I've Never Been Partial To Girls Who Swear
for a local dance
to be somewhat lacking in symmetry
but not
they agreed
in spontaneity
for a moment
the macintosh and the one-legged dug
were as one
loupin’ an whirlin
in a gyration of their own design
it must have seemed forever
to the old geezer
in the macintosh
reeking of neglect
but in reality
was not much more
than a birl or two
when
suddenly
the fingerless glove broke loose
from the one remaining impaling tooth
and the one-legged dug went wheechin
through the air
totally unlike a Frisbee
only to be caught safely
by the wheels
of a passing articulated lorry
so leaving
a battered and bloodied old geezer
in a macintosh
reeking of neglect
to painfully reflect
on his hitherto lack of respect
for proverbs
Note: wheechin – pronounced wheekin
**~top~**
Sarah’s recurring encounter with a moth
Written on a plane coming back from Australia where we'd been visiting with Marguerite's brother and wife Sarah, who'd just given birth to wee Toby. We found all sorts of things interesting – from the multi-coloured flocks of parrots that the locals take for granted, to the enormous variety of road-kill. Just when we thought we'd seen it all, we discovered pantry-moths – those mad insects whose only purpose in life seems to be flying into your face or landing in your coffee.
Sarah’s recurring encounter with a moth
that bloody moth is here again
slowly driving me insane
it sneaked right through the windowpane
how, I’ll never know
if it comes near my mouth again
this cup I’ll throw
just knew it’d fly into my face
uncaring of my personal space
I’d love to put it in its place
how, I just don’t know
but to wipe the smirk from that insect face
would be worth more than gold
such painful creature of the night
what deity gave you the right
to charge my peace with sudden fright
yes! I’d like to know
what slight I’ve caused to angel above
or de'il below
my tranquillity is my own matter
without this need of constant flutter
lending fuel to words my lips do utter
I didn’t know I knew
my language on this springtime night
is way past blue
so let’s both agree to say goodnight
part company without the fight
or the “pantry-moth-trap” comes out tonight
this I know I know
to live one day beyond this night
you’d be wise to go
**~top~**
spark of greatness
One of the true legends of my youth. Hughie used to dream of being able to sink fifty pints of beer in one day. One of the real characters you meet only too rarely in life – he never quite managed his dream – though I recall he got very close on a couple of occasions. This is pretty much a true story – the day of the door at the top of the stairs – though the full story will wait for another telling. This is only a small part of that fateful day – the part where we took a breather in the Miner's Welfare hall – to put down the timber we were carrying on our shoulders and rest awhile before the long walk up Linden Ave – only to find that Hughie had won the jackpot on the pokies – so maybe his dream could finally be realised after all...
spark of greatness
sunday lunchtime
down the miner’s
fav’rite pokey
pays double bars
Hughie’s mission
sink fifty cold ones
silver columns
line up the jars
hullo there lads
sit doon aside me
just seen yer Meg
you’ll need a beer
two fairy liquids
for the dynamic duo
but your no’ wi’ me
‘f she comes in here
narrowly escaped
her shootin daggers
big bosoms heaving
her breath was hot
yer dinners ruined
burnt tae a cinder
like auld shoe leather
on the pot
ye’d best slip doon
the road tae ma hoose
she’ll likely cool aff
in an hour or three
best take the back way
we’ll soon be cozy
ah’ll get ma Mary
tae fix yer tea
see thon gless son
it’s German crystal
cost a packet
the cut’s dead braw
unbreakable
dae ye no believe me
chuck it hard
against that wa’
a cornaptious man
aunt Sheena called him
he was colourful
for sure
domineering
how Mary stood it
her cheerful banter
a marriage cure
bolt from the blue
poor Mary left us
had some sickness
we never knew
left three lassies
poor wee Janey
just done her
final year at school
Hughie lost
that spark o’ greatness
his legs they were
the first tae go
he followed Mary
three months later
a character
I was glad to know
old Hughie
he fought with Mary
a marriage built
on toil and strife
but ol' Hughie
he loved his Mary
Yes, he loved her
... more than life
**~top~**
lunch without you
Marguerite's always been a keen cyclist – ever since those days riding around the Trossachs on the gold ten-speed – didn't Billy Bourke end up with that? Twenty years or more later and she's still cycling every Saturday morning and I'm fending for myself – only the kids are now all grown up – so mall-ratting has kind of lost it's appeal. Countdown is a well known chain of NZ supermarkets.
