08 December 2016


I know I’m ill-advised using my right hand for 
typing - I have sustained a tendon tear at the 
shoulder point where upward arm movement 
is an agony, yet immobilising the whole thing 
with ‘three point’ sling seems grossly overkill; 
so verily for me who considers himself skilled 
in a ten-finger typing art - what I have still yet 
to internalise is finger movements are key to

Residual pain that just cannot lessen until the 
muscular connections are totally rested; gosh
it means I’ll need to use dictation, and there’s 
the irony - my brain is keyed to a slower pace 
of creating words letter by letter; enabling the 
mental enunciations suggest combinations to

me which could fit a rhyme & rhythm context 
better, or even a syntax while we’re engaged 
in creation of poetic metre; & so, woe is me - 
I’ve no show of doing that all mentally when I 
am dictating ‘streams’ of words articulately to 
an auto-type program - or even revising ‘em 

On rereading & seeing that’s vapid crap 
© 22 August 2016, I. D. Carswell

07 December 2016

Bell’s Peal

I know he’s not getting any younger - and unlike me 
sees more ambivalence in The Walk, unless it’s his
and only his idea; so an eight-fifteen AM suggestion 
we stroll up The Hill has a negative-effect. We don’t 
disagree of course, he just finds activity that’s much 
more contemporary, like investigating strange dogs’ 
pee whom he didn’t see being on his patch - which, 
need I say, is a pretence because he’s long past it 

He agrees, and finds a sunny morning spot to lie & 
luxuriate in, without imminent pressure of a grande 
promenade he let slip on by; there’s an inward grin 
evident, a no worries I’ll be into it soon, I just don’t 
need a walkabout now - at least really not until my 
digestive system tells me the bell’s about to peal 
© 9 August 2016, I. D. Carswell 

06 December 2016

Foggy Old Thursday

It was a liquid mist this morning, and still there 
at 8 am - there’s little incentive to rampage out 
into this grey expanse, it conceals nowhere as 
an event well meant but could be anywhere; & 
hardly any imagination lent figments of hidden 
characters lurking in chilled air, awaiting those 
fey moments to appropriately materialise in an 
outcry of servile circumstance, & terrorise 

So we stay in bed and read; better yet the two 
pictures taken to capture th’ scene are already 
documented, there’s an almost bas-relief view 
to keep the record straight and complimentary 
to why we don’t feel a need to be up & at ‘em 
on this cool and foggy old Thursday 
© 18 August 2016, I. D. Carswell

05 December 2016

Charlotte’s Birthday

Might have been a brighter day - any early chat with 
Charlotte redresses dross left over from droll origins 
of recovered sleep; but it wasn’t to be, Oliver’s team 
photos take a pride of place, & I will get to see them; 
so we delay our Skype session for a day. She’ll be a 
whole year senior then, at least in the way we say it, 
and at seven - quite capable of correcting my lapses 
in grammar with a stylistic giggle she owns capably 

So little Lady, have a magnificent day, we’ll sip upon 
the nectar later when duties to a younger generation 
allow us surcease of age - they are celebrations you 
can bank comfortably - like a deposit for days yet to 
differentiate whose pleasure extends delight we like
most to bathe in - and in that your’s surely wins 
© 23 July 2016, I. D. Carswell 

04 December 2016

Stymied Imagination

Its like being in a controlled zone, there’s no concession 
for so-called invaders, primacy pervades reason as only 
rationale relevant or safe - at least in similar cases were  
singularness expresses itself without wider reflection; ok 
so reference points emanate from reality, & which is you
did I get it right, or’s it my stymied imagination if one can 
envision such, there’s no substitute issued or available if 
we actually agree but, you need acknowledge it to be so 

Though if you do then I exist - & that’s an apple cart isn’t 
it? To free yourself honorific exigencies, you’d need it be 
empty so no twist of fate can upset it, spreading the ‘fruit’ 
of our labours far & anon; but, come to fond pondering & 
introspection, it already has, I think; yet we’d agreed that 
where we‘re at, the variance’s on what we gather from it 
© 12 August 2016, I. D. Carswell 

03 December 2016


When you’re pilloried on the poem a day wrack,  
even if the choice to be free rests easy, there is 
no way lack of reasoned dialogue is reconciled, 
with whom you’ll digress, sliding away from any 
accusation you’re too fixated to notice it was all 
of your own doing, & recalling agonies suffered 
in times when you didn’t write, without excuses
other than boredom or distraction, before over- 

indulging in the antidote; you want feedback, it 
needs be coherent you’d agree - tho in quoting 
me you create monsters deviously lurking near 
media denizens; perhaps that’s where th’ irony 
gets muddied or murdered or both - the funeral 
pyres of mass media burn voluptuous currency 

either you’re getting paid and/or burnt attentive 
discrimination; and yet all you want’s discourse 
that feeds back and expands upon ideas you’d 
bandy for free, and they’re in your poem a day; 
leastways that’s how you’d equate it - although 
they’d claim exposure comes at a taxable rate 
© 17 August 2016, I. D. Carswell 

02 December 2016


The after-awakening tête-à-tête compensated so 
beautifully for our ‘feral’ falling asleep; we’d taken 
different routes to Th’ Land of Nod - three games 
of Rugby for me - & for you a soporific novel that 
somnolently engaged you practically all day - but 
its an after-narcotic-event recovery, having been
assessed and screened for cardiac impediments, 
tho thankfully less than any worst case synopsis 

And yet we’re to live with scenarios as if they’re 
scripts for scenes we have ‘real’ roles to play in; 
this is the way diagnoses are framed for people 
reaching those ‘limits of no returns’ - there is no 
going back to go - or starting over - so we need 
agree without prejudice to rules of the game 
© 27 August 2016, I. D. Carswell 

