Hardly Matters

Hardly matters does it, yet I find
members in opposition interpreting
other political party’s policies are sure
to display a palpable attribution of
proportionately inverse expertise
particularly on connotation therein
or on likely measures of success

Like soothsayers of impending
doom negatives swell into climactic
chimeras of imagined doubt fuelled
by abrasive double entendres
paced in stentorious tones of
delivery leaving no room for faked
accents or crazy voiced-over relief

The atmosphere is as counterfeit as
patently slagging one another needs
risibly insincere decorum to exist – who
is kidding whom one might ask and
why passionately assume it is the
only way to command attention
or seek unilateral accord

Yet everyone does! Me, writing this
clandestine tirade of muted invective,
admittedly tongue in cheek, sought to
lampoon trust – but you know me whereas
these politically esoteric beasts are
unknowable except in an unending
quest of self-seeking amorality
© 28 September 2011, I. D. Carswell

Over Coffee

heard it all today over coffee
after hanging out the clothes;
you must believe implicitly in
things you need; you know its
like an antique saying lending
credibility to cultured ears,
but really – nothing’s there

and so a bloke who’s reached
retirement age unscathed, at
least thru measurements he
sought to keep discrete, had
this intriguing revelation set
in fancy concrete ‘round his
surely footloose feet

you’re a sissy doing washing
in a wussy way implying fun,
you peg the clothes a rhythm
in arthritic step to music for
misshapen hands as focussed
breath and then my god we’re
sure we heard you try to sing...!

okay, so learning is complete,
with age I do respect the way
things have to be; I think the
less I care the more depressed
I am so sanity in pegs remains
a grip on irony retained – you
guessed – as everyday reality!
© 20 September 2011, I. D. Carswell

Ab Bott’s Claim

Opportunism in a devious, unscrupulous
or unprincipled way seems raison d’être
to Ab Bott’s trenchant amorality; seeks
power of the sceptre by any feint foul or
fair and reeks of duplicity stained with a
taint of well-aware treachery we’ll never
explain – so misanthropy freed restraint
learns amazing new airs to equivocate

shafted twice by the same miscreant is
peerage’s no-claim to quaint notoriety,
stinks cling with insistence, there is no
sanctuary in bared-fang smirks baring
forbearance pugnaciously between two
cauliflower ears, a glint-eyed squint
© 26 September 2011, I. D. Carswell

But Never That

Meatloaf’s lambent view
supposes you’d believe
he’d do most anything
for love –

Altho’ a mite restrained
of lyric cues disdaining
lies or false recall –
or subtlety

No affectation claims
to be disgrace indeed
appeased at least –
for love

A calumny of lies éclat
surmises with intense
surprise he’d be;
– but never that
© 14 September 2011, I. D. Carswell

Adjacent Seats

the gas was running rife inside she said
a pressure better eased in subterfuge
than blatantly expelled – but what the
hell, he’d made her lose her usual cool
with snide remarks designed to press
his autocratic case so she rebelled and
with a show of token gratitude arose
and farted massively into his face

she wore a balmy grin’s relief at least
and saw his flawed chagrin a triumph
for her flatulence – he’d think again
before he hailed himself a saviour to
some handsome lass with whom he
shared adjacent seats aboard a plane
© 5 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

The Gift

Wasn’t the box that carried him off
the covering trapped him madly in
a quandary of separation – should
it be unwrapped with extra special
care & wear the wrath of watchers
poised to go – ‘aw’, ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ in
animated exhalations of confirmed
envy truly rendered impatiently 

But for her small face fixated in an
imaginatively wide-eyed gaze upon
its silver wrap he may have played
a shallow tune – her natal day had
claimed his mind as essence of the
gift exchanging eager hands - again
© 9 September 2011, I. D. Carswell

Surprise

even subtle hints were vague
no question asked of penchant
ever made pretence suggest
what to construe

kept a silence civil on the way
respecting that intrigue was true
intent – reacted peaceably
to guessing games

then we turned towards the sea –
the cue that sprang to mind a
midday harbour cruise, at least
it was a scent

parked at Humpybong, no jest,
that was the car-park’s name, walked
through work surrounded scaffolding
towards the beach

parade and pier reflecting
where modernity has taken
stance in Redcliffe’s planned for new-
age renaissance

and there was told we’re here for
watching whales; I never guessed,
cetacean beings blessed at sea
with grace and charm

