Thursday 19 December 2013

© At It Again



© At It Again


At a pinch it should be a cinch to gain your trust, just one more time.
At the annual general meeting, although it was fleeting, clearly there was shift in the paradigm
At a discreet table, she was more than able to run her hand along his thighs.
At the turnstile, she turned and smiled; the girl with the kaleidoscopic eyes. 
At the touch of her lips the prince became a frog and found a hollow log to croak in, so blue.
At a fork in the road was an ugly cane-toad that paused on the way to the heart of Kakadu.
At risk of adversity are the tenets of biodiversity; throw out the baby with the bath water.
At least you can see I went to university and learnt how to render a rather mixed metaphor.
At any price, we strive to keep things nice so dig up the coal; to hell with the reef!
At world’s end we can blame the other side; Lord, their crocodile tears are beyond belief.
At barbeques aplenty there are arguments that gently debunk the facts, whilst others bury heads. Say...
At risk of sounding churlish, boorish or truculent, ma’m you look quite succulent in those threads.
At present indications although the risks are many, we’ll save the economy before we spend a penny.
At length I said, ‘Have you rocks inside your head? Who cares when you’re dead and not getting any?’   

At the break-up party, I was feeling hale and hearty, when the casual conversation took a sinister turn.
At the epicentre, our muse and mentor was wallowing in self pity ‘cause the fools will never learn.
At the coast in Coolangatta, at the Track of Oodnadatta, there’s a sense it doesn’t matter what tomorrow holds.
At a fuchsia in my garden, there’s a parrot – no ‘beg pardon’ is feasting on the nectar held in the flower’s folds.
At such close range, it feels rather strange to know that their beauty is just a passing illusion.
‘At Eternity’s Gate’ is a painting by Van Gogh; a late model of the master’s art before his sad conclusion.
At home with my partner I’m content to wash the dishes, pay the rent or feed the fishes, whatever – here’s the list.
At first sight does love exist; at first light should we end this tryst? Oh but you’re so naughty, slap on wrist!
At her beck and call, through the junque shoppes we do trawl amazed at the bargains that are within.
At in French is à – my little pigeon, a most important preposition also meaning ‘to’ and ‘in’.
At the third stroke...I was feeling somewhat flustered and I admit that I just came all undone!
At what age should I stop acting childish? Most likely, when my funeral service has just begun.
At the start of this poem, verse, doggerel – what you will; I said that you could trust me –did I not?
At the conclusion of the ‘at’ trilogy, I offer a soliloquy – mutters: trust me... It’s another anagram you clot!

Wednesday 27 November 2013

(C) Mural



(C) Mural

A Muralist Mexicano was José Orozco whose style révolutionnaire was Symbolist Manifesto. (C)

Despite losing his left hand in Zapotlán el Grande, José raised the level of art el Hispano.

Diego Rivera married to Frida, painted murals in Moscow, Mexico, San Francisco.

Frida did the foxtrot and things that she should not with Leon Trotsky; including the tango.

In the Sistine Chapel - Adam, Eve and the apple, were adorned on the ceiling by Michelangelo.

Whilst the walls of the Sistine were covered with pristine panels of Moses by Ghirlandaio.

Sandro Botticelli, Perugino and many more muralists did pluralist work there also.

And ‘The Temptation’ by Rust is considered a must after passing through Ragley Hall’s portico.

Cave paintings at Lascaux, Altamira and Chauvet are the original murals painted so long ago.

These frescoes were admired, and also inspired street artists like Banksy and … Pablo Picasso.

Murals in Northern Ireland are politically wired, religiously conspired and aggressively so,

To inflame deep held passions and prejudice fashioned to turn men into robots; so aggro.



But a mural is not always a durable record of humanity’s ills in the world that we know.

Modern graffiti, in the towns and the cities, is often removed after only one show.

What constitutes art? The critics are polarised when structures are vandalised by false bravado.

“Mural mural on the wall, who’s the bravest of them all”? The silent catchcry is incommunicado.

Da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper’ - unarguably the uppermost example of the mural but not true fresco.

Down through the centuries, armoury to penitentiary, the painting’s condition has waned to and fro.

French troops threw rocks at it, prisoners spat at it, a doorway cut through where Christ’s feet should go.

