Rejoice

Rejoice again, the golden
voice of godlike Barnaby
begets a view of National
spew reserved and
served as rustic
common sense.

On ‘The Economy’ his 
mien has been chameleon
yet say the least he now espouses
freedom from restraint
if votes ensue that dam
the shocking waste.

And is he Hockey’s mate
who speaks for Treasury?
Well woe proposed to those
opposed to anal debt constraint;
as Minister, may God forgive,
he’ll feature as a laxative.
© 20 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

Barnaby Joyce is Tony Abbott’s
Shadow Minister for Finance

Meandering

so what do you do
have another beer, stir
the bolognaise or shoot
something? You can try
all without guarantee
ennui will abate
in a day mortgaged to
circumspect reflection
relief of knowing comes
after the cockatoo’s ‘kiss
this’ salute and Mellencamp’s 
“Way To Your Heart”
I haven’t lost the place
I marked in the Book of Life
the children are safe
and no news is good news –
so far it’s merely me
meandering
© 15 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

Secrets

I discovered you yesterday
excuse me for being flabbergasted
and somewhat trite

still recovering from a
vagrant thought you might
actually understand me

or do I misconceive
intelligence for the insight
of a knowing smile?

your grin replies
enigmatically, “that secret’s
safe with me!”
© 13 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

Changes

‘Strangely’ says the way is seldom clear;
there is so much to fear from
past events where death
competes for living space 

emptiness defeats all
claims to common sense; 
you freely vacillate in
seamlessly complete
and utter vacancy 

conceding you are beat
could ease this dissonance
of harmony estranged – but
weirdly, knowing that means
nothing’s changed
© 12 Jan 2010, I. C. Carswell

That View

that view made sense when you
espoused it – a “here and now”
philosophy with hairy bits extant;
although today’s composure
won’t relent

it says we didn’t know the World
back then; can’t cavil or consent
or least equate to scrutiny that
lent us this – acerbically I’ll wont
concede

we knew the needs as well as they
who played equations with their
stocks and shares – but we were
less imbued with vanity; my fear
was only love of you

and there I am besmeared; to
whom do I owe sustenance? If
it were you I’m free of guilt I
fondly think – you needn’t say
a word

and now these views conspire
to bleed the life of you to whom
my admiration knows no bounds;
our freedom paid no dues for sure
but truly you are not in need 
© 14 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

On Australia Day

might have been a consequence of
three strong coffees or the splendid
isolation but woe is me, did I forget
which was our National Day?
‘tho every day’s a holiday out here
when living green, in landed hearts the
seasons tend to rule the roost while
celebrations merely lend a hand
so when I made apologies to friends
an allergy prevented me attending
there today (for a barbeque no less)
they kindly told me where and when
our National BBQ Day’s next Tuesday
I’m advised as I sneeze vigorously, a
wet disclaimer of teary eyes; good
heavens, how could I forget!
© 19 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
Australia Day is Tuesday 26 January

Peace Enough

it is impossible to discern 
real ties between unwritten
shopping lists, injured shoulder
and mild depression –
so I rest easy

I know, I know, the
tamarillos need picking
they glare from unmown
grass beneath the trees
with angst restrained
been a hard week, grass 

growing out-of-control
social calendar stealing
what little poise remains
I could be excused
which I won't be, there’s

always that self-righteous
bloody-mindedness playing
devil’s advocate – defence
against deference, so I’ll fail
but you will never know; 

now if this shoulder would
relent maybe I’ll find peace
enough and contentment
in your epic victory
© 16 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

Plastic Providence

go back to bed at least
and stay in it; it is a
sanctuary for feelings
fleeing consequence

each day begins a
vacancy that’s never filled
no applicants compete
for empty space

your doubt is spread on
wings which will inflate
the disbelief – as if it
always rightly is this way

you watch a petty thief
of time implicitly through
eyes deceived; complicity
conceives your plastic fate
© 18 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

The Other Half

it is not the way you planned
to begin; an admission before
positing this solemn submission
seems less a canny route

saying, “you are never less
than half my thoughts” sounds
profoundly inexact – if at all
possible, and obtusely quaint

there’s a je ne sais quoi ‘pure
vulnerability’ in those words
for sure but their import might
be too easily misconstrued

a statement of intent with which
one proves truth by well meant
and easily observed activity
the saint in you assumes

while the lawyer asks wryly and
with sang froid of long standing
familiarity, “well, what is it that
occupies the other half then?”
© 19 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

