Potato Wedges

 
me mates ‘Podger’ ‘n ‘Monét’ visited
today with gorgeous Helen who makes
ordinary doggy expeditions a happening;
orright, Podge lost the plot in an all bluff
display of Jack Russell intimidation while
Money (his real name) took to slobbering

seems I’m their heir apparent adopted –
a bloke they sort of cotton onto when shit
hits the fan in a paucity of maleness, that’s
not to say their patron Saint ain’t a beaut
Sheila, bless me fancy socks, but a dog’s
gotta be a real dog, don’t cha know

so me ‘n the boys showed ‘er how blokes
make hay, so to speak, ‘n we sorted all
those tetchy things which leave knots in
the hair or bumps in the way easily – they
each got a piece of focaccia for lunch with
a concealed frown for dessert, I guess

as a celebration I’m making roast potato
wedges herbed to Hell and gone with garlic
seasoning – it says what needs to be said
for the pork chops are still rather vague,
or might have been Pad Thai, and then I’d
be left explaining why they didn’t get any
© 15 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

Rubrics Of Adolescence

attempted to join the day
found honest sweat too easily
dissuaded by reflections of change
sunrise beginnings shaped space
in a vague feral innocence
fell prey to artistic lament

rubrics of adolescence gleaned
visions newborn and freed infectious
contagion, soft expressions which
mimed graciously imprecise ideas
played naive of exaggeration,
of tragedies’ theatrical death

waking estranges the game;
ageing with each breath comes
sadly – sands shift and patterns
clash in an anarchy of intrusion
you are not meant to be here
you rashly impede
© 17 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

Allergy

there isn’t relief
no cease-fire parleyed
no stay of hostilities;

yet there is peace – a
broad-brimmed hat sort
of bucolic tranquillity

shade for the sun-tender
jousts with grades of
warmth too hard to beat

even best laid plans beset
where cool ideas fail to
meet iced expectations

and rampant grass growth
lays seed persuasively
for new-fangled allergies

grainy eyes aflame, nose-bleed
sneezing wracks perdition’s
wretched rashes

to be gone in a week like
a fast-passing plague –
palliatively relieved!
© 17 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

Laughing With

They’re taking the piss outa you and
you know it – don’t you, that laughing
says all that needs to be said; though
they may be only kookaburras they’re
dead right about a sorry case

And that’s the tilt of it mate, our best
chance of a rescue rests with a bunch
of feathered comedians whose tall tree
veracity echoes insolently from an
indigent’s brazenly oversize beak

They’re not all empty phrases exactly
even choral intent’s well orchestrated
in boos from an opposition bench – or
fatuous praise glazed in good taste
with restrained Australian humour

They’re laughin’ with you mate, try ‘n
see it that way instead of buryin’ your
head in your bum; you’re too bloody
sensitive bein’ kookaburra shamed
by an innocent bit of ‘armless fun
© 18 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

Angels

I do believe you need to
say hello to sixty years
with MAGNANIMITY,

to those whose age
falls short ‘nobility’
is what it means;

of course there’s other
ways to say ‘generosity
of spirit’ and ‘fairness’
easy springs to mind 

– but sixty years
reminds one that it’s
true a life is but a trifle
bought with time.

So here today we
celebrate your age
and pay a homage due,

you’re everything and
ever more imagined for
in good and clean and
real and pure

– so who’s to say that angels
don’t mature at sixty years; my dear,
you are an Angel, that’s for sure.
© 19 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

For Helen Mary Rose on her 60th Birthday

Christchurch

A day in breaking buildings
towers with dread indifference
and cowers hearts

A cityscape is blindly torn apart
in anguished moments bled
of logic’s rationality

Where distressed debris lies
the anguished screams are heard
expressed in unsaid words

Empty eyes surveying such
enormity are cruelly paled
and dumbly fall aside

There is no peace denied, no
hope of sanctuary, it is the
day this garden city died
© 23 February 2011, I. D. Carswell

