© 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.’

© 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...

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

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.

(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.

(C) As the Wheels Turned...

 (C) As the Wheels Turned...

The wheels turn within, the wheels are in motion.

The world’s in a spin, the whirl of the ocean.

Whenever you roam, what ever your notion;

Withstand the werewolves, within you, there’s emotion.

Life is a Ferris wheel, a Carousel, a merry-go-round,

Life is an orange peel, a bagatelle; hear the garish sound…

Of the universe spinning, the galaxies expanding;

The Earth is in orbit around old Sol dancing.

Wherever your home, however whimsical or enchanting;

Whatever the demons or deep ones are recanting;

Life is a festival, a carnival, a roundabout,

Life is a feast for all, a cannibal, a roustabout. .

Water direction runs clockwise down the drain.

The whirling of the dervishes is ecstasy beyond profane.

Come infidel, fire-worshipper, come pagan or Jain,  

The fundamental condition of our existence is the same.

Life is about pivoting, pirouetting like a ballerina,

Life can be riveting, as diverting as a Cavatina.   

The moon spins around the planet, tides rise and fall.

The loon flies around often frantic, ostracised by all.

As the wheels turned and faces stern react in the mall,

The truth is that we’re all mad, Sir Galahad: your call!

Life cycles are concentric, eccentric and multiplying,

Life styles are eclectic, egocentric and stupefying.

Crop circles appear in the fields, in the dead of night.

Tornados in the tomatoes, cyclones in the corn so bright.

Curved is the rainbow to the shape of your eyeballs tight,

Dynamos cause power to flow and blow the dynamite.

Life is still revolving, articulating, an antelope,

Life is cohabitating, collaborating, a kaleidoscope...

Comets are whizzing and dizzying the cosmos vast,

Electrons escaping the nucleus of the atomic blast,

Vultures encircling the carcasses on the savannah grass,

Ominous shadows, the world has a Janus cast.  

Life is transition, beginnings, a play to rehearse,

Life is abstract or concrete, sacred and perverse.    

(C) The Game

Now look, I don’t want to monopolise your time,

And it’s true that my words are often in a scrabble.

Ok...I got a bit tiddly; winking at all the girls,

Sometimes, I haven’t got a clue; do not believe all the babble –

I come out with, and really there’s no need to check, mate.

This is not just a trivial pursuit; I’m deadly serious about junk too,

I’m prone to the domino effect, a house of cards and fate...

Decrees I slip down ladders and climb up snakes, try kung fu

That I learnt from the Chinese; chequered career though it may be,

Perhaps I don’t need to pass – go on, tell me what you reckon.

Don’t be cryptic, a cross word won’t upset this baby,

My ace of spades has been trumped, a new deck on...

The table, but I’m snookered; the balls won’t drop.

I’d jump through hoops my sweet croquet…or is it coquette?

When you get to the bottom or the helter skelter – climb to the top.

Life is a slippery dip ride, a see-saw – what’s the etiquette?

Fifteen love and it’s your serve; I’ll just putt for par,

My last bowl was a toucher, it’s so good to kiss the jack.

Nothing like a bullseye and a fresh drink from the bar,

And I haven’t lost my marbles, they’re rolling ‘round in back.

What’s the game we’re playing – Pokémon or yahtzee?

It’s a bit like playing twister, with your sister, on the carpet.

Spin the bottle or tic tac toe, Truth or Dare? And lastly...

Backgammon or Baccarat, I’ll try to bridge – or I’ll forfeit.

© The Puling

©   The Puling:

To whimper; to whine, as a complaining child.

 I pulled one thin leg up and out of the covers, wondering what I would discover today.

Opened the shutters, with a touch of the shudders and found: ‘Uh pelting down rain as always!’

Thankfully it was Sunday, no commitments to keep – maybe more sleep? I then plug in my blanket.

But in came the wife, said ‘Get up Jesse – god you look messy; you have to play today for the banquet.’

Indeed I had forgotten it was Senior’s week; the band was due to squeak during morning brunch.

So begrudgingly I showered and shaved, primmed and powdered. Then I gulp down some toast and munch...

My way to the garage, load the car with drum kit, the sound system, my ego and other bits of gear.

So with a crocodile tear, off I went to spend a dreary hour or two and plunge hit after hit into their ears.

We played a few tunes (one old fat bloke played the spoons), and for a moment I saw myself pull gut in: help!

As if things couldn’t get any meaner, I got an award for being a senior! I s’pose I’ll have to stick it on the shelf.

‘Aw, lighten up!’ said the cheese ‘n’ kisses, ‘It’s not the end my cherub, listen, people love to hear you chirrup.’

‘And be glad that the old tunes were sung,’ and so with all the words hung I pelt upon the skins and usurp...

Their indulgence, I presume as they shuffle ‘round the room; I wonder what became of the young crooner I was.

Now with tinnitus, infinitus, day and night my hearing’s at crisis: I’m not Beethoven, rock ‘n’ roll’s the cause!

Well I never made a million and never had the thrill of being on the telly belting it out with JO’K.

But I played the Capitol Theatre in a witch’s outfit: ‘Hubble bubble and Hoadley’s crumble bars all the way!

But at the Capitol in Washington they have squandered all their capital; Obama has a drama on his hands.

Just lighten up Barack, there’s no turning back, your gun: the lip can’t flip the obsequious rifleman’s demands.

 The gulp in my throat caused me to splutter on my coffee when I read softly about America’s huge debt.

It’s next to impossible to grasp or understand the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that still continue as yet.

In the decades still to come six trillion dollars will be the outcome; that’s a six followed by twelve noughts.

Just picture an international telephone number; longer than a Lebanese cucumber, so – care to join the dots?

 And now the new Pope divine can now gulp thine wine amidst rejoicing in Argentina that continues still.

But I hear that old Frankie still frowns on hanky-panky and still won’t compromise upon the pill.

But it’s rather commensurate of this Pope Jesuit to settle his newspaper account from the Vatican palace.

And he still stays at the Vatican hotel thus far; maybe George will get him a room gratis at Domus Australis.

So lighten up you silly fools, there really are no rules; thine plug should be removed from your orifice.

Leave the angst to Tony and Julia and don’t let their ‘spinsters’ fool ya, lighten up or letup nigh you come adrift!