narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – Part 3 J

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – Part 3 James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – Part 2 - James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – Part 2 - James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – part 1 - James Craib

narratorAUSTRALIA: The Suburban Banshee – part 1 - James Craib

© Budget Night: Sad Show

© Budget Night: Sad Show

S o now it is one thirty nine am; nothing stirs, nothing shows, such a sad show.

H ow did things ever get to be in such a confused state, I’ll never know.

A utumn once more gives way to winter and our displeasure grows.

D espair the world that its bold inclinations are due to cruel folks apropos.  

O ver on the other side, in another dimension, well intentioned intuition flows.

W asted effort tries to stem the tide of avarice; that like Everest ever goes...

S kyward. Who will be the first trillionaire? Who cares who wins the game?

H ow these vast fortunes are accumulated – are but windows in the frame.

A nother element of my intellectual capacity, with alacrity, covets the same!

D ichotomies some say are dim memories, money is neutral, takes no blame.

O ut in the country seasons come and go, winds blow, although...where’s the rain?

W ilful negligence of those things that are fundamental, a sentimental refrain:

S ave us, save us, if you please, from these infernal bourgeoisie; they have no shame.  

© 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!

(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.