[ Fun In The 2010s ]
Amongst all this the world of Fish needs beach reports so beach reports it is. Because. Because it's Fish and because Fish Time doesn't last long. So he's doing it in between the serious. The serious big stuff. The serious big stuff that eats time like a black hole eats light and gravity. And still is.
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WHITE
CAPS
white
caps in line ahead
a
blustery belter of a wind
coming
straight off the southern ocean
arriving
at about shoulder high to the jetty
attacking
like the d-day yanks on omaha beach
whump
whump onto the sand
(ah
but they should’ve had it so good)
standing
on the end
at
the railing
facing
into it
doing
the titanic arms out thing
(well,
no arms out, too cool to be so crass)
wind
making my spray jacket sleeves
clatter
like a fast stick along a picket fence
I tell you Fish
that belter blew my head clean off
that belter blew my head clean off
but
I needed a new one anyway
the
other one was old and tired
and
worn out
it’s
a little known fact that
if
you get your head blown off
in
just the right belter of a whitecap wind
you
get to grow a new one
a
fresh one
it’s
a Rule
a
damn good Rule too
so
I grew a new head
a
Smudge sort of a head
full
of fresh ideas and no accumulated claptrap
I
actually started life with one of those heads
equipped
with lively synapses that went
click click click
making
all sorts of brilliant connections
maybe
they all just wore out
godknows
they’ve done some work
it’s
also a little known fact –
on
the eighth day
God
invented grandkids
it
was on the Monday
the
one after the Sunday when he had to rest
(it’d been a busy week)
he
got up refreshed that morning and said
‘there’s something missing...’
(or words to that effect)
‘...Stars
and Light and the Beasts Of The Fields
and
Man and Woman are all very well but what we need is...
...Grandkids!’
so
he did
made
grandkids
and
it was good
(thanks God, you did well)
T.R.E.
(2014)
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BEACH
REPORT
early
morning late autumn
in
the year of our lord
(don’t you love the cool yesterday-ness
of
that expression!)
twenty
fifteen
sky
a dog’s breakfast
in
umpteen shades of grumpy
a
dodgy breeze that’s everywhere
jetty
deserted, tourists all home
the
beach – ah, it’s a sad sad story Fish
buried
in lumpy brown super stacks
the
stuff the council spin doctor calls
“sea-grass wrack”
but
I’m sorry old son
no
matter how natural you say it might be
it’s
seaweed seaweed seaweed
for
as far as the eye – well, almost
our
summer swimmer shallows totally wrack-ed
by
two days of a perfect storm -
woolly
season-changer westerlies
a
king tide
global
warming
melting
arctic icecaps
short-sighted
coastal housing
sand
dune erosion
stars
out of alignment
sun
spots
brown
coal
too
many cows
too
many people
and
our constant failure
to
vote for the Greens
ohmygod
what fools we’ve been
so
Fish, now we’re paying for it
god
has sent us endless “sea-grass wrack”
that
just looks like mountains of seaweed to me
as
a gentle reminder that the ocean
is
a moody old cuss that’s getting moodier
(but I betcha as good as new next summer, for us)
T.R.E.
(2015)
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FROM
THE JETTY
Monday
morning...
There’s
a bully of a wind
Blustering
in from south of southwest
Bulldozing
up six-foot breakers
That
are hitting the beach
Like
the stukas at dunkirk
And
on the end of the jetty
It's
all wonky walking
And
hanging onto the rail
And
grip your hat like crazy
Or
it’ll be in Mildura by tonight
Geez
I love it when it’s like this
Tuesday
morning...
The
breeze is a whisperer
Slip-sliding
down from Smudge Mansion
Like
it’s got nothing better to do
So
the lazy loafer rollers are fifty feet apart
And
sort of flop on the sand – pppffflll..shhhomp
Geez
I love it when it’s like this
T.R.E.
