The best days of my life
What is it about Bryan Adams and his song ‘Summer of 69’? Why do the lyrics linger? Was it 90° in the shade and the harbinger of the end Of the golden weather, or
The power of the Lake
The power of the Lake lingers still So many years beyond its fascination Ending; it was there in the beginning, An unveiling of towering sensitivities, A flowering of gentle obsession. The town that grew
Partisanship and politics
Were I not a patriot, which of course I am, I would explain Just how the term remains a sticking point within my craw, How it contains a core of prudish mockery, dissembles jingoistic
Pedestrian ambitions
My thoughts are like the boots randomly arrayed In the rack outside the window, some in pairs neatly Stacked, comfortably worn with a relaxed air of Confidence, some scattered in patterns of bizarre Relationships,
Mountains of Delight
The problem was the manner of choice (or whether there was a choice for that matter) As you had taken those options to yourself, Choosing as you had to do, and as it was
No further slice of me
Enduring an inguinal hernia repair can Drive you to despair, it is a monumental Nonsense; in my defence I hadn’t lived Through one before, couldn’t be sure What it meant, should have feared Not
Does your semen smell like camembert?
Does your semen smell like camembert? It’s just A thought I had today at lunch, I must have had The hunch before, perhaps reversed, and then Forgot. It’s not the sort of thought you’d
Strawberries again today
The red berries wreak an awesome spell that some would dread; Others, weak and soulless, must succumb, they treasure with the eyes The plump and soulful fruit, the shape inspires a heady heart that
The same embrace
We talked with family last night, not mine or yours Specifically but ours, the ones we love familiarly. When Little Jake (though not so little now) was heard to say, “Goodbye, I gotta go,”
Moocooboola Dam
For more than a billion years we’ve been Nearly out of water; sincerely, a need repeatedly Exposed in calamitous reports of the tragic-comic sort Glibly cognising a collective ‘we’ as the principle cause And
The Price of Fame
Do I really love you? So let me guess, you’ll think I’m easy prey If I say, okay I do – but it wont get in the way of my impending fame; I will
Cherry bomb
I said goodbye and went to bed to die; I never knew that they had lied – was quite Surprised they didn’t seem to care, I agonised, Refused to cry although in time the
Just wasn't right
You lift the lid in awe, a seat and lid Upon an inside stall where you can go, Quite unlike the outside loo at home, But oh the smell, the hellish smell So rank
The perfect cup
We were born of tea, our mum could drink fourteen Cups a day, an awesome feat to try to rationalise, Beyond belief unless you knew where we had one She would have two. The
We, The Living
We, the living, buried deep in selfish grief Strive to comprehend the passing of your hour, Minds are numbed, aghast and grasping For some sense of revelation, Seeking analgesic succour in our weeping, Searching