Cove Road

potholes on Cove Road have me
thinking – too irregular to assume
a conspiracy yet I dream a dire
Machiavellian plot to destabilise
this graciously gravelled road 

locals aren’t staying away and the
route has patrons addicted to a cute
reverse snobbery gained by arriving
in a ute with muddy dirt-track
travel-stains clearly evident 

then there’s me, an ‘Old Cove’ too,
with elegance lost on tarseals coterie
the outré flamboyance déclassé to
a cohort so certain of their age and
the speed it takes to arrive safe 

bugger the cost I say – defying
tyre-eating incidents on a road with
more character evident than the main
route radar cops lurking churlishly
in tendentiously mufti cars
© 5 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Perchance A Fable

tell it any way you wish – 
perchance a fable of a fox who
failed to comprehend a roosting
hen whose will prevailed – any
way you wish excepting that
which blinds your eyes to me

we see the same with views
reflecting modesty explaining
where we stand. I am a wiser
soul I say because you came
into my life, accepted me and
let me stay; I stand a taller
entity from what you gave

the size of wisdom thus belies
your modest deference – you
make me wise in humbleness
and I agree – together we’re
a measurement that bests the
whom we’d want to be
© 25 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Georgia’s Shopping Trip

Georgia’s first shopping trip with an eye to
grander design than gender stereotypy was
browsing Bunnings Warehouse offerings;
that she had fun is not in doubt, the grin
confirms her delight while Shaun showed
character becoming of a father proud squiring
his daughter midst bargains magnanimously
tiered higher than wry aspirations

Question hinted is to whom benefit ascribes;
from where I sit this streets-ahead-of-the-pack
wee lass sees babysitting duties derive from a
comfortably scenic, take-it-as-read purview of
hardware softening into pleasure of easily
applied and palpable home-maker ideas
© 24 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Plug And Play

presumptive anarchy redressed
in options sanctified by sets of
structured plans and rules you’ll
never see or likely comprehend
– that’s ‘plug and play’

but then who cares if gaudy
attributes affect your meek
ability; clever exhortations
play upon naivety which says
you won’t regret this extra
piece to make a simple room
seem a Roman colosseum

an industry with aims to take
your bread in confidence and
yet abets anxiety in claiming
what you need includes a rule
where best at least is what you
must expect; and what you
get exceeds ability to even
think you really understand

insightfully the fee to plug & play
is usury, in all humility you pay
your bucks for purchases offset
as jests – and in sincerity I paid;
the cost, $80 to find a Bluetooth
mouse which wasn’t lost!
© 22 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Like Souls Lost

like souls lost in space
denatured feelings subjugate
with endless homilies
of what you used to be

isn’t me, you try to say
adulterating truth with
circumstantial evidence
denying that complicity

but there’s no chance
you’re off the hook, so to
speak, ad lib addiction’s
a Prima Donnas’ game

nevertheless gamesmanship
accedes to temporal strategies
surpassing even the space
you’re bounded in
© 4 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Outside Mat

this faithful companion takes outrageous
liberties as matter-of-fact; they’re gifted
for being a good mate, doesn’t need to
dwell on that. So there he is – napping
comfortably on the old rocking chair
where he’s in touch with his territory –
thus explained without prejudice it
makes a lot of sense, but...

a nosey penchant wears thin when he
leaves debris on the floor after fossicking
the rubbish bin – explaining warily “When
you appeared I was on my way to the door...”
suggesting he doesn’t see an issue – ‘tho
he’ll sleep on an outside mat to be sure
© 21 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Safe Appreciation

that view, sweet girl, dare I say,
reeks of raging scenes where
bodily invasion screams theses
logically spelling aloud the
grievous words “death knell”

you meant it would allay my
fears for future sex and yet
it kills – left me indecorously
as buried as a corpse with no
good way to graciously concede

with age comes a corollary of
failure I accept insidious as
made to measure me – and
that’s a virtuality that sets
the stage for future dreams

but then the ramp becomes
incredibly so steep, an accent you
disguised as sacred sovereignty
will toll a knell for dilettante
penchants behoving me

see the glory, so it says –
appreciate, but reach into the
space with baleful hands intent
where signs have bade ‘no entry’
and you’ll really weep!
© 20 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Resonates Our Solitude