lunch without you
standing, perplexed
at the bread display
of the local Countdown to terminal hunger
starved
but unable to make up my mind
I wonder
not for the first time
what it is about this stuff
that you find so attractive
when it appears to me
as if a giant teenage dough-boy
has upchucked
after one too many yeast-nogs
unable to choose
I think of you
hope you’re having a good time
I sometimes wish
you’d think of me
as your pizza bread
or fresh Hawaiian twist
and rip off my outer packaging
to savage me in the carpark
without regard for proprieties
but then I realise
I’m neither hot nor fresh
standing, perplexed
at the bread display
of the local Countdown to eternal starvation
it is difficult
lunch without you
**~top~**
O
ban
I went back to Scotland in 2000. Many of the family were now quite elderly and while it was a sad time, it was also a very funny time – my return seemed to take some of the elderly relatives back years and we all had such a laugh – my mother said she found out things from my grandmother that she had never known (sadly Grannie died three months later) – so all in all a mixture of laughter and tears. Uncle Ally had reached that time and place where he just sat there and no-one was sure how much he was taking in – he hadn't spoken for a couple of years. We told the family what our plans were for the coming week and how we planned going up to Oban and make our way from there up to the Isle of Skye. At this point Ally let out a huge snort of derision and eventually this story came out – basically true but with a fair amount of artistic license.
Oban
a suit of pinstripe blue
glossy patent leather shoes
Ally sparkled as he walked up to her home
but he’d forgotten all about
as he asked his sweetheart out
who they’d have to take along as chaperone
they took the 8:14
with a change at Glasgow Green
bound for Oban on a fine September day
Ally’s heart beat loud with pride
as his girlfriend took his side
and he prayed for plenty tunnels on the way
the day was going mighty fine
until Ally checked the time
surprised to find that it was almost three
lunch had cost him 2 pounds more
than he knew he could afford
so with Aunty he was dreading time for tea
the sea looked mighty nice
a trip specialled at half price
they even threw in sandwiches for free
he coaxed Aunty on the boat
checked it still could float
grabbed his sweetheart and the 3 put out to sea
the water it was calm
the September wind was warm
seagulls on the wing across the sky
as the boat returned to dock
a gust lifted Aunty’s frock
Ally laughed until the tears came to his eyes
the plank was just so wide
it was moving with the tide
ignoring all the safety lessons taught her
the plank it gave a crack
feet up, flat on her back
there’s no way on earth he could’ve caught her
from his suit of navy blue
to his patent leather shoes
clothing, dignity, prospects – they were mince
he was chilled through to the bone
next time he’d stay at home
and he’s never been across to Oban since
**~top~**
puddles
It's nice to think about being the hero – but not all of us are filled with heroic attributes – forgetting birthdays, wedding anniversaries and suchlike – well, sooner or later, we all do something that upsets the love of our lives – and what then? Maybe we should focus on those little things a bit more...
puddles
some men move mountains
sail the ocean blue
‘bout this stuff, I just haven’t a clue
I can’t move mountains
oceans I just don’t do
but I’d cross puddles
... for you
darling you know that
I try so hard
but my list of achievements are pitifully few
‘cause the can that I can
just ain’t worth a damn
still I do what I do
... for you
they say that little things
they count the most
and little is something I know I can do
all that heroic muscle
is such a damn hustle
you know the little I do
I do for you
if ever you need some
words from the wise
don’t worry your pretty head about price
‘cause that intelligent gent
ain’t worth a damn cent
my expert advice is free
... for you
if I could just do it
I’d ride a white horse
fight your battles and be your own shining knight
you know that chivalrous man
just ain’t worth a damn
darling, please settle for puny
again... tonight
**~top~**
queen of the foodcourt
We've definitely become a shopping mall society. A friend was in my office one day and had to take a call to deal with a major family crisis – his teenage daughter had been barred from the local shopping mall and was about to commit all out war on society due to the massive injustice imposed upon her – his proffered solutions were instantly scorned – he simply didn't understand her – go to a different mall indeed... how could he be so stupid.