Otter Dreams

it is the same recall that
bathed in your maternal stream
an otter sleek and quick
in play – a timeless dream

too swift the years that
weighed against a buoyancy
of thought and deed – too
late to claim offense

and then you went away
to seek another you - the
one that grew apart in days
of darkened dissonance

otter dreams suspended in a
timeless trance of tenderness
liquid memories enhanced
by waters calling agelessly
© 2 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

Festive Irony

you might say I am
the Spirit of Christmas
driven by a steady hand
on the neck of a bottle
of Cerveza complete
with lime wedge

this year I gave my friend
three flyswats opining he’ll
find superior utility in that
than a six-pack of said beer
– which he’s never been
fond of anyway

it’s a crazy time when
flies breed faster than Tahitian
limes can grow now Christmas
is a day away – he’ll see
irony in plastic swats to
control global warming
© 23 December 2009, I. D. Carswell

Blame It On Pollen

The teary eyes do not surprise
though faerie dust will disagree
that it disposed a runny nose
or ever caused a chary sneeze

‘Rhinitis’ you say a mite amazed
as if a comic malady
with focus on a mucus to
effect a balanced sanity

You are for sure it’s not your
war and try to counsel warily
but this disquiet begets a riot
and rages on distressfully 

Immunity or harmony would
hardly seem germane to me
but histamines are warring things
repelling motes you cannot see

You are fatigued in aching need
to find a healthy end agreed
within a pill to calm an ill which
seethes dissent disdainfully
© 20 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

Morning Coffee

coffee’s a dream and warm
French bread compliments
where croissants will cloy a
sentiment already appraised;
it is simplicity raised where
taste remains pure and origins
clear; no milk or sugar in the
cup, no jam or honey please

just a smear of butter to melt
of its own largesse on a bread
that gloats this early morning’s
pleasure – already I sink out of
sight on the scent, drown in
expressive benevolence
©7 Jan 2010, I. D. Carswell

Savoir Faire

if I have learned anything it is
the savoir faire of silence – not
that I can’t say the right thing
but an innocent, all-over-in-an
instant keeping the peace guile
of a stilled-tongue wins. So let me
lick your lips – pierce that inner
sanctum you are guarded about

it is not an answer I know but
the drawn out groans of pleasure
suggest nerves much in need;
there is unwell denial where a
clear conscience prevaricates
awaits an anxious requital
© 8 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

New Year’s Day

New Year’s Day and
I am treed picking avocados
thoughts expanding beyond
caring foliage concealing
the fruit I seek

is this really you, a voice asks,
more from morbid curiosity than
intent I guess, but I am lost
for an answer; can I get back
to you, I say

only if you see better reason
for hanging there precariously
scaring the shit out of your
absent family it says, and the
least of all, me...
© 1 January 2010, I. D. Carswell

Mango

tempted to write dork for the      
crossword clue 'Stallone role' 
suggests I didn’t see much in 

Rambo, which is true but then 
I’d play Mutant Xmas Mango 
if the ripe price was right 

so the first Kensington Pride 
consumed this year from my 
trees had a proper ceremony 

12 days to ripen seems to fit 
this grand occasion properly,
although ensorcelled in a bowl 

& whichever way you'd view
its gustatory symbolism, it’s
still lost on Johnny Rambo
© 30 December 2009, I. D. Carswell

Figurines

the easy way is to not
recognise a finger in the
plate to mean a threat

there are no arched eyes
and the tongue licking is with
gusto not misconception of taste;

too real is a belief yet
unrealised, and these
are not your figurines
© 27 December 2009, I. D. Carswell

Living Frugally

I may be shy a few superlatives
but grant me space – the sound
of thunder rumbling and a gentle
rain that soothes maternally says
“be at peace within this place”

it is an observation voiced frugally
in choruses desiccated – unforgiving
consciousnesses played by sunburned
failures without a certain start or
less forgiving ends

clemency is nodded as you stand
shirtless simply listening in cool
raindrops to a sole koel calling,
“hey, are you here yet?” An
intimate massage of its majesty

today I cleaned gutters with hands
cut easily by edges I already knew
tacitly small sacrifices that drew
blood – deformed testimony to this
rainfall’s munificence

and yet you claim there’s no need
for change because anything as
godlike as this is plainly too good
to be estranged – or compromised
by further dehydration
© 19 December 2009, I .D. Carswell

Warmish Day

‘nother warmish day, 34° on the patio
irrigation underway in an Orchard too
easily dehydrated by parable to deny
deeply ingrained psychology sprays
delusionary water where precious drops 
of rain would soothe sun-savaged weals 

inane ideas afoot in arid contempt of 
what makes the debate germane is
amply evidenced but I’ll save the trees
so save yourselves wear buoyancy 
vests learn how to float between
troughs and crests of arrant treason 

warming is merely a warning before
the downpour begins and a freeze
proceeds to inaugurate your pain
© 18 December 2009, I. D. Carswell