Finally, Dan Brown’s pot-boiler produced one last spoiler – John became Mary, oh woe Leonardo!

The Last Supper’s  restoration fires the imagination, stimulates senses, and strokes the ego,

Of artists such as Banksy, who like ‘Widow Twankey’ uses satire, ridicule and innuendo.

The mural is not a cure-all, or graffiti all excreti; it seems that a compromise is not going to flow.

There’s a difference in implements: charcoal and crayon pencil to spray-can and stencil, although…

Beauty’s in the beholder and now that I’m older, I’ll just sit on a boulder and feel the wind blow.

© Memories of Cracker Night



© Memories of Cracker Night

 I don’t regret exploding all those bungers up an elm tree.
We ran away, my mate and me and laughed so merrily.
But my father, in a lather, took a rather stringent view.
For I’d set the tree on fire and dire consequence ensued.

I’d set the mini dynamite in a portion of the girth,
With the consistency of a tinderbox that was drier than the earth.
Dad came running with bucket of water, then resorted to a hose.
The smoke was growing thicker; it was quicker I suppose…

Than to call for the local fire brigade; I laid low for awhile,
It was clear I was in trouble but still I couldn’t help but smile.
Once the fire was extinguished, in anguish, I reappeared,
Dad had called to me repeatedly now his wrath was unimpaired.

He boxed me ‘round the ears and he used some colourful speech.
He tanned my backside with every item close within his reach!
And finally he confiscated all of my remaining stash;
‘Chopped them up in tiny pieces and then dowsed the final ash.  

So no more Catherine wheels, sparklers or the dreaded bunger...
Was I allowed; my dad avowed to deprive me but I hunger,
Still to relive the thrill, that excitement in the belly,
When you blow up stuff...enough! Now I watch it on the telly!

On New Year’s Eve we watch the pyrotechnics on the harbour.
The colours are so dazzling, entrancing and spectacular.
But something is still missing from the wondrous huge display,
‘Eternity’ burns upon the bridge and senility’s on its way.    

(c) Memories




(c) Memories

As I look down my corridor of memories,
I’m pleased to say I’ve made more friends than enemies,  
This is very surprising as I’ve made many mistakes,
There have been rifts in the family causing much heartache.
Astonished I am that I’m now sixty something;
It appears I’m a survivor, not ripe yet for gazumping!
Two thousand and twelve marks my diamond jubilee
In Terra Australis, in terror paralysis, my earliest memory:  


I dimly recall watching the waves and feeling the sea spray,
Six weeks on a migrant ship, Scotland now so far away.
East from Gibraltar and across the warm Mediterranean Sea,
Through the Suez Canal, close to Mesopotamia were we.
Down the tropical Red Sea to the Gulf of Aden
Left to Sri Lanka then called Ceylon; we were laden...  
With elephants carved from an ebony tree,
Mother said, “We had the most amazing pot of tea”.
We went ashore at Colombo long having been on board,
Soon crossed the equator, where, King Neptune gave accord!
Then South-East for many weeks across the Indian Ocean,
To dock in at Fremantle; there was much emotion.
Australia at last, yet so far still to go, when do we alight?
Like an albatross in flight, we spanned the Great Australian Bight.
And put in at Melbourne and met some strange relations,
But we were bound for Sydney town: our penultimate destination.
From there we travelled to the Blue Mountains, finally relief.
Arriving in July fifty two, the Fahrenheit was too: a new home in Blackheath.  

© Legally Annoyed



© Legally Annoyed


A little baby in distress, from an Asian family no less, makes a mockery of the concept of a ‘quiet carriage’ on the train. Many people complained, couldn’t hear when speaking on their mobile phones – perhaps it hasn’t been explained properly to her in dulcet tones; but is it legal?  

Blind justice – the ability to split hairs or pull a rabbit out of a sack, or turn back boats, buy them or hide them; whoops, sorry – keep it quiet, don’t want a riot. We decide who comes to this country and the way in which it shall be reported; otherwise the news becomes distorted.
As they say, ‘ignorance is bliss’.   The adults are now running the show (so they claim), so no-one else to blame. Best to check with Frank, George or Rupert; it would be stupid otherwise to spread more ‘lies’, sorry (again!) I meant propaganda. Oh dear, how politically incorrect of me – must I genuflect to thee or pander to your whims? Truly, boatpeople may not be Christians, but for the most part, they’re not crims – but is it legal?  