(2015)
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BLIND
MAN SEES
On
the jetty this morning
I
stood at the rail
and
shut my eyes
like
a blind man
just
to see what a blind man sees
(my
ears worked heaps better than my nose!)
dogs
– no, one dog – barking
making
a rugh rugh rugh-rugh-rugh sound
seagulls
having a major ruckus
sorting
out a pecking order
going
rorhk rorhk rarkh raaaaarkh
a
pump going brongabrongabronga
and
the sea endlessly being the sea
wushing
and wushing and wushing
and
flooshhhhhhhhing onto the beach
not
much else
smell
of bacon, I think
not
much else
it
must take a lot of practice
T.R.E.
(2015)
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FROM
THE JETTY
A
pelican, wings spread,
came
skimming the wavetops
like
a low-flying jumbo jet
looking
like he was just travelling through
from
Brighton to Henley
nearing
the jetty
he
took a sharp banked turn
and
coasted up to the beach
air
brakes deployed
a
perfect landing
right
in front of a Japanese tourist
the
camera was out
the
clacker was racking up pics
at
a rate of knots
while
that pelican did poses and postures
like
he was Mr Percival
then
he calmly waddled up to take off speed
headed
over the breakers
another
sharp turn on one wing tip
and
he went on his way north
like
he was saying
my
work here is done
T.R.E.
(2015)
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OVER
THE SIDE
Time
on my hands
Ireland
waiting
Kerry
mountains calling
One more sleep
Grandma
hair-cutting
All
else done
Packed
and strapped
Done and double done
Out
on the jetty
Seabed
a pale crystal green
See
every crab every fish
Every grain of sand
This
is the water
This
is the day
This
is the summer promised
To Fish and me
Couldn’t
stand all that stillness
Couldn’t
stand all that dappled clarity
So
I jumped over the side
Didn’t even take off my hat
(Hey!
- look at that old fool
swimming in his clothes
dopey old bugger...
Uh-oh,
he’s lost his hat!)
Time
and timing
They
say it’s everything
Now
the plane is waiting
Sorry, there’s always next year Fish
T.R.E.
(2015)
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ON
THE BEACH
this
morning I saw...
three
thirteen year old boys
overflowing
with boy-zips
having
a fairly moronic
(and
hugely testosteronic) competition
involving
going for the perfect forward flip
over
a mound of sand
one
goes run run run jump hup WHOP!
flat
on his back and gasping for air
and
he will be for about twenty minutes
but
all the time knowing
he’s
the winner
and
there was a girl with a camera
and
it was long lensed and seriously black
as
all serious cameras should be
she
seemed to be looking for that shot
the
one we are all prone to look for
the
one that will finally prove
the
existence of God
T.R.E.
(2016)
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MONDAY
MORNING
it’s
a Monday morning
what
can you expect of a Monday?
but
you head for the beach anyway
the
sky was glumpy
and
the colour of old gunmetal
and
my coffee wasn’t made right
and
the café lady had the miseries
and
my knee was aching
and
my big toe was playing up
and
the sea was just a dirty shade of bluuuugh
and
the waves couldn’t agree which way the wind was
so
you feel just a tad put out
and
grumble to yourself
about
old age and worn out joints and grey skies
but
then, on the jetty
there
was a pair of young newlyweds
rugged
up and rosy cheeked and full of life
pic-snapping
everything in sight
and
a little kid with a yellow balloon
who
was flat out chasing seagulls
and
making aarrrrhaaaarrhhaaarrhh noises
like
a master class in exuberance
maybe
... maybe ... maybe ...
maybe
some Mondays just need
an
attitude realignment
T.R.E.
(2016)
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FROM
THE JETTY
on
the jetty this morning
a
sharp kidney-gripper breeze
ruffled
and shuffled the sea
made
spotty rain go tik tik tik
on my showerjacket hoodie
and
everything was in ten shades of grey
it
was a real nose-runner northeasterly
a
wintery windchill wind
that
went straight through me
nearly took my cap and three ribs with it
made
me walk more crabwise that usual
T.R.E.