swam with whales in ages past
surfed in waves they rode with ease
was pleased to share the space
they freely gave

be a pleasure being near
again I praised, the buoyant
water bears their massive bulk
with sheer amaze

sipped our coffees well imbued
awaiting guests to start the
cruise; then doubt consumed the mood
for no-one came

they soon explained by phone we’d
been advised – although we didn’t
read the boat’s repair demise
and stay at home

thus it was a true surprise!
© 2 September 2011, I. D. Carswell

Bushranger

The skull they said was Ned’s
wasn’t Kelly’s head – forensic
guys surmised it from some DNA
that matched remains the gaol
had never tried identify before;
but I believe they might have
shied a little bit about the
time Ned Kelly passed away

For me the legend never died –
there is no way a fable of our age
was flawed as much as justice
wrath implied in vengeance
sought and paid as of a right
did hang a merry highwayman
© 1 September 2011, I. D. Carswell

Cicatrise

To heal and scar this way is burdensome too far
to bear alone in peace – narrow blades of fortune
don’t condone mistakes or random chance of fate
as fair or foul, or foiled in avid cut and thrust of
bare but venomous miscegeny; matched finesse
of strength’s vivacity compares as fearless dash
or wears a penchant’s frown, whereas duplicity
equates au pair with rampant perfidy

So scars are worn a rhapsody – and fate a score
of music writ with liberal flair for air or string;
voices sing with verve in praise of fantasy, brows
upraised, nerves a-twinge, there’s space there
now, places sure to share amaze within –
you can abjure your penance and be free
© 31 August 2011, I. D. Carswell

Upbeat Anarchy

Distractions engage this man’s fancy
with contemptuous ease; relevance
tests fail when circumvented by an
outpouring of obduracy claimed as
the sure cure for sceptical vagaries

And evidence suggests 900 at least
games of free cell won back to back
imply a generously disenfranchised
persistence, or that a make-believe
sense of proportion runs awry

Isn’t my bent to say why forestalling
so gaily manifests itself the enemy –
time is sole arbiter of whether effort
of engaging exacerbates moot stases
too easily defeated anyway

So I stay out of the loop and play an
unending stream of words wryly set
free by dam breaching; its my way of
reclaiming sanity, a despotic vent for
an upbeat anarchy
© 30 August 2011, I. D. Carswell

Sacred Space

even sacred space has room that’s
not invasion proof – there’s liberal
confirmation raids incurring greater
anguish now occur most every day;
from where I stand the pathway’s
trampled smooth by feet competing
in unseemly haste to dump their
woes on me and beat retreat

they ask of me a counsel I abide in
wisdom of the ages scribed in gothic
script declaiming options lost by
overcrowding private life; yet to
tell them where to go is not the
kind advice they’d want to hear
© 29 August 2011, I. D. Carswell

Shapelessly Expiate

It would send you demented if you weren’t
bent shapelessly expiate already – and not
in a temporary state; rain with a cultured
temperament precipitates too rarely to be
ignored of its omnipresent irascibility

Yet there’s an ubiquitous atmosphere of not
quite resentful pique in having to stay out
of it – like a valedictory speech few stood to
hear with slurred words not quite de rigueur
for this mode of taciturn complacency

Yeah, is the remark, likely it’d be a relief for
them who don’t appreciate how the natural
things happen without rhyme nor reason, or
according to Murphy, wear you thin where
you’re provoked easiest

But you won’t play the game; there’s still a
beer with your name on it cooling decently
awaiting 4 pm – or sooner if the day turns
crazier from watching a soothing insanity
of plentiful rain
© 23 August 2011, I. D. Carswell

Breath Of This Day

no denying it comes out of the West
an ominous confluence of doubt gathers
momentum, dourly sweeps skies grey

silence collects unflattering evidence as
impetus quavers – and there are too
many more misgivings trading dread

daily give and take slows to a sleeper’s
heartbeat, those plaintive assurances
flee with bird calls haunting goodbyes

no way of escaping an aching suspense
before noon these clouds will mutiny
asphyxiate the breath of this day
© 29 September 2011, I. D. Carswell