Turning to bigger boats, whatever happened to Clive’s votes? No doubt there has been a military conspiracy. Then again, is it a gigantic stuff-up (a technical term) of titanic proportions? One cautions restraint; politics isn’t for the faint hearted or the newly departed. Does one detect the smell of a burning martyr? Try a little palm oil to ease the malaise or try to think up ways to control the senate. How could it possibly generate such an unholy alliance? Be you Coalition or Labor, it’ll be hard to curry favour with this motley crew. You should have voted below the line, one hundred and ten more times – but was it legal?

When shopping in Africa is on the agenda, keep your wits about you when in Kenya. Ignominious death is on special; do ‘the youth’ wrestle with bestial guilt? Let that filter through your brain; but is it legal? No, it’s just insane! Come to the shopping mall, fun for all!

I have to give blood to pathology but they refused to take it. There was a blackout due to high blustery weather and I gather from the nurse it’s a curse to take blood in the dark. Was Dracula ever concerned about workplace health and safety issues? ‘I vant to bite your neck, but vait, I’ll just check with ze union rep if it’s legal; have you got your Medicare card? It iz zo hard to bite by candle light!’

So high ho, to the hospital I go to walk up and down and push weights around. I ride the bike that goes nowhere. But as insidious as ectoplasm my back goes into spasm and I must abandon the exercise for the day. By the time I get back home the pain has gone; but the consequences linger on. There is something rather perverse about an exercise programme that makes you feel worse. In a former life, I must have caused considerable strife to a Chinaman. I wonder: was it legal?

Oh Jesus, Muhammad and Buddha; I should have finished this rave by now. But I swear by other ‘sacred cows’ that it’s so hard to focus with the clamour that the locusts make. Not to mention the strident attention from the man who cuts the lawn I don’t know how much more I can take so perhaps I’ll take a stroll down by the lake (when back pain desists) and try to feed cicadas to the ducks. Oh shucks, you can’t do that! It might be desirable, but, tut tut, is it legal? 

© From A Window…



© From A Window…

In the early hours of the morn as we were borne by bus from London to Dover,
We gazed nonplussed from our window at the wide stretches of parkland and clover
Called ‘Blackheath’. “Good grief”! My old hometown named for this place
Where are buried countless victims of the 'Black Death'. But this green space
Is where county cricket is played watched by genteel folk sipping lemonade,
In summer. Not daunted by the highwaymen who haunted the passing parade,
In the 17th century. Eventually, many dangled from gibbets ‘til their bones bleached.
Later, other flibbertigibbets campaigned here for women's suffrage and free speech.

Other women, not as discriminating, gaze from their shop windows in Amsterdam.
They watch scornfully the punting ‘mugs’ and other thugs who damn
Their occupation. Gawking tourists, who stroll by the canal, marked by their banal
Comments and apparel, oblivious to the blandishments of hawkers in flannel.
We gazed upon the city of water; from the barge other sights caught our attention.
Anne Frank’s Achterhuis where she hid with her family to avoid detection,
From the Nazis, who were particularly nasty; a poignant reminder of a dreadful war.
A happier sight is an ocean liner cruising towards our hotel, seen from the 14th floor.

Later on the Grand Canal, in total bliss, we glistened along by boat and gondola.
Venezia – the city of masks, the city of bridges, St. Mark’s square and laguna.
One tries, in vain, to see the Bridge of Sighs, covered by hoardings, and yet a kiss...
To buttress our union as the legend say; hey! Lord Byron doesn’t know what he missed!
Long colourful mooring poles poke up drunkenly, like oversize drinking straws
From the dank water. We saunter beside the canal, ordering white wine – “per favore”.
Then pay homage to the ‘Queen of the Adriatic’ despite how aromatic she seems.
A decaying, erratic, erotic dream sinking slowly into the realm of the slipstream.