For the 22 February 2011 victims

Journeys

making awesome journeys in
between each pensive step
must rate with raking ashes –

awakening in gaps displacing
scenes of worldly sequences
so real less causal temporality

and placement of the feet leaves
no relief from piercing images
complete arcane ascendency

they’re only memories you try
to say, with no intent discrete
except their utter vacancy

so prise those feet apart and
rise above despair suspended
in the gloom erasing you

invasive moods like these
consume redacted years to
merely cross the room
© 21 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

Pact

we trade our cravings on a
future view that’s alcohol and
sugarless – creating space
for voluntary abstinence

the pact potentially
appeases caring sensitivities
perhaps and thus it seems
hung out to dry too easily

and yet I’d like to see the
fat you claim detracts from
curves voluptuary arranged
upon a drying rack – with

soulful beer I care to sing
excess in tuneless praise tho’
now somewhat distained
to shame conviviality

‘twill be a strange and doleful
place I guess, if a success
which leaves concerns, how
then do we just celebrate?
© 23 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

Artlessness

I think I know how
you read literal intent
into opaque reflections
meant figuratively
agreed there’s no
room to set time by
untailored innuendo
in real expectations
naiveté comes at a price
defined by what it takes
to recreate an ancient
status quo of peace
whereas a breach
of etiquette conveys
hypothetical insensitivities
imagined free range
but in the making and
the breaking of unanimity
there is ample room
for daring compromise
eyes wet with blinding
tears disguise what wise
reflections won’t incline
and never can conceal
© 23 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

First Kiss Of Greeting

Fragility of mind breaks free to agonise
in restless noise that reigns inside – does
silence thus deny all wonts of me she
grieves, where is love in Coventry – raw
replies still tangle tongues, shatter ears

Poised betrothed ‘tho yet he flees like
fearing fires – hides in vacancy; sadness’s
uncertainty endows the whispered doubts –
a brittle clatter thrives in acumen upset
with drought of dread calamity

Cries to a full moon grievously, tell me
why, my love’s unqualified, why the pain
affianced to misery – those clamoured
voices fused in me who sentence gloom
should please explain

Waking alone in the night of a vale of tears
no accent of reason prevails; anxious clichés
fettered in pale rhetoric entwine, unleash
vagaries – but then on meeting no mystery
exists in the first kiss of greeting
© 24 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

Walking The Dogs

Walking the dogs had to
do it – they saw different
opportunity, went left at
the ridge, ran out of sight

Not that it worries, it’s
their autonomy – barking’s
a statement all’s well with
them, that is usually

But nothing came after
separation – complete
silence apart from a steep
ascent’s hard breathing

I wonder as I plod downhill
was I going the wrong way
being disturbingly alone
made me uneasy

Ordinarily familiarity isn’t
a fragile event but being
unreservedly used to their
companionship meant no relief

Unnerved enough to quietly
remark how profoundly walking
the dogs proves exactly
who’s whose company
© 25 November 2010, I. D. Carswell

Restraint

feral deer – red, not rusa, chital
or fallow, fine animals whose
lack of fear implies their fluency
in this district’s natural relations

sure, if approached they’ll flee
instantly, they didn’t reach
maturity on benevolence, they
stand motionless, watch warily

survived to breed in a vale of
tears locals say, where wild pigs
and dingos are vestiges of a
lasting Colonial calamity

luckily no more guns resound in
the gentle hill surrounds and roaring
stags vie for hinds free of spying
eyes – it is a well kept peace

saw a fawn newborn just yesterday,
took pleasure in its Doe’s joy
restrained – we have no cause to
draw the hunters here again
© 7 December 2010, I. D. Carswell

Innocence Replete

an inner peace pursues aloof
this conflict dreamed; there is no
friction here between these entities
consumed in mutual grace

and yet irrational moment’s fear
expressed as baleful silence leaves
a passing doubt – palpably
conjoined in fretful wavering

but when a smile infuses balm
the carnage ends in spaces clean;
before the scene rewinds again an
innocence replete returns
© 29 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Bakers Favour

corn and barley bread
for all intents except a recipe;
to say it failed equates
to larceny of taste, there’s
gustatory evidence the baker
made a fair attempt