Interesting conversations sipping tea
in bed, a rustic gypsy-runes duvet
arrayed with modesty impeccably
intact, rain outside a lesser burden
now – the chocolate-box allure adroitly
played and lost in vapid conscience
stakes; we’ll stay abed to hang the
effigy with desultory laziness 

beyond the picture window-panes
a misty grey compares with energy
restrained in boughs of leaf that
breathe a soulful calming mood – this
morning wakes in soothing sound
resonates our solitude
© 20 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Riding Waves

nobody sees the treachery
no-one weighs the crash
of crushing waves ashore;
it’s merely too depressing
to equate a consequence
of cognisance with passions
raw and surging breaks

and yet you surf the crests
belying agonies too deep
for sufferance to quell alone;
freed expression wrests a
sanity you know is faked –
you ride the raging waves
denying what it takes away
© 17 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

What Am I Doing Here

hadn’t planned to be – 
sort of got told it was
expected of me; asked
in all innocence what it
meant of a vague face
allegedly taking interest
and found a lie, what do
you mean you don’t know?

Still dealing with that –

why is it that a scrutineer
morphs into guiltless
bystander the instant
you establish time and
place. Hey, who’s driving
this thing? If it isn’t you
and it isn’t me what am
I doing here?
© 27 May 2010, I. D. Carswell

Unity

If you aren’t caught
in their energy you’re
probably dead – all but
anyway; either you flee
the broom or bathe in
forbearance
they chatter resplendently
dialogues entwining, a
natural-as-breathing
instinct of unity
collaborating in duty
shortening the day
Far be it from you to
dishonour this peace, stay
your maleness with grace
let these daughters
of the equinoxes
be your serenity
© 13 July 2010, I. D. Carswell
For my ‘daughters’ Hayley & Sasha

Sage Like

a sage-like afterthought, a
fêted stage-left exit too late
for the encore yet substantially
before the main event – but then
it was eloquently interlaced with
insight – a luminary’s prescience
of eminence, a height to be
attained

blinding as it may be to
see the way so clear its
hindsight predicates an
afterthought which won’t
alter the way or change
where the eyes still see
© 15 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Lesson For Today

Awake and waiting for the sun to rise
hides in the lee a tsunami of emotion
generated by a wee lass of less than three
 
She doesn’t measure the day in opportunity or
see things to grasp like intangible straps hanging
in the aisle of a bus to steady progress
 
When she wakes the relativity of calm takes
a new turn – we will all pay cuckoo to a tune
she orchestrates with effortless efficiency
 
And then her infant sister brings back dignity
in a wry-faced burp fresh from the breast – tyranny
ends in a flushed smile, peace returns
© 9 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

This Waking Day

Waking with a sense that passion has a better
case than feeling makes this day in breaking
more an end; where we begin is pride of place
in lending ears to origins. There is no easy way
extrapolating what or which will be from here.
I take my view from common-sense expressed
as scent or touch or taste or seeing things with
hearing clearly placed to make effete amends.

And then the glow within begins; driven out of
fragile sleep by zealous energy it eats the hand
and cracks complacency; as ardent as a quake
creating shocking revelations, mocking senses
stretched beyond imagination, toying viciously
forsaking all pretensions of this waking day.
© 14 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Pearl Jubilee

The smiling eyes beguile like precious gems
within a field of winsome happiness – and
yet the sadness etched by death prevails as
Alan tells the tale of how his faithful friend 
deceased; he is a man with whom I am in
all respects at instant peace.

I well remember ANZAC Day and where we
met, the way in jest he dances tall of hand
embracing me with cheerfulness, teeth are
bared but worn a-shine with charming grace.
For sure he’s kissed loquacious by the blarney
stone to be my ‘China White’.