As we approached in our luxury coach, we gazed, amazed by the hills of Tuscany,
The medieval town of San Gimignano arose in fragrant musk. Any...
Chance we took to look for cappuccino in the gorgeous trattorias.
Paintings of Etruscan vases; a perpetual reminder of the long and glorious
Past history of this region, visions of the Roman legions heading north
To conquer Europe. Inhabitants of Gaul and Hispania also sallied forth.
To no avail, the endless tale of plundering armies assaulting the garrisons,
Alas, dear friends, our European adventure now pales in comparison.

From the window of the hospital I gazed, unfazed, upon the city of Lucerne.
The mountain ~ Pilatus stood in ‘stark relief’ and in silent grief I turned...
My mind to contemplate and renegotiate the unlikely status of my life.
In Florence, ‘David’ had looked odd; his upper body and head jaded, in strife.
And here was I just the same, or perhaps I lieth ... I am Goliath instead?
I could find no answer, and with nothing fancier to do, I lay in my bed.
To ponder Renaissance obsession with perfect harmony of form, ratio, expression.
I’ll use other windows in the future to nurture my comprehension.

(C) C*A*L*I*C*O



C*A*L*I*C*O
(Concerned About Living in Consumer Overdrive)

My Father was an upholsterer – a species of tradesman that has almost disappeared. It’s tempting to say that they have become nearly extinct due to consumer over-indulgence in cheap mass-produced furniture. That of course is a gross exaggeration; but…this is my essay. And as the lawyer said to another in a Japanese restaurant – sosumi! Indeed, in these litigation frenzied times, that is precisely what might happen; but I digress...

Back in the days when most middle-to-upper-class families owned a ‘three piece suite’, it was a major and treasured part of a family’s possessions; right up there with the Holden and the Kelvinator ‘fridge’. It was customary that families would elect to have their three piece suites re-upholstered once the fabric had become worn and faded and/or the springs had given way. Calico was often used as lining cloth and as the material for covering the bottoms of chairs. Better quality calico (with printed designs) was used also as the main covering on chairs where a less luxurious fabric was required; more of a ‘budget’ fabric. Calico, of course, is also used to produce clothing such as shirts, trousers, skirts, curtains and tents; (actually tents nowadays are made more from plastics) and much more.

Actually, it’s irrelevant whether calico, chaff bag or cheesecloth was used to cover chair bottoms. The interesting thing is that these days, people are more likely to abandon the furniture rather than have it repaired. Opp-shops are full of shoddily made furniture – usually compressed pine board filled with cheap foam and stapled together and covered with plasticised artificial fabric. The rationale would appear to be: why have a lounge suite repaired when brand new flat-packs are readily obtainable from Ikea? This mass-produced cheaply made furniture is also to be found at places like Freedom and Fantastic. But they are hardly free and far from fantastic. I think Dad realised that his days were numbered. Foam rubber replaced flock and springs and hessian straps were replaced by a plasticised substitute.   

I can still see my father patiently taking an old worn-out chair apart in his ramshackle old workshop and producing something beautiful and functional in its place. After the repair work was completed and it was time to reattach the new fabric to the frame, he would empty about a handful of small upholstery blue-metal tacks into his mouth. Then taking a small hammer with a magnetic head, he would insert the end into his mouth and bring it out again with a tack on the end with the spike pointed outwards. He would immediately drive this tack through the fabric and into the wooden frame. He would simultaneously position the next tack in his mouth, using tongue and lips, so as to keep up a constant momentum. Bang...went the hammer against the frame; barely a second would elapse from one single hammer blow to the next. The sheet of calico was attached to the bottom of the chair in similar fashion.

I never saw him swallow a tack or have one stick into his mouth. He did say, however, that it took quite a lot of practise to be able to do this at speed. It is probably another of the myriad techniques (some obviously eccentric) that have disappeared over the past half century that tradesmen utilised to carry out their particular skill. I did attempt to do this several times myself but I found the ‘Houdini’ like skill of manipulating tacks in my mouth to be almost impossible. Dad discouraged me from following in his footsteps. He wisely foresaw that I lacked the physical strength that was required at various times for moving furniture. And of course, like all fathers, he wanted a better standard of living for his son. Hence better education equated to less physical labour. Little did he know that I too would bang things for a living. He banged nails into furniture and carpets to floors and I bang drums and other percussion. Incidentally, music is one of the most labour intensive occupations; ironic wouldn’t you say?