I’d eat the same again –
but then I made the loaf
from someone else’s memory
I’ve tried the bread before
but never seen the flour
as such until today

I’ll try again – the faith I
have in flavours lends belief
ingredients bequeath unique
and special favours to the culinary
favoured; I’ll pray to be
allowed the same relief
© 28 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Practicality

some contemplations gain 
integrity ostensibly – events
completely unrelated scheme
in concert to facetiously
create an aura of propriety

and then it seems the floor
we’re contemplating doesn’t
need a sweeping or a mop
to clean because it really
isn’t at that stage just yet

we’d say that practicality
invents its own reality – not
churlish premises to lend a
hand to theorise what might
surmise a wiser course

so the floor resists a broom
we’d wield if this were ever
slightly true – meaning flies
that flew and died and fell
afoot are hardly cause alone

besides, the footwear on our
feet designs capacity to beat
the lies of dust and grit – which
is a non-event – so why devise
pretense of lasting ill at ease?
© 28 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

A Safer Place

there is small comfort
less intensity of where
admission bests a
teasing play on words

“I love you”

takes no prisoners –
be assured that what you
said in words dictates
just where it places me

and you are captive
too within the sphere
admitting where our senses
mesh implacably

“I love you too”

is a reply assured
there cannot be a safer
place – I do for sure, to
be imprisoned wilfully
© 27 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Mending Fences

been a quiet day with
muted ending – 4:05 am
arousal reflecting high on
the Richter estrogenic scale
(not kidding – it was a
hot-blooded quake)

midday and exhaustion’s
saving grace; repair of flood
damaged fences drained
more energy than a recent
spate unleashed upon
Bungo and Delaney Creek

the Sheila ‘n me strained
a few sagging strands still
trailing weed, battled the
atavistic fronds of stinging
nettle, trimmed wild tobacco
hoping it wouldn’t reseed

and we achieved more than
deliberated – there’s fair
confirmation the horses aver
to stay inside the fence; Land
of Opportunity they prefer
appears as an open gate
© 27 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Truth As A Product

It was a rising inflection which got
me – the one at sentence end which
invariably questions, a tonal sort of
‘do you understand’ or perhaps ‘give
me a hint you’re actually with me on
this’ – without saying the words

needlessly I mutter I was until you
asked, now I’m definitely anti whatever
it is you have to say; that is how I am,
no artifice used by cleverly colloquial
raconteurs in their own defence is
going to allay deep seated suspicion

But I’m listening anyway – my ears
actually strain in an effort to recognize
who is speaking – must have been
something in the tone of voice although
I don’t particularly want to hear what
she has to say

An interview on News Radio – there’s
the explanation; like me she has no
faith in the veracity of reporting, where
she sees unmitigated self-interest in the
way they conduct their business

‘Truth’, she says, isn’t an exclusive
product of News Media thinking, in no
way is it proprietary – nor is it exclusively
your registered ‘brand-name’ commodity
© 2 September 2010, I. D. Carswell

Patricia Kathleen

Patricia Kathleen graced the
World a few years ago today
seventy to be precise – with
a wry grin and a promise

born freckled with corsair’s
red hair that blazed yet the
temperament of an angel
bathed in modesty

her way was tranquillity
embraced in an unshakeable
accord which surmounted an
honest assurance replete

her legacy pays homage in
sincerity, a currency weighed
sweet in warm smiles played
at her seraphic feet
© 23 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

For Patricia Kathleen Lyford (nee Carswell)
on reaching 70

Raucous Sleep

snoring comes clean
to mind as less a burden
than sleep denied –
and the proxy for pain
is stony silence

I should be gratified
with vacuous angst
but for claims to the
guilt implied; it is no
palliative relief

you sleep with ease
in an accompaniment
which breaks free
of traditional restraint –
it is less a burden

hearing your raucous sleep
saves me self-recrimination
and I rejoice silently –
‘tho I cannot sleep
© 16 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

