Grand Saving

Claiming Grand Saving lands this
test of patience in jeopardy – who
sees the difference? She of course
knew best, what rankled was an
obdurate opinion on how Wireless
networks really operate

Weather is clear again, brightness
exists where error msgs claimed
the Internet USED to be – having
read her email and sniffing a mite
miffed suggests, admit it, you’re
lucky but clueless, save yourself
a whole lot of angst

His dim, near-died eyes, ‘tho still
plagued with doubt on which wisp
of ambiguous moonshine techno-
blah may have caused it initially
show vague relief

Admits speciously, must’ve been a
pernickety key set to make things
safe – came back and bit my ass
twice as bad; yet think on it – if I’d
asked a Tech to be a $150 saviour
he’d still be laughing...
© 15 April 2011, I. D. Carswell

Pleasures Of Pursuit

The effort wasn’t wasted – most things
were only half complete but even that
revealed a host of decent opportunity;

it was as near as gets to intoxication in
an atmosphere of a main thoroughfare,
one that draws willingly – such that

being rapt in an artlessly graphic buzz
of busyness eases hyper-distress about
a venture’s success or even failure

and random acts assuage precociously
attaining grades – there is no fear of
referees’ mendacity to countermand

so the office desk drawer is cleared of
junk which rests on couch and floor, at
least it is much easier to see, and

chest deep freezer breathes relief now
racks are cleared – ‘tho bags of thawing
meat recline expectantly in kitchen sink

there’ll be grand evening celebrations in
the canine camp when this largess has
come to make its merry pass – and thus

the floor is tidy swept and subtle scent of
freshly baking bread woos firmament with
debonair enticement scarce concealed

No, never wasted if one’s bent to measure
progress less by solid proof of finishing
events than eager pleasures of pursuit
© 9 April 2011, I. D. Carswell

Plausible Reasons

finding who you are but
not a gallant man beyond
the angry dilettante who
compromised your plan

not the man of means
with handy acres of heart
so unassailably freed
duplicity or treachery

not the tall power of one
who bent easily – sadly
no, just head-in-cloud,
acerbic feet-in-sand

but there were comforting
moments when alert
glimpses hinted an
aura of benign humility

that could be you –
they claimed – but for
plausible reasons we’d
expect no change
© 16 April 2011, I. D. Carswell

An Odd Version

A pile of pistachio shells now bears
proof to an odd version of writer’s
cramp – ‘tho an atypically effaced
addiction to tiny green Asian nuts is
lost in translation as a poem waits
in the wings – an impasse too often
seen sadly and inimically repealed
by the same mawkish thing

Experience won’t lend itself easily
and esoteric expressions fail, weird
ideas of obtuse origins refuse to gel;
brain exhausted with taut surface
begging repair, mired in ingestion
of life’s infinitesimal seeds
© 6 April 2011, I. D. Carswell

Empty Chairs

empty chairs
oddly pure in memories
we care to keep; vacancy
impresses less than
intense stressful
emptiness

empty rooms
complete a litany opaque
and crude; ‘too hard
to countenance’ decrees
abused as cost of
wasted faith

empty space
where once applause in
raucous voice appealed for
acts original to entertain,
for selflessness
embraced

emptiness
invades, cruelly wasting
atmospheres of solitude as
room to breathe; there
is no air that’s
pure or free
© 21 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

Bogus Fantasy

Wry but bogus fantasy one
would declare but red’s an
aphrodisiac in hair like hers;
dreams appeal as rare and
prized impressions she’s a
foxy sett and nothing quite
contextually compares but
extraordinary, earthy sex

‘Tho not what we have wont
to share beyond unfettered,
free imaginings that she is
passionate and unrestrained
when dreams of sovereignty
in our PM implacably unreign!
© 15 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

I’m Yours, He Sez (rev)

‘Tis uncommonly specious imagining,
‘as ‘im reeling of th’ drink – odd and
‘specially damned since ‘e hasn’t ‘ad a
dram, or thinks ‘e hasn’t ‘ad, in weeks

Feels a queasy thing come loose inside,
tangled up in other bits; ‘tis gas or love
is an opine, burps and farts, it stays on
line so not th’ shits – then love ‘tis

Of course I should have realised! Who’s
th’ lucky lass he cries? Staggers to his
feet to join the world and meet the girl
who’s clandestinely won his heart

I’m yours, he sez, with eyes afire and
fierce intent, we’re meant to be a pair
who’s linked by generous and special
care, so pour me Luv another drink!
© 17 February 2007, I.D. Carswell