Too Wit

The things that hatch through narrow cracks
are not the enemy we must believe; to see
them in their plenitude as opportunists who
have little choice, soloists out flying all alone
are males, they’ll die for pheromones which
promise paradise. Cannot find a solid source
for their largesse, suspect it doesn’t have a
cause for brains and yet they’d die for sex?

Mealy moths again are trying my propriety
I must admit I do not know what motivates
the little twits; all processed grain is double
sealed and yet they breed. I freeze the items
where their signature is clear, feed it to the
ravenous and stay too wit, ashamedly naive
© 22 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

The Covetous Edge

8 am, been up since 6 busy
cleaning inboxes, checked the
top tank bore water return
all’s well in a World of searing
wind-raised fire danger

So far anyway, yet to make
that cup of coffee which takes
me to the covetous edge of
this day’s being – it is a delay
not easily explained

The idea I need to be where
shit hits the fan reflexively
engages lower gear – more
a fail-safe cut-out switch than
a self-contained expression

Coffee will make me believe
I am the difference whether
awake or merely imagining
it; though in another way I’d
really prefer disconnection
© 23 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Distance Is The Mean

What is the sign beside the road that makes
the line dividing states of love as clear
as sigils blessed in your taxonomy?

I wonder what it is that bleeds the tease
of care into a lake of nothingness
if wayward love departs its flimsy scene

And are the ways to best express this grate
between the states of ‘love’ and ‘not love’ clear?
They’re not I fear – and never ever were

If there’s a border edge between the love
I bear for you and that expressed as not
a disaffection then where has it gone?

The cues are spare and far between because
you flew away; if distance is the mean
today of comfort’s share – an answer’s there
© 19 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Hang In There

Hang in there the icon screams
ignore the broken fingernail
egg cracked in your pocket
focus on fervid esoterica...!
Who the Hell are you, it
complains – which fingers
are touching the keys?

If I knew it would be a miracle
but frozen vodka makes it less
burdensome than transgression
of balance – an insight you can’t
let run away; teeter on this idea
as you regain sense of Unity
bandaids repair equilibrium!

Can’t use the identity finger to
prove it is me wrapped in this
mock paragon of bandaged
stolidity but I know what you
mean – we’re equally lost; what
we agree is a prima facie case
of nearly negotiable wisdom
© 21 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

The Thing Is...

the thing is I knew
why I stayed
it made more sense
than simply giving in
besides there’s nowhere else
I’d rather be alone
with memories

oh, for sure
it’s true that
you can claim
estrangement isn’t
new it lasted in
suspension more
than forty years

and took the same
redressing vows it broke
as tragic words unsaid
while mending novice
wings to fly courageously
without a map and land
on one leg blind

but nothing’s really
changed my mind
except this new reality
wherein I see the
fracture is the leg
you broke as sacrifice
in finding pain
© 17 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Candour

survival questions
candour in what once you
held as dear – dumbed
mementos jousting displaced
souvenirs of time and space
silent smiling faces snapped
too long ago now nuance
in a different way

pictured here you see an
enigmatic man you knew
belittled by a subtlety of
wisdom’s barefaced grin
the gaze of his eyes drawn
backward to a day etched
thin by changes anxious as
his rumpled clothes

a new-age nexus price is
paid in stunted growth and no
respite for agonies sustained
his days are now betrothed
to tending trophies stuffed
with frugal dreams aloofly
kept alive as hopes entombed
in timeless infancy
© 25 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Intrepid Sailor

today’s inane debate rages whether
a 16 year old sailor is old enough to
be youngest (palpably female) solo
Around-The-World circumnavigator

at best a few commentators play on
age and sex as vested interests left
over from the dark ages while the
rest make paternalistic gestures

Jessica Watson at just sixteen is a
a capable mariner – yet where she
exceeds older swabs skills she’s
claimed as still being too green

