Musings (construction, reconstruction and perception)

Does the sun rise for me,

Or am I rushing to greet it?

Does the moon forget to touch me

As she slips below the horizon,

Or have I simply failed to watch anymore?

Does a friend slight me,

Or do I fail to understand his pain?

Does a relationship turn sour,

Or was there nothing there to begin with?

Does the old soldier sip quietly on a rum

Because he needs the drink,

Or does he salute dead mates?

Is life a construction site,

or a constant reconstruction site?

.

.

.

I’m not sure…

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The Voice

Inside my head is a voice

I don’t think it’s mine

It holds conversations –

In whispers.

I’m not privy to its plans

And I’m not sure I want to be.

Just yesterday I caught it snickering –

As I fumbled with my laces.

‘Take them out’ it hissed.

I knew what it wanted,

So I quickly hurried to the street

And the deadening hubbub

Of a peak hour bustle.

It was rude with its comments.

I was embarrassed.

Wondering if others knew

That it railed against their very existence –

Sometimes I confront it,

‘You can’t speak that way’ I’ll say.

It just laughs and tells me to fuck off.

I know it wants me to end it –

Take us both over the edge of a cliff,

Or maybe bleed into a hot bath.

But I’m not ready.

I’m hoping it moves out soon –

Not sure how much longer

I can keep saying     no.

 

*photo by Lyne

Nature’s Bordello

Inspecting the new home

Lewins Honey eaters dash passionately

Between Callistemon, Lilly-pilly and Brush-box.

Wings lightly touch, as branches are cleverly avoided.

Excitedly tumbling among the leave in rapturous capture –

An extended chorus signals success.

–

Rainbow Lorekeets argue amongst

The Dawson River blooms,

And then make peace, silently and gently,

Almost hidden in the shady corner

Of a Eucalyptus Grandis.

–

The Spangled Drongo tests his metallic voice,

High in the branches of the Grevillea Robusta.

Cleverly displaying his midnight black plumage

Against the golden flashes of silky flowers –

Until he woos the young lady and takes her quickly.

–

Tiny stingless bees, hungry for love,

Tease the pollen from ripe flowers.

Gently probing the soft folds

Of innocent blooms –

Then withdrawing to carrying away their prize.

–

A Common Koel screams from the treetop –

Desperately seeking a suitor.

While Noisey Miners hold deep discussions in frenzied groups,

Deciding who will be the new queen.

Raucous Kookaburras, in the late afternoon,

Under a breathless sunset –

Announce the close of business,

In Natures springtime bordello.

Note to self…

Don’t forget tonight

I wrote letters on my hand     To remind me of the time that     I need to be beside you     On the train into the city,     So that we can hear the music     Of a man they call Bo Didley –     But before I get to see you     I need to get my new shirt,     It’s still in with the cleaners     So I’ll pick it up and cruise home     And then I’ll come a get you.     I’m sure you’ll be real pretty ‘cos     That’s just the way you are –     But it’s getting hot and sweaty on     The bus ride to the cleaners     And I’m thinking of the time     That we went out for pizza     and now that’s all I want to do –     but my hand just tells me different     and keeps me on the path,    that I must follow from the start –     If I’m to have a chance at keeping,     Just a small piece of the deeply loving heart and my once in lifetime righteous gift that’s you.