Words In The Time Of Plague

 

    [ 2022 and fading ]

     Fading fading fading. Like his peers around him. Hardly a week goes by and someone he knows that's about his age falls off the perch or at least starts talking about things that are never going to end well. He blames it on the Plague, but really? - it's just his time. His time, and their time, to fade. Had to happen sooner or later. The Plague has disrupted all of his sacred blessed routines, and unassociated bits needing some remedial patching and stitching didn't help. But he's simply starting to feel his age. And the first thing to go has been his vitality. Not the jump-y write-y stuff in his head, that's ticking along okay enough, but his muscles and bones aren't keeping up. Or that other thing. His psyche? Call it that anyway. The V8 dual-Stromberg hi-lift cam engine that used to make him want to explore everything. Go places. Make fire. Look under rocks. Lay rubber. Now he's a pretty content half of a long term Darby & Joan but struggles to even break in a new cafe. Which is a bit pathetic. No idea what he's going to stick in here. Guess we need to be thankful that it's something. (Get your shit together you dimwit!)

 

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           STANDING, UNCLOTHED
      
       Hey!
       old man in the mirror
       are you really me?
          skin like a fallowed paddock
          saggy baggy mottled
          scales scars liverwarts
          assorted other decorations of Time
          eyes gone the colour of wheatbelt dirt
          jowels a little sunken
          ear hair sprouts everywhere
          tangle of eyebrows
       has it really come to this?
      
       old man in the mirror
       am I really you?
          and what will I see
          if - at my peril - I step back
          ohmygod mygod
          skinny legs skinny arms
          thin wristed no bum
          one dodgy knee
          and then those weathered nether bits
       are you bloody kidding me?
      
       old man in the mirror
       more importantly…
       am I even still in there?
          that bird of youth that was me
          that overconfident slightly arrogant
          cluster of hormones
          with his curiosity and his heart
          head full of engines
          wheels cogs gears ever on the turn
          restless to be going
          going to where the words are
       and is there still some fuel in the tank?
      
       old man in the mirror
       is this some joke?
          if it is
          I’m not laughing
       (but I know I should be)
      
       so, all I can ask is…
       are you - old man - the price I had to pay
          for this godalmighty adventure
          for this once-in-a-universe journey
       and for the gaining of some wisdom?
      
       ©  T.R.E. 2022
      
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            LONG WHITE CLOUD 

     I woke up this morning
     (always a good start)
     and found I had
     a perfect map of New Zealand
     (lamb chop and rasher of bacon)
     on my arm
     all done in lovely port-wine hues
     (where do these things come from?)
     actually it looks kinda cool
     rather think I’ll be sad to see this one fade
     as they do
     (thank god)
     as mostly these splotches
     just make you look…
        old
        worn out
        and I’m not 

     not yet 

         ©  T.R.E. 2022

           >>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

         SOME MORNINGS 

     some mornings
     you fear that The Ghost is dead
     okay, not dead so much as…
        absent
        on leave
        buggered off
        gone somewhere more stimulating
     than my head 

     so, what do we do about it old son?
     other than…
        stagnate
        whine
        maudle
        roll about in the sense of loss
     like a pig in mud 

     tell you what you do…
        you stop
        you read
        read something great
        great as in heartsome
        heartsome and handsome
        their Ghost in action
        alive and kicking
        raising dust and cockeychaff
        and memories
     and rumbling in the sky like the god it is

          ©  T.R.E.  2022

            >>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

            IN ENGLAND SOMEWHERE 

     There’s a place in England somewhere
     a village beside a road and a stream
     a small village as villages go
     maybe huddled and straggled against the hip
     of something called Mellingape Tor
     and probably in Dorset or Devon
     with woods nearby, and green fields
     moors just over the horizon
     not far from the coast
     so the smell of the ocean
     sometimes touches the houses and the people
     and they hear the croddle-crattle
     of the backwash on the shingle
     when the wind is from the southwest 

     But you can’t live in that place somewhere in England
     incomers can’t, even emigrants can’t
     and surely not weathered expats
     born and raised on wheat and dirt
     it’s just too damn faraway faraway 

     that place somewhere in England
     it’s only for escaping to
     when... 

           © T.R.E. 2022

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            CROOKED 

      I ask you
      how can it be
      that a man
      (a reasonably observant man)
      can get to Old Age
      (or thereabouts)
      and not notice
      that his ears are on crooked? 

          © T.R.E. 2022

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            MORNING WALK

       
      seven am early winter
      from the north a cold breeze
      a desert breeze, down from Alice Springs
       
      no sun yet maybe not at all today
      just a streaky sky
      done in short-life parrot pinks and old straw
       
      underfoot the last of autumn’s leaves
      crabapple leaves the colour of mango
      and deep russets like patina on old copper
       
      a solitary magpie lifts her head high
      belts out her black and white rendition
      of what we’re both feeling
       
      great day in the morning
       
           © T.R.E. 2022
       
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          KERRY ON MY MIND
       
      sunday morning six-thirty
      coastal mist hangs in stilled air
      street lights smeary eyes
      behind ghosts of norfolk pines
      that loom large at every hand
       
      long lazy rollers breaking whop whop
      whissshh-hah of the backwash
      air muted like when it snows
      for some reason it makes me think of Kerry
      Kerry and West Cork
      my other home
      and the mystery of why that is
       
      but here … this moment
      as spirit-moving as it is
      something is missing
      it’s the smell of the peat-smoke
      peat-smoke and … and … what?
       
      that piece you can never … quite … grasp?
       
            ©  T.R.E. 2022
       
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             THE CROSSING
      
     on my own
     on foot
     crossing Anzac Highway
     three lanes this side three the other
     big median strip in the middle
        what could be easier
      
     there’s one car coming down the fast lane
     and quite a tsunami some way back
     (but not all that far back)
     doing a fast getaway from the lights
        like Aryton Senna on steroids
      
     so, what’s to judge here – I mean –
     for a bloke still with all his faculties?
        - the velocity of the solitary car
        - how far away it is
        - where will it be when I’ve carefully
             and mindfully
             crossed two (temporarily) empty lanes
             while allowing her to pass
             as you do
      
     yep, a piece of piss in any language
     as long as everyone does the rational
        and the expected
      
     nup, she decides this decrepit old fart
     can NOT be trusted to cross the fucking road
     without her patronising assistance
     (dead set sure I’m incapable of basic timing)
     so she pulls up
     PULLS BLOODY UP!
     IN THE FAST LANE!
     tsunami of drivers bearing down
     all late for something damn important
        lady you must be outa ya mind
      
     momentarily dumb struck
     gather my incredulous and scrabby thoughts
     duck across in front of her
     with as much aplomb as possible
     but with mouth now working ungraciously
        and NOT saying - thank you madam
      
     so, I ask you, was I most pissed
     at her driving stupidity
     or the fact that she thinks I look SO old
        that I need special care?!
      
     the jury is still out
          (but I know the verdict)
      
               © T.R.E. 2022

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             A DREAM
     
      a hooded figure like a monk
      robe head to toe
      coming after me
      frightened at first
      especially when he came right up to me
      but then I was lying on the ground
      and the monk (Death) laid on top of me
      trying to completely envelop me
      but when he did that I started to laugh
      because the robe was empty
      hollow
      and I said - “You don’t have any bones”
      and kept laughing
             then I woke up
     
              © T.R.E.  2020
     
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