World’s history of solo voyages says
detractors’ voices seldom dissuade
the intrepid – she’s going and bulk
carriers’ keep out of her way

is it too much of a silent assent – her
accolades outweigh what were meant
as cautionary tales but the brave are
not those prompting debate
© 11 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Gnocchi

tell me what is worse
making calls you know won't work or
people who’ll effuse happiness;
yes, I do it occasionally – especially
when depressed

but the soul I need to connect with
is less an enigma than memory’s
figment of an old, frayed parchment
with words, sacred in their paucity,
as far between as forever

I live in the gaps
where time stood still – it is at best
an arrangement bereaving
conjunctions left on one leg
applauding blindly

you don’t know me yet,
maybe you never will but that
won't mesh with gnocchi’s
yesterday integrity of
memory’s blandishment
© 13 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Seminally Explained

wine stains
cabernet merlot I guess
on the desk where dust
accumulates and I write

the one an excess
the other a Sapphic
expression seminally explained
in grains too small to reason with
but no less an influence
on thoughts of a friend
obsessed with not
getting any

won’t let dust rest
believes declaring disillusionment
with one-sided abstinence
validates trading places as a
strap-on making inroads
into monastic celibacy with
his born-again ‘coming out’
as a new-age lesbian
© 14 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Rite Of Change

the life that never went away
remains in silent piles of clothes
that stay awaiting gentle hands
to put them where they’re meant to be;
I see a patent rite of change
and patiently do best I can
to balance themes

I never add an item shed
in sensing chance that constancy
will play a role; I understand
that keeping peace is goal and game
and match triumphant in this frame
of referenced complacency
© 15 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Self Interest

it is as good as your word
which wasn’t good anyway
a cut-rate ticket to nowhere

you claim sentience and a
stake in charity – a tall ask
for a turd whose insight ends
where self-interest wanes

ask yourself which fixations never
change – and count your blessings
the centre of all things that matter
defines terms of engagement
not where you think you are

for this sleight of hand you’ll
pay in grandiose pretensions
rendered dust – it was never an
option to posture over
© 10 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Bloodied Sunday

Bloodied Sunday in
the torpid atmosphere
of miasmic rural rectitude
drinking ice-cold beer the way
men do from the bottle
shooting the breeze profoundly
without making sense
but who gives a damn

Come Monday and who
cares but the sun and the
flowers and the unforgiving
sounds of a day growing
tired of waiting for someone
to rise and grasp remnants
gather together effects
of Sunday’s excess

Chicken pen gates tell
a tale that chills flesh
stumbling into significance
anonymous dead bloodied
amongst feathers scattered
a carnage that says how useless
it is to charge Nature
with malicious intent
© 7 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Duty Of Care

If there is anything more arcane than
the electrical workings of a bore-pump
set to time-switch automatic I’d like to
experience it; the beautiful simplicity of
this irascible beast’s ability to screw up
astounds even me – and I’ve learned
to expect the unexpected of just about
everything mechanical on the farm

My rational analysis says hold the phone
it is doing what you ask of it although
you haven’t a clue why; it pumps water
okay, fills tanks as it is supposed – just
doesn’t respond in a cogent way or goes
to extremes of servile stupidity by not
switching off when it should so the
tanks all overflow

Today I’ll give it another go, it is a long
walk to the bore where troubles begin
though my thinking suggests the trip has
something to do with it, like too many
distractions to remember which coloured
wires connect to where and why they
must be correct for the float switch to
know that it too, has a duty of care
© 5 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Groomed

pony clubbers out in force
that afternoon – two mothers
three girls and a guy prepared
horses talking of whom was
seeing whom; although unsaid
the cool word was she doesn’t
hang out with them

ponies groomed with meticulous
care belched pleasure into their
buckets of oats painting rare
sheens on lips as yet unkissed
but ready to be – glossed over
with the sheer moment’s
animal delight
© 5 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Upside Down

don’t get me wrong
I do care where you live
what I don’t care for is
what you made it into

what is a ‘Northsider’
for God’s sake and why
do you consider they’re
superior to ‘Southsiders’?

no, I haven’t lived either
‘side’ and don’t give a
damn Southside is another
name for dullsville

if you’re right what am I –
an alien from outer space?
Am I just an ‘Upsider’
not used to gazing down?
© 4 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Father’s Day

wishing it were different may
restrain the feelings of regret
but the truth is – it isn’t...