(2016)
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SUMMER
COMING
Fred
came back today
crab-hunting
and hungry
skimming
the bottom sand
like
a stealth bomber
he
looked grey-er
than
I remember
maybe
he's getting old too
hard
to know how many years
a
manta-ray gets
still,
hard to know
how
many any of us get
he
looks as graceful as ever
the
way he sort of ... flies
as
sweet as any ballerina
hard
not to respect that
I
wonder how the crabs see it?
T.R.E.
(2016)
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JORDAN
On
the end of the jetty today
there
was a new message
It
said –
RIP
TO THE
BEST
GUY
TO EVER
STAND
HERE
JORDAN
DOUGLAS
CAMPLIN
I LOVE YOU
I
hope someone
does one for
me
one day
But
not too soon
T.R.E.
(2016)
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THIS
MORNING
this
morning the sea
is
grey and grumpy
grumpy
grumpy grumpy
but
what do I care
it’s
still my sea
and
if every day it was
young
and brash and bursting
full
of light diamonds
maybe
it’d get boring
T.R.E.
(2016)
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MESSAGES
IN THE SAND
it’s
a springs-in-my-feet
good-to-be-alive
sort of a morning
the
sort of a morning that REALLY speaks to you
(there’s
poetry out here everywhere Smudge
it’s
jumping into my face and saying -
Write
me! Write me!
geez,
I do love it when it’s like this)
three
kids left BIG messages for me in the sand –
“JESUS
LOVES YOU”
“8
RULES By Thomas”
“11
RULES by DYLAN”
they
must’ve known I was coming!
(I
wonder what they mean?)
T.R.E.
(2016)
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FROM
THE JETTY
a
round-shouldered sort of hug-yourself breeze
skimming
across a goosebumpy sea
making
long dirty sandbrown rollers
and
on the hills there’s gloopy grey clouds
sitting
on smudge manor
there’s
two fisherfolk at the edge
(such
eternally optimistic people)
there’s
also a fat man
from one of the sheltered homes
who’s acting odd
but mostly harmless
(but - what if he has
a psychotic episodey thingo
and rushes up behind me
and chucks me over the side?)
(geez
you think some dopey stuff
for no good reason sometimes)
at
the end there’s a message
in
pink chalk on the black tar
“people
love you more than you think”
left
just for me ... maybe
maybe
by some flowery hippie girl
still
full of wishy wisdom
and naivete
or
maybe by the fatman
who’s to say
T.R.E.
(2016)
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QUIET
MONDAY
I
had a quiet Monday
a
day in mid winter
that
thinks it’s spring
brings
out the sun and the tourists
and
makes everyone lazy
including
me
I
saw an old fella in a red hat
a
pretty girl who made herself ugly
smoking
like a chimney fire
(whooo
– do they realise how much it stinks?)
but
not much else
some
snap-happy tourists
and
a mum with a little kid
who
wanted to know where the waves come from
and
not much happened either
other
than grandma
winning
seven hundred and sixty nine dollars
and
forty cents
because
she’s God’s favourite
and
cute
(where DO the waves come from?)
T.R.E.
(2016)
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WHERE
THE WORDS COME FROM, SMUDGE
The
words come out of my brain
They
go down my neck
Around
my shoulder
Through
my arm
Into
my fingers
And
out of my pen
But
that’s just the words
The
marks on the page
Everything
else comes from everywhere else
It
comes in through my ears eyes skin nose mouth
All
the touching tasting smelling hearing seeing stuff
That
mixes in with what was already there
Mixes
in with the bits I arrived with
The
spirit bits
The
bits I got from my ancestors
The
bits that drive the need to mull it all over
And
over and over and capture it
before it turns into smoke and mirrors
Then
craft it into that special something that is
my own voice
And
do it with words
The words that come out of my brain
T.R.E.
(2016)
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