Recording time


Just finished recording twenty recent poems … 19 of which I have updated on this blog, and one has gone missing … or should I say “has been temporarily misplaced”.


Ironically, its the one about me being stuck in a small country town for three days after losing my car keys after a “Music, Art and Lifestyle” festival. Enough said about Dungog.



Here is the link to the recently recorded poems.

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Inches away from millimetre perfect


Hanging around in Melbourne pubs and clubs in the 1980s, being cynical and feeling sorry for myself. Ah, to be in my early thirties again! Not!



Teenage fashion junkies
Playing poor
Fifty dollar hairdos
Labels on their pants

Hip shack rhythms collide
Push through the sweat
Women yawn together
In the breaks

They wait for the split
When boy meets girl
Wishes of fulfillment
Played out on the dance floor

Coats on stranger’s tables
Melting glasses left
To stand bereft
Throb of disco calls

Ears and necks offer
Glitters of fleshy bait
For the bodies below
Cynicism blocks easy flow

Too many night clubs
Around the world
Make the watcher wary
Everything’s a game

Time loses meaning
Lust remains the same
Dancing video sets the pace
Tempts awkward dancers

With existence
In another place


Our Island Prince



Sitting on the sand with my evening smoke

Watching the surfers at the end of the day

Spotted the prince of the sea gliding alone on the edge

Majestic on his birthday mal in his hibiscus shorts

Brown body and glistening mane

unfettered by suited protection

So different

from the tide of darting penguin wasps surrounding him

Flipping and flopping in the churning tide

‘til they catch a wave

Then these teenage aerialists excel

like acrobats on their little boards

While the sea prince floats languidly in his element

A resplendent ocean liner surrounded by pilot boats

Waiting for a nice big fat one out along the edge


Wham



Speeding towards fifty

Trying really hard

to avoid patterns

from my past

Half-read Mars & Venus

learning how to listen

without calls to action

talking through feelings

listening to her needs

Opted for commitment

Then – WHAM – out of the blue

live across the wires

across the ocean

She’s got another playmate

so I’m on my own again

She’s connected with her birthplace

enchanted by its spell

found a worthy playmate

so I’m on my own again


Facebook Lover



I called her my Facebook lover

We flirted and hugged with a mouse

No messy sharing of fluids

Safe in my room in my house

No dining or going to movies

No talking of womanly dreams

No curtains or shelves from Ikea

No bloody relationship scenes

Just Scrabble and fish tanks and gardens

Pirates and Vampires and Wolves

Dancing our lust on the keyboard

Yet pushing emotional rules

We pretend there’s no innuendo

Well maybe a bit of a flirt

Dreamscapes glowing with passion

In places where no-one gets hurt

Then one day the cyber world crumbled

Our bodies demanded release

From the prison of self-preservation

Our kisses discovered love’s peace


Elegy for Nick



On the road in the white bubble

Moving on from the wake

Onward to Victoria

Duties as a Mum’n’Dad in one

Off with a darling daughter

To flirt with wedding dresses

Rituals condensing

Reflecting

The pace and manner of our time

New love back in town waiting

With promise of summer fun

My mate Nick’s left us behind

A gem of a man with a lilting smile

A tale on his tongue

And a pun on his mind


Mr Walker Unplugged



ghost who walks

woke

from his wasted daze

ripped out rusty sheds

with pain in his heart

shedding pounds

along with idle dreams

in the fellowship

of other drifting phantoms

learning

yearning

safe on an island

of day at a time

strength to recover

spirit aquiver

twinned with another

a glowing growing

healing woman

sparkling with youth

openly sharing

the poetry of love


Spoems



My sister said to me;

“Hughie, look what you’ve started.

Amateur poets spinning verses on the net,

A new kind of Spam – Spoems!”

What a lovely concept!

Can’t be bad methinks

If by accident

A portal has opened up

For folks to express their pain and joy

Through this electronic playground

For a poem should be this;

Music for the eyes

As well as ears

That echoes and resonates

With those whose receptors are in tune


Thanks Erica



Thanks Erica

for opening my eyes

& mind with “Fear of Flying”

bringing me closer

to my sisters – literal & lateral

back in ’98

“Fear of Fifty”

found me a forty-niner

brewing over fifty

and all it signifies

serendipity took me

into a bookshop

where you leapt off the shelf

with your mid-life memoir

and once again

blew me away

sure there are differences

race, religion, gender, space & time

but it’s the universals that transcend

that struck the deepest chords within

found the fearful child

the skinny short nine-year old

half-Welsh, half-English

clever, shy and over-educated

transplanted to rural Australia

in the fifties – worlds away

doctor’s son becomes chameleon

politely through the WASP system

’til the late sixties hit a hidden trigger

rebellion in the slumbering air

forty odd years pass – chameleon survives

making mistakes of the heart

facing the Sir Galahad syndrome

no more rescuing, no more victims

no more marriages, no more divorce

a mantra for the millennium

thanks Erica

for echoing my thoughts

“shit, I’m supposed to be the grown-up”

for clarifying the writer’s right

to take our space and time

because we’ve got to do it

and then,

facing the fear of success

the ego challenge of publishing

the constant revision

thanks Erica

for your gifts


Transplanted Outsiders



The lost Jamaican

Singing happy songs on cue

Looking for love in the wrong face

The crazy Kurdish DJ

Drinking away his name

Fitting a new one for the west

The sad Chinese artist

Slide-showing his pain-filled life

Forcing out the journey once more

The lonely Welsh poet

Brimming with charm and dry wit

Searching for meaning and belief

Uncomfortable in the antipodes

Yet no way back home

Nothing back there

Unbelonging here

Speaking through their art

The pain of their bruised hearts

… the list goes on …

Architects from Delhi

Engineers from Kabul

Therapists from Amsterdam

Mothers from Bosnia

Sisters out of Nairobi

Cab drivers from Rabat

Footballers from Ghana

… the list goes on …

Transplanted outsiders resisting rejection by the host body