Interestingly, some of my drum gear used to be wrapped in calico when transporting from one place to another and I’ve still got his little magnetic hammer stored in the garage somewhere...  

© At Another Time…



© At Another Time…

 
At a fevered pitch, the world attempts still to enrich uranium up to 235.
At the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month...will we still survive?
‘At Last’ is an impassioned song, delivered so strongly by the impeccable Etta James.
At another time, on another occasion, there will be persuasion to participate in games.
At a standstill, the whirling dervishes were curling their moustaches with great abandon.
‘At My Desk’ sat Charlie Chuckles who darkly coloured drawings that little children fashioned.
‘At the Cross’ is an English hymn, when devotees on a whim, sing exulted praises to their messiah.
At the meditation centre, I had a dream I was a centaur galloping and neighing to the music of a choir
At the ashram, Andris sat cross-legged at Mangrove yoga as he strove to make some sense of it all.
At one with nature? No, we are at two and nothing we can now do will reverse the planet’s fall.
At the bicentennial rally, briefly I got pally with cross-gendered protestors in Hyde Park in ’88.
At the bottom of the garden, without a ‘beg your pardon’, came fairies, hobgoblins and dykes incarnate.
At the battle of the sexes, I was struck in the solar plexus by a person of an ambiguous disposition.
At the third stroke it was apparent I was a new bloke; no need to take heed of emotional ammunition.

At the beginning, perhaps we thought that we were winning the war on world poverty.
At best it was a token gesture; a cynical brokered device to defuse adverse publicity.
At the coal face there was always a race to have a face as black as balsamic vinegar.
At the trivia night, though we had less wrong than right; it was not enough for a voucher for dinner.
At the apex was the diva who recorded the best version of ‘Fever’; of course... she was Peggy Lee.
At twilight, you’ll just hear her singing when lights are low; always a treat for you and me.
At the looking glass stood Alice, who leapt in with no malice, and stormed the red palace of the queen.
At the hospital I had an inhospitable encounter with a physical fitness trainer who ruled supreme.
At another time and place, I’ll fall flat upon my face, heaving like a whale upon a beach.
‘At my command, I’ll have you stand and take it like a man – remember the whip’s within my reach.’
At my wild erratic fancy, an image comes of Clancy – it’s a deliberate misquote so’s to use another ‘at’.
At my knee I have an old banjo-ukulele, I like to strum from time to time and scare the cat.
At the conclusion of this verse, you could say I’ve written far worse – but after all, who really cares?
At least it mentions ‘fever’; at worst it’s like a blunt meat cleaver – chopping up ideas, my dears that I now have shared!

© Bower Bird



© Bower Bird
 
Some call it rubbish or garbage, waste or trash.
Others call it refuse, debris, litter, junk...
But I live with a woman, who instead sees only cash,
She’s Steptoe’s offspring – a rag ‘n’ bone queen;
She keeps it all in a trunk...

And in boxes, bags and carryalls in the garage and the shed.
It’s in all the cupboards and the wardrobia;
In the hall and pantry and a large part of my head!
She’s Second-hand Rose – in preloved clothes;
A fear of newness - Cainotophobia.

She knows all the op-shops in cities and towns.
The junk shops and antiques and garage sales;
She knows by instinct when a business closes down.
She’s the original liquidator – a Bower Bird;
Just manages to keep out of gaol.

She found an old chandelier in a box in the street:
Dirty, disfigured and neglected.
Took it home, spruced up and rewired it came up a treat!
She’s a shrewd negotiator; she took it to a market.
Made more dough than anyone suspected...

In addition she sells knitwear, beads, lemons, trinkets,
Old toys to old boys (she has strange friends).
Sand to the Arabs if she could risk it.
She’s a picker with her eyes all a flicker,
A complete eccentric who avoids all the trends.

I can’t complain, she keeps me in T-shirts...
Jeans, jumpers and all manner of stuff.
Like books and old battered ukuleles and crap ‘til it hurts.
She has Disposophobia – she hoards like a squirrel for winter.  
At times I must tell her: Enough!

So what is rubbish? It’s hard to define...
Trash or treasure, merchandise or muck?
She finds stuff and uses it, keeps her amused for a time.
She even collected me who’d been manacled before.
I’ll be sold on the stall myself next week – I’ve run out of luck!

