Dungog by accident

First draft of my experience waiting in Dungog for three days while my spare keys took 3 days by Express Post from Valla, only three hundred k’s away. Three days!
Oh, did I say that I’d lost the  keys at my annual favourite “Music Arts and Lifestyle” Festival in the glorious Barrington Tops? Disappeared down a wormhole in the time space continuum. Nuff said!

Three nights in Dungog
Penance for lost keys
After three days of fun
By the Subsonic river

Car NRMA’d from field of play
Tall Timbers motel awaits
After phone call to owner
On his dairy farm home

Key under pot plant
Round the back somewhere
On a chair maybe near the door
Got it have you?
Number 9? Rightio.
The missus’ll see you in the morning

Gotta love the rural ways

Waiting for spare keys
Thanks to darling daughter
Express Post from Valla
Three hundred clicks away

Patience tested and doing okay
Live in the moment
Live in the moment
There is only the Now

But so bloody hot
Hot hot hot

Shorts from the op shop
Replace groovy jeans
And Blundstones
That crippled in the heat

Where are the people?
Lovely architecture
Reflecting bygone glories
But where are the people?

Plenty of drinking holes
But not for me

Cryptics, aircon and telly
Rainy Mandela farewell
Nap, doze and sleep

Wasted words

New poem I’m working on … needs feedback to see if the rhythm and ideas make sense

So many wasted words,
still more struggle to be said.

Endless parade of repetition,
issues from the human condition.

We prise fears from our psyches,
turn them into marks on a page.
Catharsis in ink.

Discovering in the process,
if we’re lucky,
our tortured illuminations.
Common symptoms
of our race, our culture, and our kind.

But still, that doesn’t make you better
down where you are.
At the time.
Bruised, battered and brooding,
in the black dark of the existential pit.
No light, not even a fucking tunnel.

Weeks spent dreaming,
wrestling evanescence of thought.

Ideas in a hazy tantalizing whirl,
collide momentarily in the mind,
tease with near clarity,
then are gone.
Darting, spinning off at tangents.

New ones demand attention,
then as your mind’s eye looks,
drift away like eye worms.

Looking and seeing.
Still to find the difference.
To know it or feel it.

Seems to me
that if films are modern morality plays,
then the dilemma seems to be:

Safety in comfort,
stability in dull conformity,
risk the unfamiliar,
embrace adventure.

Look beyond the village,
further than family, house, or car.


As Chao Pingwen said;

Arise and take thy cane and bring thy pot,
Hunt out the hill and dale’s secluded spot.
I hear the cuckoos calling on the hills.
Business? What business? Oh, tarry not!