Walking the Middle Of The Road

 

[ 2024 and still on his feet ]

        Okay, he's survived The Plague but somehow it sucked a bit more Life out of him but geez that's how it works folks. You just get fuckingwell old. If you're lucky. So shut up and get on with it. It ain't too bad, all it needs is a bit of attitude and some self-discipline and the will to keep getting out of bed at 5am every morning and putting on some clothes and checking the stars and making some toast then scooting off down the coast a way and jumping into some barista beans and a do a catch-up and pat a dog or two. Keep on your feet. They're just about stuffed but he keeps putting 4-5 kms behind him every day anyway. Walking down the middle of his road. And every day he's still making sure the sea is there like it has been for the last million years and will be for the next million when not much of this week's bullshit will count for anything. So in the meantime, kick The Ghost back into life on a regular basis and write something, even if it's getting a bit twee bland mundane cute-sy home-sy what I saw today-sy, even if you've lost your '70s lightning, even if there's no more than an audience of one. Because (as they say) in the beginning was the words, and in the end there will be the words, and in between there's a whole alphabet waiting to be squiggled into one more new thing. It's still what you do best old son. For what it's worth. You never know, you might even yet squeeze out one more richter-scale rumbler.

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            CAUSE-AND-EFFECT
      
      annual extraction done
      blood results in
      everything okay … except
      (stuff me what now?!)
      some vitamin thingy too low
      and your calcium too
      what’s that mean?
      goes on about osteo-something
      then “broken hips” for emphasis
      geez, okay now I’m listening
      so, buy this supplement
      take one daily
      yes doc no sweat
      geez they’re the size of a house brick!
      no way my mean little swallow-tube
      gunna cope with this one
      but, give it a shot
      choke gasp cough hawk spit
      plan B?
      so, break it in halves
      each only half a house brick
      but now as rough as one too
      choke gasp cough hawk spit – twice
      plan C?
      okay, put the two halves in water
      let them dissolve while I’m doing the dishes
      then, wipe up one knife first
      (totally out of sequence I have to say)
      use the handle as a crusher-upper
      whunka whunka whunka upandown
      swirl it about – glug glug glug
      geez, tastes like chalk and bloody baking soda!
      (altho’ he has no idea what either of those taste like)
      but, job done - except now
      the breakfast cutlery is being done first
      plates and cups last
      (ohmygod what next?!)
      life significantly changed
      all because I got a blood test
      which makes one think about
      that butterfly thing
      y’know - its dying four thousand years ago
      being the cause of russia kicking the shit outa ukraine
      or something
      action and reaction
      cause and effect
      the basic chaos of the universe
      revealed once again
      
          ©  T.R.E.  2023
 


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           MAGPIE MORNING
      
      barely spring
      warm sun just up
      but air full of contrary breezes
           waiting to change back
      
      a magpie
      one of last year’s clutch
      out on her own in suburbia
           trying on life, singing
      
      she’s making the rounds of the gutter
      picker picker pick
      proud strut saying I’ve got this mum
           just like you showed me
      
      she stops and points to the sky
      rips out a great song about time and nectar
      and it comes out of her throat
           like a symphony to the bush
      
      she stops at the back of a parked car
      pick pick, marvellous what’s in a gutter mum
      but her young head is by the tailpipe
           as she ohso confidently ignores the dynamics
      
      keys jiggle, door shuts
      she pauses, tilts back and just about arrogantly
      pulls an anthem out of her kitbag
           that’d stop traffic
      
      the car starts and WHAM!
      industrialisation hits her full in the face and
      whee-hup geez she makes two feet of daylight
           straight up into the air
      
      car drives off
      she lands and dithers about on the verge
      waits
           collecting her thoughts and decorum
      
      then
      tilts her head back and whangs out her best
      best honeygold warblesong ever dreamed up
      the one she calls
           great day in the mornin’
       
                 ©  T.R.E. 2023
 


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            WHY THE GREAT JD SANG

    
       about seven
       early autumn morning
       just after the clocks go south
       sun nearly on the make, and it’s
       my Lord (ah, the late great JD)
       what a morning!
       my Lord, what a morning!
       my Lord, what a morning!
           when the sun begins to shine
    
       pink streaks straw wash blue the rest
       stepping it out is a gift from god I swear
           (ah, back only a distant grumble of discontent)
    
       magpie, bookended by two mynahs
       doing their thing whatever that is
           (why do they have to put a man
            on every magpie?)    

       young woman with the sweetest face
           (there'll surely be a place for
            her in someone's story)    

       a walking frame hanging from a street sign
       (you have to ask why, why why why,
           was it really funny, you fuckwit?
           and where do you find an unattended walker
           at short notice?)
    
       bus stop, young family mum dad two smalls
       waiting (squirming) with day out backpacks
       mum sitting, diddling on her mobile, dad above on watch
       and his territorial eyes meet mine
       and they say What?! like a sentry, and I turn away
           (sorry dad, just thought
            you all looked so ... sweet)    

       but then
       that’s walking for you
           scattered with bits of The Mystery
    
                  © T.R.E. 2023
    
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            SMALL WINGS
      
        It doesn’t take much
        to give small wings
             to any day…
      
        a clear sky and a vault of stars
        cloud bank over the ranges the colour of straw
        the smell of hay in the air
        or Kerry peat
        hanging from my imagination

        see the ocean, hear the ocean, feel its mood
             before the sun is up     
     
        get a hug
        give a hug
      
        have the sweetest kid on earth say
             ‘hi grandpa’
      
        wrestle the Hard Sudoku into submission
      
        dine well at lunch
             (lamb and feta meatballs – mmmm)
             (or pork steaks)
             (or Jess’s corned brisket
                 with cabbage and hot English)      

        be ache free
             (a glory hallelujah day)
      
        read a funny totally tweaky bit of fiction
             (that probably isn’t)
             (like “Fornication” by Macted)
        and write something at least as good
      
        be given a smile by a pretty girl
             in passing, for no reason
      
        savour stuff, like…
             good coffee
             the sea breeze
             a passing dolphin
             the timelessness of the rocks’ stories
             wave physics
             dogs that think Beach is Heaven
                  and rightly so      

        yep, doesn’t take much
      
               ©  T.R.E. 2024
      
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        [ the last one goes in here ]



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