Like the dunny door it
simply bangs incessantly
until your patience thins
You can refuse to hear
it if you fry your brains
in oil with vapid apathy
A fear is that it might be
right and sadly true but
then again it might be wind
You’ve clearly had enough
if you accede too meekly
to its patent bullying
This cringing metaphor is
brazenness acclaimed
as an incipient authority
While I can see it is a
pannier of cabbage leaves
and boiled salty beans
© 2 February 2010, I. D. Carswell
I’ll make no predictions but
to say this flight comes closer
to the ‘you’ you were than the
‘you’ you then became
There is a host of memories
some of them the same as
those you greeted glad in
cause of bonded family
They didn’t realign or care
to run away, watched in
quiet, kept words still that
ached to comfort you
And they will with sober
views relate their warmth
unguardedly, share themselves
with thorough grace
The shame of it remains no
means can give you back those
perfect years – although they’re
there and ever yours to claim
© 2 February 2010, I. D. Carswell
So when are you going to go
fishing then? 115 mm of rain says
nothing’s getting done while the
pleasure of still more to come
remains discrete
And it’s not as if it wouldn't rain
weren’t you there – although, agreed,
enjoyment couldn’t be the
same as standing out in it
soaking up your privileged share
Eight days now you have delayed
a shopping trip in case you miss
a passing shower. Claiming ‘I’m not
that obsessed about it’ doesn’t quite
ring true somehow
This pique of moribund despondency
paints your thoughts grey and makes
you live anxiously; it’s not for me to
say but you to do – at least shopping
takes the legs off of such unease
© 1 February 2010, I. D. Carswell
Showers launder grievous air
redolent with anguish of an
allergy; skin that shrieks from
angry weals breathes easy
in the soothing rain
Atoms bleached from fastness
of the atmosphere are quelled
cannot soar or fuel a fantasy
of agony to itch and swell
into nightmarish days
Although too late to salvage
fragile buoyancy or make up
time that flooded out of sinuses
begrudged in manic flow – there
is a sense of hope reviewed
If everyone is suffered thus
could conscience but be teased?
A way with dignity I wish I knew
to ease the pain that didn’t
mean I passed it on to you
© 31 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
A message came from Aliana Grace
to say the thongs – okay, ‘havaianas’
were unerringly what every little girl
would need first day she walks outside.
Aliana reached three weeks today, tho’
very sweet and much advanced I think
her chances of a promenade outdoors
in pretty pink will be a while delayed.
Yet judging her dexterity in SMS I’ll
have to think again – if she’s a prodigy
her ‘havaianas’ I deduce will certainly
be graced as well as glissé ballet shoes.
© 31 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
Giving me room to decide you think
subtlety suggests key words causally
linked to effects known – for instance
‘too much for one to do alone’ actually
means ‘quit’; I know it could suggest
a bit more too, like ‘get help’ or ‘make
room for some-one else’ but there is
a true history to this cryptic advice
As nice as it is to know you do care
there is still an impasse to deflate in
a predicament less intended than
unsubtly rash; clear thinking initially
would have seen weight was being
added where none ever used to be
© 31 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
Bandaging the wrist of the hand
that cries foul plays mind-games
look at me it says with a white
flag emblazoned – you can’t miss
this face of vulnerability or fail
to see the pain nobly etched
bravery’s for fools tamed to
the taciturn god of reticence
Faced with plague-like aches
contumacious in persistence
do you choose silent obedience
or vicarious praise in sympathy
from insecure watchers who
jealously self-flagellate
© 31 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
It was 2am
by your day clock
meaning would be lost
contractually in
that reasoning
But, hey, be
in the span of this
conscious patronage, no
moment is misplaced
feel the heat
Re-considered
in a trust reviewed, the
new regime decrees
forgiveness is
remote as 2am
© 29 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
I am a man and need not change
the way I am; I’m free of toilet
agonies and trained by mother’s
hand to competence. I disagree
the toilet seat resolves how one
should pee no matter what you
ladies think – my male design
precedes the toilet anyway.