01 December 2016


Wasn’t quite the way we planned, an early Friday 
Doctor Clinic trip to complete things commenced 
Monday & we’d have a clear weekend - although 
it didn’t work out as so; by 11:00 am, she’s in an 
ambulance and off to Hospital for an angiogram - 

No point arguing, I’m handed the keys, told we’re 
going to be at beck & call of the Cardiac Ward 2E 
in Nambour Hospital - possibly she’ll overnight; if 
rest & recovery’s opted, maybe staying the whole 
weekend - with repatriation probably on Monday 

We correspond by SMS; for an elderly couple of 
novice smart phone usage, we actually manage 
to understand and get msgs sent & received - & 
can see what things will need to be effected; so 
now its up to me to deliver the pink pyjamas, 

Toothbrush & paste, book, smart phone charger, 
undies and a lilac dressing gown at visiting hour 
commencement on Saturday - well, that’s set up 
my weekend neatly, nice road trip tomorrow that 
will consume most of a day, but I’ll see sweetie 

And know she’s in competent hands; yet it bugs 
a bit to be expected to put up with the rigmarole 
that reeks of contingencies way ever beyond an 
understanding we could reach easily, except by 
subjection to those dour austerities blithely 

Generated by medical professionals speaking in 
tongues quoting worst cases; well, I cannot miss 
any more sleep - missing my lady is punishment 
enough without slipping into the pseudo-coma’s 
deep embrace of a premised unlikely Nirvana 
© 12 August 2016,I. D. Carswell 

30 November 2016

The New View

Thames NZ

In the act of that admission is a beginning of 
vulnerability; no point denying it, missing her 
presence posits acceptance your whole isn’t 
what it once was - parts of it seem reluctant, 
unwilling to accept isolation from pieces that 
have been enhanced & with whose blessing 
paternity invests new status quo; its the ‘We’ 
view you’re ever getting used to - and yet 

Cannot be without; so where are WE now is 
a good question that starts a process, bits & 
pieces blend into animate shapes where the 
old trends were stark silhouettes against our 
former landscape - the blind alleyways wend 
into new vistas too promising to be mistakes 
© 23 August 2016, I. D. Carswell 

29 November 2016


Its early AM Saturday and we’re sitting in the sun 
where trees let rays reach the patio - the mist left 
a wee bit sooner today, amazingly less chilled as 
Friday’s or compared to Thursday’s ‘ice’ invested 
breath; tiny finches wrest with dew-blessed seed 
on the lawn & Podge - unimpressed by their avid 
foraging, awaits colonic urges suggesting that its 
time for him to wander up the geriatric track 

Once upon a time we’d be up and away at break 
of dawn come hail or shine - he even expressed 
astonishment on Her Ladyship’s proposition that 
she take him for a stroll - altho’ he didn’t quail or 
blench, simply disappeared & reappeared when 
it was safe to resume his elective somnolence 
© 20 August 2016, I. D. Carswell 

28 November 2016

Yet To Come

The times were against it I suppose, with the Rio 
Games echoing suspiciously, and all of Southern 
Continent winter sports codes contests reaching 
penultimate ends we’re in an inevitable hiatus, & 
a place where our Super Rugby series vanishes  

Tho’ let me say Wellington’s Hurricanes lent it an 
auspicious note of solemnity in trashing Gauteng 
Lions 20 points to 3 in a contest, as The Parable 
states, which aficionados inevitably see as who’s  
true victor over adversity, but dare I mention it, y’ 

Need be a Wellingtonian. And - it isn’t the end of 
an era - we’re on the threshold of a new contest 
where South Africa, Australia, New Zealand and 
Argentina battle out who’s the best International 
Rugby Country, as we Colonials prefer to see it, 

So Rio can throb t’ the beat of its Olympic fever, 
while we rest up quietly, contemplating the heat 
of what we know is yet to come … 
© 7 August 2016, I. D. Carswell 

27 November 2016


So what is the gump about trump, is it a strumpet 
brazenly trumpeting its wares, the ash-blonde hair 
seductively waving or are we in a state of anarchy 
where the bugler blows charge into the breach - a 
hole in our sanity where the beach’s invaded by, & 
dare I say it, media-baron thieves of reality - those 
idiomatic expressions too easily framed slogans a 
rational entity fails to find of a time or place, while 

Screaming beware, this is an ego, there’s no sure 
cure for being bundled into the back pocket of the 
most dramatic vernacular going nowhere; and tho
impressive, it has lasted until an idea he’s just too 
full of repressive s**t that flows down all the same 
routes we’ll have to scrub clean - all over again 
© 3 August 2016, I. D. Carswell 

26 November 2016

Clothesline In The Rain

On the first day we ran th’ gauntlet easily, 
never seemed anything but a spree; we’d 
have enjoyed just being together anyway; 
and although it wasn’t metaphorically the 
cat and the cream - she doesn't see it as 
an allegory either - so if buying the damn 
phone made sense it’s only from an idea 
it’d already grown wings & flown th’ coup 

It’s possibly rebooting somewhere; again 
its reality’s-other-side and I too, would be
in it if th’ rain hadn’t made inroads where 
hearing aids squeal warnings something 
lurks in the eaves - and that’s a long and  
damp walk to where we get reception 

So we wakeup with a new mobile phone 
still waiting a call or use for the real thing; 
and as they say, that is a postponement, 
just like delayed rebirth, until once again, 
advent of discovering what we’ve really
pegged on the clothesline in this rain 
© 16 July 2016, I. D. Carswell