© At a Loose End...



© At a Loose End...


At the third stroke, it will be 9.54 and 10 seconds and my lady reckons it’s time for tea.
At the end of the day who can say what the outcome of the next election will be.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning, fawning regret, will we remember them?
At the final bell in the afternoon shall we spoon with the crème de la crème?
At times hard to handle; I am out of control and quite impossible am I – pity me.
At the 1972 Irish sheep dog trials, with smiles, I asked, ‘How many were found guilty?’
At the Star Hotel, all’s not well; the patrons are not happy ‘cause the beer’s gone flat.
At the stroke of twelve fair Cinderella, lost her feller, at a long weekend in Ballarat.
At night the trees aren’t sleeping ‘though the birds aren’t cheeping and so the hounds do bray.
At the crack of dawn when the dew on the lawn gives way to the promise of a fine winter’s day.
At the traffic lights there’s a momentary contemplation; alienation surrounds me on all sides.
At the final bell, it will be impracticable to know if what I’ve written is valid or contrived.

At the third stroke, it will be 11 am precisely and wisely we retreat to the terrace by the roses.
At the end of the rainbow you may find the Land of Oz, simply because, your partner proposes.
At the end of the street where the waters meet is a lake beside the hanging marsh
At the end of a love affair, recriminations come to bear upon an idyllic now turned harsh.
At the periphery, life is so slippery, fragile, transient; precarious yet serene.
At the movies, life is so groovy! Forget all your troubles by the silver screen.
‘At the Codfish Ball’ with Shirley Temple: a memorable song and dance with Buddy Ebsen.
At the end of the universe, although perverse, it’s rumoured there’s a restaurant to make mess in.
‘At the Castle Gate’, I must relate, was the theme for ‘The Sky at Night’ – a bright impression.
At the present time; at the moment; at this juncture: all will function as the same expression.
At a café in Casablanca; at the markets at Salamanca; at a pub in Parramatta – we say this ‘n’ that.
At a glance, you will look askance at this meaningless dance of sentences; starting with an ‘at’.
 At arm’s length when you read what’s before you; I would implore you not to break the spell.
At an educated guess, even though I won’t confess...oh, alright – it’s a mess! It’s clear I’ll be exposed at the final bell!

Sunday 21 July 2013

© Yo! I, An Odd Kangaroo Boy

                         © Yo! I, An Odd Kangaroo Boy                            
(Good Book On A Rainy Day)

So...we found ourselves in Kiama, in somewhat of a dilemma,                             
 It was a rainy day and accordingly: no views.

And the blowhole wasn’t blowing and the way things were going,
It was clear only we’d have nothing but the blues.   

It had been a stressful drive (we were glad to be alive!),
On a freeway, wrong direction, back towards Sydney.
Where you couldn’t turn around, it was chaos and the traffic sound...
Worried me; I needed to pee, had a pain in the kidney.

We finally made our destination amid much consternation, 
Vowing never to leave our front door again.
But next day with café breakfast on board, we saw scrawled on a blackboard:
Don’t wait for the storm to pass; learn to dance in the rain.’

Suddenly, the day seemed bright and cheery, no longer dull and dreary,
Though the blowhole was still obstinate; stubborn, kept down.
Then came a lady in purple exterior with a white three-legged terrier,
Who had been to a ‘purple party’ with her little smarty mate with purple crown.

She was full of joie de vivre, she was happy, she was free...
Of the absurd banalities that surround us on all sides.
Even her little canine tripod with purple hair, which looked quite odd...
Was ridiculously happy, so frisky and snappy; even took the big steps in his stride.
Later...in the Minnamurra Rainforest; Red Cedar Giants and Strangler Figs,
Some had been defaced by human pigs that left their tags.
For although the trees are ancient, they’re fair game...it strains your patience
To the bitter end; don’t they comprehend this is our heritage?

In the river there were boulders of massive size and shape; so older than...
No one has a definitive answer – two hundred million years they conjecture.
Worn smooth by millennia and constant flow of water,
Some of these, like the trees, bear the scars of the white man’s...pleasure?  

Later on we had a try at the Illawarra Fly, above the treetops high
Looking back towards the sea, in humidity, atop the escarpment.
Then I climbed the viewing tower – a mistake; I began to cower,
With a third of the way to go, I succumbed to vertigo – oh the embarrassment! 