Raison de

this is the house that you built
not the way you’d do it again
arguably – but nonetheless
a mute testament

you made the colours calm
and the walls permanent
at least I stayed free knowing
it was your choice

if it was yours; the lonely
days distance themselves
in fragrant innuendo, scents
that cloud reason

they grew here where you
used to be – do they plague
you too in your raison
de renaissance?
© 16 Dec 2009, I. D. Carswell

Took Forever

it took forever to reach a point
where forever wasn’t relevant, like
three sips more than originally
intended; even revelation asked
on someone else's behalf – still
debating whether or whom,
“...what the fuck’s this about?”

not a response that downplayed
every nuance, indeed a clever and
erudite reply that’s got me wondering
whether I can cope with another tot
of The Black Douglas – tonight’s
answer to scholarly speculation
in a poet’s glass

if I knew the answers I wouldn’t be
asking the questions you are; it never
mattered before whether you understood
because you never knew me and as
much as you think you do now
whether you are prepared
to share the same fate
© 09 Dec 2009, I. D. Carswell

Your Gift

keeping track of time while
emotionally configuring a
response to it meant I missed
the window where I may have
weighed what the future is

needless to say what I lost
has been repaid in a show of
largesse out of proportion to
promises and no calculable
deficit in quality received

but I still need to discern how
it fills your being with a glow
of contentment which evades
me; I have no way of knowing
what I am seeing

was that your gift to me?
© 7 December 2009, I. D. Carswell

Laughing Apace

a silly little cameo to
tease a smile from otherwise
engaged nonsensicalities

teeth bared in a taut-lip
caricature of a grimaced grin
caught out day-dreaming

yep, that’s me, barely inured
to rhythms within but seen to
be responding to procedures

it wasn’t what I failed which
made the grade but how I
lived with such certainty

laughing apace kept peace
stable and made this
love of life consummate
© 7 December 2009, I. D. Carswell

Seeing With Clarity

it’s only been since March
you protest – just nine months
not a lifetime wasted

not as if I didn’t want them 
repaired but a day expended
thus seemed too much to pay 

Heaven’s sake sunglasses don’t 
make that much difference even
if they’re tinted reactively 

one wonders what I missed since 
seeing this with great clarity as a 
miniscule perversion of shame
© 5 December 2009, I. D. Carswell

Paternoster

they were not words I chose
but echoes ringing free of
circumstance; the wine gave
me an absolute and cast-iron
guarantee that I was not to
blame – as if I cared.

$30 retail wouldn’t seem the
cause by my acerbic happenstance
although enough I knew it wasn’t
sole and only origin to where
the paternoster true
anomalies were born

if you will give me words
I know I’ll pay your price
before you ever see the cause
of phrases jemmied from the
vault of what it was before
they made us nice ...
© 2 December 2009, I. D. Carswell

Andrew Forbes Watson

hey
another year
Andrew Forbes Watson
Smith

be damned you’re older
Scottie – there’s elegance
in ageing you’ve made
exclusive haute couture

and the gemstone of
your youth, the Beryl of
mutable perseverance
rests there too

Happy Birthday!
© 30 November 2009, I. D. Carswell

Phoneless

losing your mobile phone
in an orchard where trees
visibly rustle amusement
doesn’t make finding it easier

observe; if Velcro fails to 
contain Nokia’s venturesome
free spirit and you’re phoneless
time condenses dismally 

sane reasoning won’t restrain 
spectral sphincters expressions
of disbelief; how could you be
so stupid they self-flagellate 

yet you see it in mind’s eye as 
lonely and as clear as millions of
leaves littering – but you hear only
the birds twitter and the wind 

seven times you roamed and rang 
before ring tone awakes; seven
times in seven rows before the tune
of Abba’s melody reverberates 

“Money, money, money 
must be funny
in the rich man’s world”
© 26 November 2009, I. D. Carswell

Pocketful Of Dreams

 

I need these lines to be
at least about those things
I meant to say, not words
selected for their odd
texture or dubious origins
and there I go again, just
words which equate a
sense of where a you
and I appear

I’m no grievous poet yet
and never hoped to be but
you are one who’s free to
scribe to stars with whimsy
consummate

a consequence of reading
far and wide and thinking
on beyond and yet you chose
to make me one whose words
delight – a constant liberal
want to sense what’s ever
shared

so be assured, faeries are
not myths of legends lost too
long from ancient times but
visions new with origins today

they insulate it seems
against a tawdriness of
structured thought - allay
all fear of being caught
without a pocketful of
complimentary dreams
© 27 November 2009, I. D. Carswell