Come to think of it our genders
were established long before this
damn debate began; today no
sanity exists in claims that vanity
is compromised to see the seat
upright. It never bothers me!
© 29 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
I just record these things, he
glibly said, it’s what I see; if
you can take a meaning then
that’s surely fine by me.
First, a face in profile, strong
nose, prominent brow crowned
in bouffant afro, an eye widens
blue – pursed lips exhale a puff
of smoke in cloud exude drawn
slow in hazy strands, features
last to fade the eye and nose.
And then a boxing kangaroo, a
caricature of cockiness with
head upraised and ears alert,
paw in fisted stance. It couldn’t
be a dog as was my want initially
so commonsense and I agreed; a
strong and stable sight it stayed
in view for quite some time.
The last intrigued; a hollow in
the cloud allowed a view beyond.
Lighter greys and pastel blues
outlined the figure from a mural
which I knew; the scene a focus
on creation where just Adam’s
hand and face appeared.
If Michelangelo had meant I see
this marvel in the clouds with
focussed clarity then you can
be assured I’m rightly proud.
© 29 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
memories best left unsaid appraise
yet tears are real and crying
takes a punt at passions blaze
older ones amongst us rein and check
distress; we’ve suffered loss like this
in far too many ways
but she would wish us set as ease
from aching death in words expressed
by gentle magnanimity
and so the pastor says the flowing phrases
tells the tales with gales of laughter
a cheery smile and happy face
and there the sweet consensus stays
to calm the trembling hands upraised
enfolded in her regal grace
© 21 October 2010, I. D. Carswell
In memory of Jean Russell
Morning cock-crow mingles with
a dingo’s trenchant wail; dawn in
breaking yawns and fakes a
clumsy smile as puffs of dirty
clouds against a drably linen sky.
Forgettably a dingy day begins its
present tense; perhaps a hint of
rain exists in coolness yet to be
expressed before the sun returns
and shames an aching metaphor.
If seeking faith in breaking dawn
then go to sleep again; there’s no
relief in knowing truth pertains to
dreams in league with hapless
views retailed by sycophants.
© 25 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
been searching for
an absolute pose
where pain disappears
and sleep’s sweet
it seems less battered
in a moment’s
disconnect by eyes
stochastic shuttering
if it’s there I know
it will be brief
to capture just or
ever hold your peace
© 25 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
It’s been a year, a mood that
never leaves is hid between
the moments when I think of
you with clarity and those
where fear abrades a faultless
view of purity august
Did you ever dare adjust a
measure of this malady? No peace
in conscience known has dwelt
with such a trenchant loneliness;
I’d vet an answer candidly if
you despaired the same as me
I live alone in emptiness and
fear it for my sanity – I hear
your voice deceiving what I know
is not, admitting to an anxious
need too deep entrenched to quell,
a heritage of Hell replete
There is no joy in silent trees even
though they gainfully appease
my angst in noble quietude; it is
the wash beyond benign serenity
I need, the memories that bathe
in want of you prolonged
© 23 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
I dunno if I’m being ridiculous
but the term “un-Australian” is
as un-Australian as our origins allow.
Because a few poofters from Lygon
Street or the ABC might conclude
differently doesn’t mean I’m wrong.
Our diverse History says we’re
not the same; any mug can see
we’re ‘hundreds & thousands’.
And thank whomever for that! Now
if you want to have a few beers and
a barbie this arvo then go on...
It’s summer and this is Australia –
just don’t go round calling others
un-Australian ‘cause they won’t go along
© 26 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
I am centre of the Universe.
Let me explain; that is me,
a separate, unique entity.
Nonetheless it is also true
there IS no centre of Nothing –
how can there be?
But at least we exist, or
I know I do, recognisably,
because I am centre of me.
Were I centre of you
you might not agree
there was room for two.
© 22 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
if they’re yours
balls in a garlic press
imply something recondite
and untenable
based, one proposes
in illusory oohs and
aahs as pressure
is applied
I suggest, sceptic
to the end, clarification
is in sizes – if they fit
don’t spare ‘em
© 21 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