But really – who cares? I’d had a look, repaired to the flat with a good book,
Whilst milady toured craft and junque shops to heart’s intent.
I read my book and snoozed, like a lazy kangaroo...
Taking relief from the heat of day in a rainforest light-years away, content...

Okay, Any Android Go Boo!’ Startled awake – I came to,
‘Goodness,’ I said miffed – ‘it’s raining; have you been adrift, out shopping again?’
‘Let’s go to the beach’ said she with glee, ‘and we’ll collect a shell or three.’

Remember... ‘Don’t wait for the storm to pass; learn to dance in the rain.’

Thursday 18 July 2013

© Cosmic Mosquitoes



© Cosmic Mosquitoes

The ‘Mosquito’ was ready to launch; awaiting only the final sequence that would send the last spacecraft hurtling through the now mostly polluted atmosphere and out of the Earth’s gravitational pull. The year was AD 2085. The crew were comprised of the best minds and most physically perfect specimens that humanity had left. The idea was to ensure that a remnant of humanity would survive the anticipated cataclysm and return to Earth at an undetermined time in the future.  The acidic rain had finally relented after pouring down unremittingly for around three weeks. However, further heavy falls were anticipated within 24 hours – this was their last opportunity before the monsoon season started. 

Whilst all care had been taken, the reality was that some contractors had still cut corners in the supply of components to the project. Consequently, at T minus 20 seconds, an alarm showed up on the DUD (digital universal device) of an anxious manager in the control room at Cape Canaveral. The launch sequence was immediately postponed and a technician was despatched hurriedly to the launch site. Normally any technician entering the spacecraft would need to be attired in full protective, sterile, gear so as to ensure that no contaminant compromised the atmosphere of the vehicle. Such was the urgency of the mission, that the quality control section was instructed to give only the bare minimum of scrutiny to the technician. Consequently, no-one noticed that two or three mosquitoes were clinging to the man’s overalls.

The fault (a minor section of printed circuitry in the communications system) was quickly replaced. The technician wondered idly why it was necessary that the whole project be held up for such a minor problem that could have been easily rectified by the crew at a later time. Meanwhile two of the mosquitoes took refuge in the warmth of an air filtering duct. The technician quickly vacated the craft and the launch sequence began anew. This time there was no hold-up and the launch sequence proceeded to its inevitable conclusion. Lift-off!

Climate change, global warming and the resultant struggle for control of the Earth’s dwindling resources, fresh water and arable land decimated the planet; leading to anarchy. The planet’s population descended into warring tribal factions. Contact with the ‘Mosquito’ was lost around 50 years later and all but forgotten. Thousands of years passed...
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The story of the launch of the ‘Mosquito’ entered the realm of myth and its eventual return became entwined with other stories and legends of the return of a messiah.  In story and song, even the names became interspersed as ‘The Mosquiah’. These stories were handed down from one generation to the next. In 4550 or thereabouts, a strange craft materialised on the shore of the Simpson Sea. The local tribe approached the craft cautiously. In appearance, they were similar to the Aboriginal tribes that had inhabited the area many millennia before. The legend -‘MØЅΩÜÏŦΦ’ appeared on the side of the craft, together with what appeared to be a depiction of a six-legged insect.

An opening appeared in the side of the craft and a being the height of a man stepped into the bright sunshine. It stood upright on two legs and appeared to have four arms, and rudimentary wings. The head was almost human in appearance. The only difference was that the large compound eyes dominated the face and had the ability to view a very large angle, detect fast movement and the polarisation of light. Two or three members of the tribe dropped to their knees and began chanting: ‘Mosquiah has come, Mosquiah has come...’

The alien being looked bemused. He or she lifted one of its arms/tentacles and directed it at the chanters. There was a flash of light and an energy beam flew from the outstretched limb, incinerating the nearest person to a fine ash within seconds. The air was filled with an acrid smell and there was a sound not unlike that of an insect hitting an electronic Bug Zapper in a food shop. The bug had travelled far; it was now time to reclaim the Earth.