Pythagoreans ne’er could expect perfection
such as ours in sweet embrace, a fusion totally
in harmony, proportioned neat and packaged
there for all who would be dared to look to
ever see. I love you Peter Patrick, dearest one,
– especially upon this day of Pearl Jubilee.
© 17 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

For Sasha Bernice Davis and Alan

Belonging

too essentially a homeless
soul adrift between places idealised
as truly discrete and the ostensibly
redeemable pretence of where you
suppose you are going

– seeking a sense of similarity
a milieu of belonging, failing embedded
tests guaranteed to grant immunity
believing familial contempt, being too
remote, staying out in the cold

lost in a moment where awareness
straddles millennia and mile-high words
emblazoned with arrows pointing appear,
a ninth-street revelation of obscure signs
digitised on dirt roads leading nowhere

and in the distance you can see
a face clearly with smile willing
and pure eyes beckoning
– no turning back from
belonging
© 29 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Short-Lived

short-lived in reality
momentary ephemera
which please being too
delicate to exist holistically
unique dreams woven in fragile
flourishes to linger

mayflies in a shadowed
stream of consciousness
an eclectic evening’s rise
brightly lit fireflies in cavernous dark
tracing out harmonious lines
fuelling desire

I need these visions
of frailty, of temporality
like vestiges of memory
empowers me to write
crafted in words
recalling them clear
© 28 May 2010, I. D. Carswell

Listening For Symphonies

Waking without
inspiration of a comely
presence meant delay –
there is no logic evading
what it meant

but you did it anyway
took the view it was only
temporary inconvenience
played yesterday’s
beginning over again

breathlessness you
sensed with feelings elevated
ate into dawn’s lunacy
like a scene from
a play

witchery raided where
common-sense wavered
on the head of a pin –
flew silhouetted
against a full moon

light of a still dawn
lingers in leaves’ shadows
on windowpanes
listening for symphonies
of the wind’s return
© 3 August 2010, I. D. Carswell

DIY Fever

in my idea the pergola is a gazebo
somehow it’s easier to excuse when
precariously climbing over rafters
removing wind-damaged shades;

explaining dangers then seems less
ridiculous if faulty translation makes
you seem overly trite about gazebos
meaning nothing much in particular

falling to an awkward death from
a pergola would stress credibility
whereas meeting your demise from
a gazebo would be a real surprise

so it’s a gazebo – or an open patio
or a vergola, anything but pergola
because I don’t want pity from DIY
denizens claiming they’re in the know
© 21 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Knowing Whether

Just knowing whether to stay
or as the saying goes remain
intestate and too easily unclothed
makes a mockery of me; better
abed than flying boundaries of
fake reality. Were you a weird
view at liberty we’d find consensus
more and contention less –
a lent-to-chance excess
of palatable urban legend.

But Truth is where we dine; our food
has ways of defining who we are – so
you are me and I you in this bed of roses.
Living in a garden of Eden means we’ll
never need enlightenment, who could
we be other than ourselves having
steadfastly eaten from the wealth
of each other’s finest features.
©5 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Suggesting Agendas

it’s a double-blind considering things
too extraordinary for contemplation
in the usual way – like sensing more
than what’s thought to be obvious;
so where did you hear that? Perhaps
a question, yet suggesting agendas
you’re not supposed to be aware of;
either you’re fishing for information
or you already know. So I play safe
say I didn’t – but I guess you’ll tell
me if the burden’s shared
© 23 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Presumption

sorry, I failed again; it was
no simple accident – I really
meant to miss the boat

I suppose presumption
played a role upstream in
steering me beyond the pale

like clarity past-tenses who
and what I knew before and
why I made the play alone

the scene was nude in word
and deed – one which I found 
distressed in errant rhyme

I knew it was a dismal show
to rue egregiously and surely
time would prove me right

and even if I modified the
words in lawless vogue – it
wouldn’t change a thing

the carnage left despaired will
lend no easy roads recovery
while life inside is dead
© 24 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Living Without

