Postcard Haiku:
under southern skies
love dances on salty feet
sand between her toes
some will be liars
others may crave the hunter
i’m not reading blake
Copyright September 2019
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Blue Jaguar
I was asked to write a modern day version of Bluebeard for a course on fairy tales I have been taking. Here it is….
On the day Ronald finished his sentence and walked out of gaol, Perdita waited anxiously in the blue jaguar, ready to pick him up. She noted his scowl as he walked across the road.
“I told you not to go in that garage!” he spat with venom, “I told you!!”
“But Ronnie”, she wheedled, “My car has a flat battery and I needed to come and get you. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
They drove home in silence, Ronald’s fingers drumming on the dashboard all the way.
When they pulled into the driveway of their hobby farm, situated many kilometres from any neighbour, Ronald grabbed the keys and ran to the extra-large garage set apart from the house. Anxiously he counted the cars, 1,2,3,4,5,6. He let out a sigh of relief. All 7 accounted for.
He found the gun he’d hidden 6 months before and turned to face Perdita. “I told you” he said as he shot. Bang. Bang. Bang.
“I know” chorused the line of bridely ghosts as they converged and swallowed him whole, “We heard you the first time!”
Perdita walked out from the protective ghostly wall and smiled. She had 7 stately cars to sell and an around the world cruise to catch.
“Thanks girls” she said to the ghosts, “Lovely to have met you.”
Copyright August 2019
Poem For The Sad Person Inside
I wanna cat so bad I have a cat sized hole scratched into my heart
Copyright August 2019
Over Breakfast
The voice is shrill, piercing the early morning quiet. Cautiously I peek out from under my doona, ears alert for another cry, eyes straining to see in the pale morning light. Was that a person in the corner?? I peer intently, alert to any potential movement. Finally, I let my muscles relax. Only my dressing gown hanging from the scratched and weather-worn suit of armour I’d bought at a garage sale yesterday. I really must learn to control my emotions.
A sweet and pungent aroma emanates from the kitchen. I follow my nose, hunger luring me in. I hope Manfred is on cooking duty today, he makes the best breakfast burritos. Alas, I see it is Luigi. Everything with Luigi is either underdone or burnt to a crisp. By the cold and greasy mess on the table, today is a particularly bad one. I’ll give it a miss.
I put on my coat, taking note of my ink-stained fingers. Proof of my writing blitz. Chapter seven finished around three this morning. Satisfaction merges with hunger and an urge for a pot of lemon myrtle tea. I walk across the road to Mulga Bill’s Diner. Mulga Bill specialises in Texalian food, a Texan/Australian mix of which Vegemite steak is one of many delights. Breakfast is a simpler option. Tea and toast and a chinwag.
After I’ve eaten my toast and drank half a pot of tea, Mulga sits down and begins to regale me with local gossip. We are deep into the marriage difficulties of the Lawsons from two doors up when we hear sirens and screeching tyres. Three police cars and an ambulance draw up outside my place. We watch in silence as Luigi is taken away in handcuffs. What has happened? And where is Manfred?
I try to enter my building but am stopped by the police. My protest falls on deaf ears. It is not until I show her my shiny, silver gleaming, freshly cut key, that I am allowed to enter the house.
The police are all huddled around the kitchen door. Some look a little green about the gills and a small pool of vomit sits in the hall. I push them aside, anxious about Manfred. The kitchen seems the same as when I left half an hour ago, but as I look more carefully, I realise that the breakfast mess on the table has form. An arm here, a toe poking up there and over in the oven, now that the door is open, I see Manfred’s head with an apple stuffed in his mouth.
I think back to this morning’s cry and am glad I didn’t get up early.
Copyright august 2019