queen of the foodcourt
wet sunday afternoon
court in session
her majesty expansive as she lines up her soldiers
cut price fashion icon
henna the lipline
gum chewing courtiers boost courage with lies
they call you the queen
queen of the foodcourt
royalty won by cruelty and gall
you love it, want it
can’t live without it
soon your crown is really gonna fall
coffers are depleted
boredom is rising
crusading army sent to prey on the helpless
compulsory taxation
mission accomplished
gum chewing courtiers win Time Out as prize
breach in security
stately tension
knights deliver news from the corners of the kingdom
hark the new princess
army threatening
gum chewing courtiers contrast courage with flight
**~top~**
around a burning oil drum
Party at Liz's place when she lived in Oxford. One of those magic nights where all sorts of interesting people got together. Nick's wonderful music floated out over the rose garden and we were entertained by one of the strangest dance groups I've ever met – a troupe of mannequins orchestrated by a gentleman purporting to be the self-proclaimed mayor of the village. Very much in his cups, he insisted to all and sundry that he would not, under any circumstances, reveal the secret of his plastic ladies.
around a burning oil drum
hands in pockets
breath condensing
talking to the self-proclaimed mayor of Oxford
he refuses
refuses to disclose the secret
of his plastic ladies
enviro whiner
concerned for plastic
carelessly tosses an empty beer bottle
into the fire
into the fire as he bids goodnight
bottle exploding
the yoyo guy
feeling no pain
once more reeled in by drunken cohorts
smoking jacket
his smoking jacket adds sweaty perfume
to the burning plastic
the Glentui wind cuts to the quick
Ann-Marie’s tent a sorrowful sight
Nick & Steve rock an old Scots air
the rose garden is buzzing tonight
new found friends
worse for the weather
relentlessly invading personal spaces
too close for comfort
too close for comfort so it’s follow the mayor
into the moonlight
**~top~**
Bela Lugosi did his own makeup
A flight of imagination. This examines that instant in time when you realise that, as much as you love your partner, she has now moved on. It could be
something as simple as a glance, the way the head turns when you speak. Written for those who struggle with being single again – we count ourselves very lucky to have become an old, happily-married couple. Long may it continue.
Bela Lugosi did his own makeup
disenchantment walks in
as the furniture of my mind
is rearranged
by the sadness in your eyes
a new order is established
a new establishment gives orders
in a language too young
or too old
for the new me
to understand
a galaxy of questions is born
instantly
only to struggle like baby turtles
across my mental coffee table
in a fruitless search for comprehension
before leaping
lemming-like
into canyons of despair
krakatoa eruptions of understanding
lend magma to a tsunami
of tortured emotions
dramatically pausing
picture perfect
before rushing maniacally
to wreak havoc
on the shores of
self-pity
the newly established regime
once more constructed
deconstructed
and reconstructed
without thought for design
order
or method
Bela Lugosi did his own makeup!
the trivial pursuit of trivia
provides a momentary hiatus
in the tinnitus
of confusion
before thoughts
black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat
cleave
without mercy
through my Notre Dame
like nails on chalkboard
tart retorts
retracted without utterance
subside
as self-realisation
reflects the pompousness of my predicament
and truth
unwelcome as telemarketers
retrieves your picture from the wreckage
restoring it
lovingly
to the left hand corner of the piano
only suddenly
the music is no longer in tune
and I glimpse
fleetingly
that your image
has no shadow
**~top~**
take me home
We all get homesick every now and again. But, strangely enough, when I get a bit nostalgic for home, it's not so much for the people and places I grew up with, but more for a time and place where I only spent a few memorable weeks. Marguerite and I spent a very happy summer, so very long ago, touring round Scotland and one of the most memorable times was on the Isle of Skye where we stayed at the foot of the Cuillan mountains.
take me home
sunday summer melts the peat bog
mighty cuillans pierce the sky
great sea eagle, solitary
mystic spirit, circling high
breathe the air of ancient wisdom
gentle giants quiet and strong
delicate hues of purple heather
mountain breezes sing their song
mist descending quick as blinking
dangerous footing on the scree
colours scurry into shelter