I don’t like living without; yes,
it’s an oxymoron – there’s more
space predicated by being within
than grieving what’s
unobtainable
 
we ceded the room and easily
identified differences – nicer
to be together, completely;
but really, who’s fooling
who after the event?
 
dull beads of this evening’s
role-play portrayed
what might have been –
if nothing else a sponsored
happy ending
 
so here I am; potentially
living without
you...
© 27 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Dew-Damp Lawn

this morning’s mist surprised, an hour
before the air was clear and resolute;
echoes of the night had clung with clarity
despite a rare and noble blanketing of
magnanimity embraced in sleep

that I awoke from deep repose before
the sun had climbed beyond the rim
and breached these steeple walls did
not suppose insomnia – still I need to
see the calling of each day

the thief of light composed a eulogy to
restiveness before my eyes, blending
day and night in gentle grey; the forms
were slender pictures masked politely
apropos the making of today

I rise again in solitude appraised, begin
inhaling misty platitudes of dawn – the
trees are bathed in rays of subtle morning
sun and shadows play caricatures
across a dew-damp lawn
© 27 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Where You Look

Of all the ways to deal with it! That
‘out with the old, in with the new’
crap doesn’t come close – it misses
the point, this is a baffling experience

But it isn’t new & you know it; there is
a whole precedent which suggests you
know more than your fancy recall
seems prepared to concur

So what don’t you understand and
why do you demur? Is it moving
from one meeting a week to
really wanting to see her?

Answer that and you’ll know while
hoping secretly she’ll have concrete
reasons for being where you look –
when you’re supposedly not...
© 28 June 2010, I. D. Carswell

Intrusive

Why must it be intrusive to express
those passive feelings left again when
emptiness invades; there isn't space
enough for aching heart and tortured
breath to palliate an endless bellyache

Responding to the text of messages
which meant to ease or least redress
an accidental anxiousness, a death
of needless agonised concerns that
weave into a desperate disgrace

They are signs you earned this place
in hearts concerned outside your own;
to feel interned by circumstance of
birth or patronage effaces its reality -
these indeed are people of your caste

To wear it in a face disguised with
syrup smile and words designed as
shades of pallid grey won’t win their
confidence – they know the shape of
where and why and how you failed

Take the consequence as rent to pay
to live aloof of life you parody in verse
you've yet to write in words that rail
against your own fragility – admit your
love and be at least in peace immune
© 12 August 2010, I. D. Carswell

Dog And Bone

Needless to say the dog
without the bone made
greater conversation –

it is an indice of discretion
for want of a way to define
what is obvious to a dog

things that occupy empty
mouths are a drear lack
of focussed imagination
© 12 August 2010, I. D. Carswell

Complicity

to write a poem for my love tonight
is taking pleasure out of loneliness – 
were we together here there’d be a
chance that solitude augments such
an autistic view; the words I would
prefer are only true in company I’d
rather share with her to be the one
who always cares and comforts me

it rings a hollow sound where solid
peals apart should toll a knell but I
convey my bliss in being elegant
athwart a peace evocative of our
accord – I write so easily of her and
love assured in pure complicity
© 21 August 2010, I. D. Carswell

Getting Away

used to be fascinated way back
like, kinda took it for granted
things actually happened
because someone was
actually interested

turns out to be the biggest
learned the hard way ‘n all
that crock of slow-cooked
crap appraised
for centuries

paying attention is the
same as being a barbless
hook for easy fish – too
rapt to see the real
prey getting away
© 21 August 2010, I. D. Carswell

Ambivalence

If it is supposed to be a lesser state of
secured somnambulance I sleep alone
there will be less to equate an order of
thinking to; so you claim I am at least
ambivalent, meaning I don’t adhere to
precepts of serial appreciation you do.
   
There is some truth in that; I dare not
make assumptions obviously evident
Yet in a heartbeat of shared moments
sage-like history comes into play; you
even reveal fear I may be right – belief
ambivalence keeps an open mind free
of old prejudices raids the spaces once
containing tired old caricatures of me
© 13 September 2010, I. D. Carswell