The Poetry Marathon

Reflections wriggle on the ripples.
Time makes memories in triples.

electrical wires that stopped working some time ago

still go in a direction,

an old boss always awake to tell you what to do or no to do

with firm indifference to what makes sense

still following a path of remembered sight

setting out
the sprinklers
before dawn —
girding our loins
against Anthropocene heat

the dog

was not mine

but it was

my friend

listened only

to its owner

and to me

the dog

would put its paws

on my shoulders

look me in the eye

and lick my face

and I would stand my

ground, five years old,

much smaller,

unafraid

Sharp angles, empty spaces,
when your thoughts have been beaten by the sound
of endless chatter and permanent novelty
and more of this nothing
to click on and click through
to tap with your flesh and make electric your dreams
to be categorized, sorted,
and fully known.
And it’s a fight
to drag your mind through the scribbles and static
to make outwards your inner disorder
for others to live in.

Morning best part of the day

When you can sleep and cuddle on up

You later awaken, and you say thank you Lord

For this morning star you bring with unconditional love

The one who holds you near to you and closer

Goodmorning ABBA, I love you with all of my heart.

(from the title Coffee & Change)

I sometimes dreamed of days before, the heavy-eyed early morning drive.

Turning back to academia, the long hoursof winding highway,

rewarded with a seat of hard-backed vinyl,

a cheap crooked table, and coffeeshop coffee, fresh brewed.

I can still smell the rain as it ran down the windows outside, the coffee steaming

and so many bills wadded in my pocket, a brief respite sitting still.

Sleepy-warm in a student cafe alone,

and taking for granted the temporary relief of hot coffee on a chilled morning.

Tongue of Fire

His uncouth tongue spits fire,

Then it spits petrol inflaming the fire

Encircling our enclave.

His tongue unearths ghosts,

Bitter ghosts roving

In yesteryears’ graveyards.

They did not die in peace,

They would not rest in peace.

So they angle for war.

Yet, citizens crave his tongue.

‘Speak to us,’ they scream.

And when he does,

His tongue threatens genocide,

Awakens revisionists scavenging

Dustbins for discarded morsels of history

To feed their nihilistic appetite.

This fire, if unquenched,

Will leave no one unscathed.

Two girls sneaking out of the house,                        A gift from dad’s prankster friend,                       Truck straight ahead.

On tiptoes goes the older, the younger giggles.
Pop, goes the spark plug top.
Wires wrapped around, top and hood replaced.

Two girls peeking out the window,
Dad getting in for work,
With a key turn, magic happens.
Whoo, whoo, whoo!
Crackle, crackle, crackle!
Smoke billowing.
A glorious tradition started.