudent, I’d ventured to sleep on the ground
When elderly residents, generously provident, gave veranda space unbound.
Lo the dawn, prospects forlorn, at the thought of a stockman’s breakfast
A spit, a piss, and naught to miss, with cursory glance-around repast
Hi ho! Hi ho! To work we go, with shovel, pick and sieve
We scoured, we toiled, our efforts foiled, as nature failed to give.
Return to “camp,” with hurricane lamp, our “neighbours” sprung a surprise
A dinner proffered, gratitude offered, their life story: we sipped their apprise
But their biggest lament, unemployment, his job, school bus driver deposed
When we asked why, his sad reply, the school teacher’s left, school’s closed.
Of teacher we inquired, of what conspired, to make her leave so early
With school year just started, the reason departed, was bush lore hurly burly
An eager city girl, arrived to a sudden whirl, of country dinners nightly
Each station homestead, filled her head, stories of dread, big spiders, snakes unsightly.
School’s first day, she made her way, to the toilet, first recess
With piercing scream, poor girl was seen, to run in state of undress
Across the road, to workers bowed, with shovel, tar, plate packer
“Help! Help!” they heard her yelp, “A snake has bitten my clacker!”
With earnest renown, they lay her down, her privates eagerly scanned
And sure enough, all red and rough, two puncture marks did stand
So calloused hand, at urgent command, with knife proceeded to cut
To cause to bleed, the poison to cede, from her delicate pale butt.
Then one thinking man, with incisive plan, to the toilet, he went to seek
The snake’s identity, venom’s propensity, medical aid’s critique
To his surprise, then able to surmise, the poor girl’s probable fate
Subconscious mind, snake stories defined, her horror to pre-date.
School closed for summer, no flushing comer, the toilet bowl dried up
Then entered girl, in one smooth twirl, close door, skirt up, undies down, back up
Then on the throne, realised groan, at snake bite’s instant pain
Not seen but felt, new nest it dwelt, a chook! defends its domain.
So obviously shamed, her butt inflamed, and seen by all and sundry
Her self esteem whacked, her bags all packed, her future seeming tawdry
Understandably upset, needs unmet, no comfort with locals’ pity
No one could blame, nor seek to shame, when she went back to the city.