Cannibal

DSCF4445

 

In my bathroom, directly under the exhaust fan switch, lived Bobbie, a Daddy-long-legs. We would converse when I went to wash my hands or clean my teeth. He became quite agitated whenever I turned on the fan, twirling around in a fit and, I imagine, hurling curses my way. He lived happily for a couple of weeks in this prime position.

One morning I awoke early and entered the bathroom to find that Bobbie had been eaten, only the legs were left.

{See bottom Daddy-long-legs above}

There were two cannibal culprits. One was of a similar size as Bobbie and the other was huge…mega daddy-long-legs.

Now my money was on the mega-daddy but the smaller one was closer to Bobbie. It was hard for me to deduce just who the cannibal was. Until I could charge the culprit with murder/cannibalism I had to watch them closely and see who would benefit.

For two days they stayed in the position I found them. Like many a detective before me I began to question my reasoning and turned to drink…tea.

Finally, the hierarchy changed. Mega-daddy moved into prime position {see above} and tiny-daddy hung down lower, halfway between the switch and the floor. And so they will remain until tomorrow, when I clean the bathroom, and remove them both outdoors.

In the meantime I’ve called mega-daddy, Blake, and if you’ve read Jack Heath’s Timothy Blake books, you will know why.

The End.

 

 

Copyright July 2019

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sans pen sans paper sans hope

i’d really like to write a poem

it wouldn’t have to rhyme

i’d like to write about fear

about ignorance and greed

and that curious ability to decide that someone else deserves no pity or help or respect or even the slightest consideration

about how children are left to starve on cheap empty food and cheap empty television

bare walls and violence and old clothes and shoes

i’d like to complain about religious folk who blame the poor for not being pious enough and that is why¬† god has not delivered food and riches and shelter

conveniently not looking at themselves or inside themselves or anywhere but their bank accounts

i’d really like to write a poem about the stupidity of allowing self centred fools to decide the zeitgeist of now

but i can’t

my poems are sad and have left me alone to rot

sans pen

sans paper

sans hope

 

 

 

Copyright May 2019

I’ve Stopped

I don’t want to read anymore

for the wind blows

and the rain falls on hollow ears

I’ve stopped listening to the trees

 

my skin itches as the ants creep

circumnavigating the house

intent on a mission from gaia or god

I’ve stopped worrying about the ants

 

a single drop of sweat dances

erratically down my right thigh

it’s the humidity, you know, not the heat

I’ve stopped thinking about climate change

 

my heart still beats despite the years

sending blood to lost extremities

my gaze has centred somewhere within

I’ve stopped wishing for better days

 

 

 

Copyright March 2019

 

Bachelor of Arts

afternoon, after the heatwave breaks

 

humidity on the skin

clammy droplets of sweat

sliding down

 

outside, the wind roars

through the gum trees

and the chimes in the gardenia

 

above, the ceiling fan whirrs

stirring particles

from the undusted porcelain dolls

 

little room for feet

two chairs, two tables, one book shelf

and the computer desk

 

mum’s nudes on the wall

a bedazzled orange cockatoo

and a musty old degree

 

bachelor of arts

 

 

 

Copyright February 2019

 

 

Poem written for an online course I’m doing on how to make a poem.

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