Better Leave (To Last)

insight to insanity, I guess,
but then I’m less afraid of
faithful judgements made
all but beyond the fact – it
was MY tree to fell, a lean of
25˚ abutted close in canopy
had really posed no threat

risk review agreed I’d cop
some rotten luck to take
an injury – the saw to pinch
most likely on the cards,
predictably it was, much as
the oh, ah-shit appreciation
what a mess I’d made

trees as problems now
amount to three quite
separate entities abating
quests for wood to dry for
winters yet to come; but
while I see the irony I am
denied a latent acid test

the three in one are still
aloft although entwined in
an embrace enhanced by
gravity; it’s going to take
a awesome shake or leery
wind to break that clinch
and set ‘em free

like insanity may make a
guess inspired it says as
only luck enacts the part –
there’s more to come when
you decide exact upon the
tree you’ll tackle first or
better leave to last
© 21 June 2011, I. D. Carswell

Siesta

joy at 4am expresses
more or less the special
way our singular and fey
relationship survives

you’re not a species
who’s endangered yet
the joyful play connives
agreeably while it explains

that sixties is an age
where raging as of right
against the gloom of
fading day suggests

despite the early hour
that sex invigorates
immensely – but it might
facilitate in clarifying how

and why our seniors
convey an avidly and
apt delight in sleeping
soundly at midday!
© 20 May 2011, I. D. Carswell

Retrospective

It was written in the hoar of
last night’s fires rising in an
evening sky – chill settled,
complicity tethered dusk as
our World slowed a gear

Foreboding sailed in this
blue-rinsed southern sunsets
mood of darker grey – appraising
backwards glances, an
uneasiness of dread

Walked away resigned, shoulders
set to a shower, a beer and the
warmth welcoming –
brooding on events over another
nights anxious horison
© 18 May 2011, I. D. Carswell

Proper Moves

A lunch to break your heart
with gladness that could also
save a life – if you’ve a life
in mind you’d like to try to
take a chance and save!

Of course it’s mine, no need
elaborate on who or why, I
made a choice preferring I’d
survive less age foretelling
when or how my fate befell

And so my lunch today was
well endowed with vagaries
of happy times, coffee made
the proper way, an apple
sliced with splash of lime

It filled a space refined by
sandwiches and lukewarm
cups of tea which years of
vapid conversation had so
neatly nearly sublimated

Glad to say that I’m alive
again; I knew it in a glance
when I surveyed the pace at
which I’d made the proper
moves to break away ...
© 16 April 2011, I. D. Carswell

Eager Eyes

Was I to fake the way you situate
those sleazy bits of headline news
as absolutely true I’d have to void
my claims to credibility; of course
I readily extemporise from time to
time, but not as consummate as
‘truth’ sublime you ‘forged’ exact
from fiction with panache

You improvise on trash it seems; a
luridly indulgent scene becomes an
act of desperate need, tragedy that
lacks appeal has overtones of gross
intrigue engendered ‘tween those
shockingly duplicit lines

Fiction always reads the best with
brightly coloured words expressed
as verbatim in ‘to the letter’ quotes
as grim reminders though absurdly
any tacit source alluded to is never
named and better yet the game is
played with kitschy lies disguised
as trenchant fact

Your skill in scribing leading lines
is frankly tangible, awe-inspired
enactment of our origins refined,
we’re victims of the lore behind
veneers you pare away exposing
gratis lies to always eager eyes
© 22 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

Who’s Two?

So now who’s two (but nearly four),
would that be you, Miss Charlotte Lily?
There’ll be no lazy speculation, just a
refined sophistication you devise, and
for sure, with smiling eyes 

Gentleness in kind with sweet and calm
and worldly views creates an air which
illustrates a nascent charm; two years
displayed or four or even more disarms
defence against prodigious innocence

Glory ‘tis to see you grow this way! An
irony in truth contends our view is but
a gaucherie of whom and what we think
we are; knowing you as you explains we
see just who we’d really like to be
© 21 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

For granddaughter
Charlotte Lily Carswell
on her 2nd birthday
23 July 2011

Solo Trumpet

Not a fancy way to end a fractious
state of change – without a bang or
whimper, drained of muted lees in
clichés straining sages’ vapid views
of credibility on vacant faith

Eras past our wont for privacy was
ageless and androgynous – a font that
age eponymous thus beggared of its
trust – it plays a solo trumpet
on an empty stage 

Shouting “But it isn’t me!” may ease
a feral ache of pain, but no release
sustains the peace you seek – agony
remains which isn’t you and isn’t me;
so who’s in Hell are these remains?
© 16 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

Half The Fool

Playing half the fool
engages manic energies
quite easily displaced by
throwing shells away;

Like in-concert solitude
wears half of a sullied
ass’s head outplaying
any grand entrance