Sunday’s Father’s Day whichever
way you want to care, where
being one sincerely matters

there are three of us as dads
this year with four children
whom we’ve want answer to

but where their hugs will be
tender warm and proximate to
each I’m on a distance limb 

though they are a thousand
miles away my heart still beats
suffused in gratefulness
© 4 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Vestiges

Watching you die old
friend is the hardest bit
you’re suffering – it is hidden
in your eyes though you
will not admit the
light grows dim

Darker tendrils slowly
choke your power to live
sadness grips me like
a prophet’s eyes so
bloodied in relentless
vision

Everything we ever did
together rings with
free and careless energy
yet abject you lie abed
was it surely meant
to be this way

You’ll leave old friend
I’ll try to take it light as
you command; you don’t
say yea or nay that it’s
right to me – only that
it IS your way 
© 3 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Saying Goodbye

my old dog is dying
he won't look at me
in a way that say’s don’t worry
this is just a slight aberration
asserts that no-fuss personality
I always relied on

I choke back tears try to
convey a strangling sorrow
but he wobbles away without
comment; it’s so sad, he’s
much more the man of me
than ever I am

just yesterday
he lay in my lap contented
again the eternal pup at home
with his earth and his origins
where fanged legends howl
frank admiration

today he knows he’s dying
but he won't let me pray
for him or evoke icons
he’ll die as he must
it’s simply his way
of saying goodbye
© 1 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

One Leg

long, dissociate
conversations about meaning
vacuums
the space we
associate in

me and I combine
passively in a
perspective of “we”
whereas “you” play
free agent

today “we” are
an enemy attacking
your independence
and must be
defended against

don’t you know
without all of us
you have only
one leg
to stand on
© 1 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Scenes

isn’t scenes of beastly screaming
voices drown a stasis bleeding
forcing choices vilely reeking
where I cling to my own debris

caught within I hear the chaos
chorused in a choral singing
bartered hubris numbs my senses
stripping me of all true feeling

solitary innovation
calmed by complex contemplation
choosing where it will be standing
how to save itself oblivion

no-one knows her more than she does
cheating them of goals outreaching
bringing me to where I’m ceded
alone inside a crowded room

entombed within a baleful vault
no-one leaves and doors are bolted
intellect has trialled and faltered
grieves it wouldn’t have succeeded
© 28 August 2009, I. D. Carswell

A Dog’s Life

He clings to substance of his
dreams, those sure things
he’s always been aware of
the tried and true assure
him of surcease; scent
of this duvet yields better
memories than shopping
bags he usually sleeps on
but even it feels incomplete.

He tries to figure it but fails
and retreats – something’s
missing where he knows it
should have been in scent
with signature so fragrant
pure there is no chance of
sleep; who would leave a
promise unsecure like this
he thinks and where is she.

He rises, sighs and asks to
go outside; a dog’s life is all
about doors he reflects to an
image in his mind which he
thought lived in the sheen of
the glass panel – she was always
there, more or less, and when
he sorely needed it she’d pick
him up and gladly cuddle him.
© 27 August 2009, I. D. Carswell

Off Your Back

the one and one of two small disasters
sums greater than arithmetic reckoning
there is no wise accord explaining why
the mind begins such paltry games

there will be more to come – and the
list grows; dubious prophecies translate
avowals of doubtful fact into duplicates
of doomsday reality

how to shake the monkey off your back
you know it needs to be distracted so
you laugh outrageously at obsequious
and now petty second-hand calamities

it’s not to say you’re through the spell
and free at home– that’s too estranged;
but monkey knows of no adversity and
fears you laugh at him alone
© 26 August 2009, I. D. Carswell

Wordless

I guess we ran out of talk –
the who’s that and what does it mean
stuff we used to survive on 


and the unrequited repartee
which burdens silence still
as tacitly cynical clichés 


this debris seems greater
than leavings of
just two disaffected souls 


like take-away scraps
balanced on the lips
of wordless garbage bins
© 26 August 2009, I. D. Carswell