© The Grand Drake of Wenty Lake



 © The Grand Drake of Wenty Lake




Across the peaceful lake there glides the venerable Grand Drake: the unrivalled ‘el-supremo’ of local ducks.
From the hanging swamp to the weir he is lauded and revered; verily, his rivals are awestruck.
All the hens that he encounters are chronically disappointed, for he seeks the famous duck called ‘Ida’ Down...
Under cover of the foliage in the quiet of his dark garden, he would take this coveted quacker, coloured brown. 
Though the Grand Drake did believe that he was ‘oh so good’; in reality, he, was just an ordinary Aussie wood!
A little larger to be sure than his other, brother drakes, for GD’s father was a mallard, so common and so crude.  
But no trace could be found of the fabled ‘Ida’ Down, though he searched both night and day amidst the rushes.
He even asked the local duck-sage known as ‘Mandrake’, to determine where this virgin quakes and blushes.

Elderly Mandrake paddled hard, for he was an old mallard, who had spent his life attending ducks that cracked.
He swam in concentric circles; he was eccentric; he turned purple but at length he admitted defeat with final quack!
He said, ‘Listen close my Lord Grand D, I know well that you are randy; but give up the quest for Ida – it’s a fable.’
But the Grand Drake was quite obstinate and he crossed the lake once more ‘cause on the other shore by picnic table – He saw a glimpse of white, spread his wings and took flight quacking loudly, ‘Ida, here I come it’s your last chance!’
But it was of no use ‘cause he had mistook ‘Mother Goose’ who honked loudly and quite proudly snubbed his advance.
Then an old hen feeling clucky quacked out, ‘Over here Grand Ducky! I’ve got what you want, so...feeling lucky?’
But frantic as he was, the Grand Drake kept his poise and quacked, ‘be gone you bogus swan back to Kentucky!’

Was he thinking of fried chicken? His reproductive glands were ticking; his need to produce an heir ‘egged’ his call.
GD had an apparition in his nest that very nightfall of three ducks in flight like porcelain figures prone upon a wall.
He perceived one duck as Ida and himself the other glider; perhaps the third was the duckling he longed to produce –  
A little duckling boy with down, like his mother a nutty brown; more than a mallard decoy, a feathered papoose.
Then one day a wayward swan, splashed into the lake forlorn, at a misty time in winter’s drawn-out season.
Once more the foolish, sad Grand Drake made another awkward mistake and called the black swan ‘Ida’ for no reason.
‘No,’ said the puzzled swan, ‘my name is Wayne, offcourse I’ve flown; I lost my way in the rain you foolish drake!  
The only Eider ducks I know are in the Northern climes; at no time do they shed down in Australia you feathered flake!’

‘Is there not a unique Ida?’ ‘No, it’s Eider same as cider or...a spider.’ Then Wayne the swan took off to find sanctum.
The Grand Drake was perplexed, disconsolate and vexed for he had wasted precious time in search of phantoms.
So this maladjusted mallard, still mooning for a comrade, met a dazzling, dizzy duck known as ‘Madoona’.
 Like a goose she took a gander at this drake who was far grander than the other dreary drakes who tried to woo her.
The Grand Drake and Madoona got their act together sooner than was considered appropriate by most water fowl.
Though GD had waited long enough, Madoona was made of sterner stuff and rebuffed him – after that threw in the towel.
Across the peaceful lake there glides the venerable Grand Drake with Madoona in his wake and ducklings aplenty.
From the hanging swamp to the weir he is lauded and revered, as he surveys his watery fiefdom at Lake Wenty.

Friday 28 June 2013

(C) Lethal Hearts It Is



(C) Lethal Hearts It Is  

I have now passed the point of now return,
So what have I learned that is of any use?

There is nothing in this world that’s of concern,
How to tilt at windmills; another level of abuse?
Another day demands another dollar,
The clichés state all’s fair in love and war.

Ask your former lovers; grab them by the collar,
Lowered standards is all they have in store.
Love your neighbour but please don’t get caught,

To each their own is a monotone some say.
However, juggling multiple partners is fraught,
Every new liaison is dangerous in every way.
Rolling with the paunches can be mortal,
Every careless whisper is torture for someone else.

In any event as we gaze in the garden portal,
Sciamachy in all anxiety, just quietly...melts.


Sciamachy - battle with shadows or imaginary enemies.