No accessory buys
coherence if sanctioned
veils of sanity celebrate
routine humiliation

Thus is fools’ bliss; you
don’t mean to self-delude but
gastropod volutions of grandeur
make it an inescapable whorl
© 21 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

Speech Would Have Failed

they are not words with less
meaning – though hidden,
perhaps context-conspired,
in what you know meant we
didn’t have to guess right
or press inspired keys

yet somewhere at back of
it is affirmation you had it
exact in a gently warm, not
at all overdone smile and a
mute sideways glance, all
the appropriate testimony

no doubting affection that
flowed molasses-thick in
contagious embrace; you
worship with words your
eyes articulate – where
speech would have failed
© 20 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

Nouveau Facade

conceded and moved on you say
but not too sanctimoniously
the truth is less forgiving

if it is past tense it is rooted
in the same bedding mix that
raised enduring legends

that things changed is fair and
reasonable – optimistically they
weren’t particularly stable

but who made the actual play?
all nouveau facades rise easily
from ashes scattered randomly

remnants of real character’s
inventions are still out there
somewhere, languishing sadly

ruined in almost spontaneous
combustion of yesterday’s
too fragile personalities
© 9 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

Reference Points

Giving up on what is left in fact is
perilous – signs do not connect the
path from nowhere back to here

Senses less coherent are dismayed
into despondency as assents of all
pallid claims there is no other way

Defence of whipping-boy anomalies
for truancy defrocked commenced
when cogency began to decohere

And so the deconstruction of your
centre means that what you see in
loneliness is surely what you’ll gain

Tho’ abjured by reference points
retaining currency beyond the debt –
likely then at least you’ll be okay
© 6 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

A Bit Corny

sounds a bit corny
but having been through it
it isn’t actually that much fun

like coming of age when you’re
a teen; yeah, I know 21 is the
REAL age – but WE did it at 18

and let me say being three years
ahead of the rat race didn’t mean much
when everyone’s in the same lane

at least everyone YOU met; there
must have been a rubbish-bin full
of outdated rejects hatched later

so appreciation is somewhat
sullied by passé arrivals who came
late and took all the fun away...
© 5 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

Who We Are

not an ordinary drunk
no fearless fowl regarding what
is best in modern poetry
but I digress; the chance
you even saw this vogue of views

as happenstance you’ll have to wake
to see – and it won’t mean a morning’s
dissonance of undescribed and leery
half-remembered unsubscribed
enhanced diminuendo

bugger me I know it wasn’t what
I sought to write this palpable and
happy day – and yet it came as if
it was the simple inspiration meant
to polarise and open eyes

so I conclude I am awake
there’s no excuse I’ll have to make
a statement lest they all forget we’re
who we are at best – even if pretence
proclaims we’re somewhat less
© 1 July 2011, I. D. Carswell

Grain Of Sand

Fickle fates were playing games
with avarice the prize; one only
had to rise for bait they dangled
sweet as candy innuendo pasted
dreams – with diligence I tried to
visualise what it implied, a solid-
wall embrasure plan with lavish
views of the outside

Their future was the past in gaudy
dress, lies the same expressed as
cutting rhetoric bereft of logical
debate – I should have seen a prize
restored to life by patient hand and
not a grain of dingy sand
© 29 June 2011, I. D. Carswell

Unfettered Imagination

Takes less time to scheme ingenious
diversions than actually achieve things –
no need for understanding motivations
of what is effectively second-nature

Creative evasion deems a sure fire way
to stave off boredom; maintains sanity
you say steering conversation beyond
outrageously missed aspirations

Your claim needs no structure and more
freedom – regulation curdles the smooth,
silk-like flow of unpasteurised ideas in an
eternal stream

If dreamers bilk reality it is at their own
risk – taking precautions of inordinate
complexity to see what unfettered
imagination only reveals casually
© 25 June 2011, I. D. Carswell

Lost To The Plot

Bloody Hollywood, don’t fall for the
themes – watch the damn characters;
as if it explains anything! But we see
what we’re meant to believe, miasmic
hodge podge, tosspots of rehearsed
innuendo, the meaning of trite – now
there’s a thing, fancy understanding
what commonplace actually means!

We’re supposed to be the same – or
am I being naive? Asking, “Is that me?”
estranges all versions of the urbane
and credible; manifestly it isn’t the
least like anything you’d ever imagine
unless you’re already lost to the plot...
© 23 June 2011, I. D. Carswell