Closed Eyes

The things I’ve yet to do will come
to trouble me before this day’s at end
whether premonitions of good intent
or lax derelictions like a guilt-ridden
3:30 am jaunt to secure the chook pen

I do not know what is wrong and doubt
a craven cure short of staying in bed
until Hell freezes over – a mitochondrial
sort of euphemism for being vague
about cause and intent

Though yesterday passed judgement
and freed me of culpability failures still
hang exotic like elapsed trophies
exalting dysfunctional skills arraigned
in deserted shooting galleries

Truth is I avoid mundane decisions
until they threaten – when the
cacophony intimidates I enter
a zone of uninfringeable silence
watch proceedings with closed eyes
© 21 August 2009, I. D. Carswell

Morelia Spilota Cheynei

dealing with a near-empty
bottle of gin makes death of
this predator phrase of the day
an aberration justified as a fine
meal for its prey moreso than
an explanation – it wrestled
with reality: there’s no discretion
left standing when blooded
consequence stains bared feet

I won’t explain an innuendo you
can take wherever you’ve a mind
no-one climbs rafters of my being
bleeds into my conscience for free
you’re dead even if you commit acts
of treason to comfort me – it’s less
an ending anyway, much more a
tangled calumny of scales, he wasn’t
even angry when he died
© 18 Aug 2009, I. D. Carswell

Morelia spilota cheynei – Jungle Carpet Python

Lacy White

Nothing will placate the so-called failure
of that night – the week before all pomp
and circumstance to take its due; you
lay in lacy white expectantly your eyes
aglow to consummate our unity though
arms of sleep reached out enfolding me.

Penance came at dawn in cheeks aflush
with blushes clean, delight embracing
nuptial cries applaudingly; ‘tis where I’d
lay awake reprieved forever and a day –
you are the bride to whom I cede all of
my time’s infinity.

You claim I’d been afraid to touch you as
a wife that night – and I agree, the waif I
lusted with upon a beach had fed me well –
too well to take this fragile angel in my
arms and bend her to my will she begged
in ways which made a mockery of me.

My lusting never faced as stern a test as
wanting you so much – a fear you’d fly or
run away distressed me such I couldn’t
breathe that night; I slept imprisoned in a
fight for breath a taste a touch a slice of
what you promise me as cherished wife.
© 24 August 2009, I. D. Carswell

Top Dog

 

We’re simpatico Benson and me
his views of our new life mesh
sweetly though I see in him a
greater change; he used to be
a canine asshole with wannabe
pretensions aired in fang-bared
assertions of theatrical
dominance.

Yet in an instant he’d be the
cute face-licking bosom buddy
expected of a dog at the foot
of the tree. Now there’s only
him and I so I say, ‘you’re top
dog Benson’ and wince at his
dry ‘why does that sound so
unconvincing?’ reply.
© 22 September 2009, I. D. Carswell

Surrender

This is more than punishment
there’s no relief, bones bared
will shatter easy echoed clean
purgatory’s superior, at least
a chance to expiate and win a
place in Heaven; here callous
stasis maims mobility only
graven silence imitates

If you knew just how you
sentenced me I’d reason to
progress beyond conjecture
set in stone; it is more comfort
than not knowing whether you
saw thus before surrender
© 31 July 2009, I. D. Carswell

Three Hours To Wait

You know the
taste won’t do unless
bona fide – no less and no
compromise so ten cardamom
pods please not seeds
get it thru your head

two fine cockerels raised
vital to this dish lavished
with love given a good
death

head of Mexican garlic
fresh ginger four bay leaves
five tear-raw onions ghee enough
to float a ship and five
cinnamon sticks

we’re getting there; turmeric
cumin, cloves, chilli, garam
marsala, yoghurt, pinch of salt

only three hours to wait...
© 4 August 2009, I. D. Carswell

Decoration

the weight wearing me
as a campaign ribbon
offers no compensation

easily recognised I am
too much of a commodity
a recycled throwaway line

I’m not hanging out with
you for my rehabilitation
it says, but to me it seems

the view for you, every
which way you look at it
– is downhill
© 5 August 2009, I. D. Carswell