A Lesser Profundity

ordinarily you’d wonder what would
get to you sooner, the muggy heat
or those bleeding flies – with either
a lay-down misère if mosquitoes
failed to declare on arrival

but the sequence you won’t forget
the high-pitched fly-by to test if
you’re sentient or deaf, followed by
obvious strategies assessing hand
speed and eye acuity – it never fails

the pests analyse your defence with
dedication suggesting they are better
trained than mere soldiers – certainly
they are but they aren’t protecting
national security, or are they?

whether you’re worth such fanatical
attention is impossible to say; itches
to my feet impress enough while the
mugginess of a storm’s advance
plays a much lesser profundity
© 7 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Solitude Bereaved

whether you’re awake in my imagination
makes a game of this charade; if asleep
your dreaming plays reality that schemes
my breath away – and in a single chorus
when the notion dawns this breaking day
rescinds a pass to moist delight, a shrewd
review decides that fate decrees there’ll
always be another time, another day

then in a passage of petite surprise you
rise with an embrace placating wisdoms
deference of the obtuse – I needed you
restrain the passion fuelling you, in truth
I slept but half a breath away bereaved
in chaste remains of recent solitude
© 8 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Way-Station

describing it a way-station
goes close but you’d be ably
impressed how nearly it
became home

no rules lest simple maxims
live and let be – treat others
as you’d want for yourself
make cause for harmony

so hearth and heart blazed
in a fantasia of bonhomie
embraced comfortably – no
space wasted

and the road leading in
ran on into distant purviews
of places un-amazed by the
same yet-to-be-ruled stars

but the face beckoning
belonged in another place
with vertical walls and
indices of durability

I didn’t leave, just didn’t
stay beyond the inevitable
reckoning – that it was
only part-way
© 22 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Terrain I Don’t Recognise

these past few days connived in 

incidents beyond my span when
I saw pretence I knew dressed
as integrity – things humbled
out of a futile World praised to
be the grace of a new regime

a trance on waking is no comfort
when knowledge of a lifetime
flaunts mortality – and it amazes
how thin a veneer still satisfies
almost anyone who claims it
sincerely that they believe

but what is relief? Nothing’s
familiar, signs disappeared
when the sun set on a life I
don’t regret – when I awake
will I be where it rises to lament
in terrain I don’t recognize?
© 9 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Bungo Creek

Bungo hit its banks with attitude
when rain deluged the other day
you’d scarce believe the venom
of the spate – water even topped
The Junction Bridge’s rails

and Simpson’s Bridge was almost
washed away or so it seemed – to
disappear beneath a flail of debris
flushed in clearing ranks of rubbish
stashed along Delaney’s Creek

roadside fences wear the signs as
decorated barbed-wire lines of
anarchy – a consequence in levels
stressed to play a-fright with
minds relieved of such a plight

and even Paulus’ Bridge could not
escape arrears – it paid in silted
gooey sludge that sprays a muddy
signature from four-wheel drivers
mute contempt

midst displaced trunks of massive
trees are rows of wild tobacco
weed with leaf effaced downstream
a billion twigs and leaves aligned
display the rampant waters’ line
© 12 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Maggert

She – has to be a She, flaunts this
doggy sanctuary in vaunted confidence
without a sign of fear she stalks
between the feeding bowls.

The owners watch unfazed, she
takes a single piece within her beak
to break it neat and eat before she
deems it wise to fly away.

She will return; she keeps a space
between herself and either dog
although she seems at ease that they’re
amused more than concerned.

The dogs agree there’s more to eat
than greed would countenance a boon
the food is dry and tastes of crunchy
veggie meal and beef and bone.

Her diet shrieks enough to make a
magpie’s song regress distressed in
sharps and flats – but seeing plumage
bloom suggests the lie in that.
© 13 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Sock By Sock

sock by sock
that’s what she said
no vague innuendo intended
just earthy epithets for
the way he moved in

ground rules forbade a
casual invasion – perceiving
sacredness at stake
leastways settled
inconsolable debt

but here you are – sock
by sock, an incremental
accumulation of familiarity
in clandestine clothes
littering the floor
© 15 October 2010, I. D. Carswell

Bongaree

we went to Bongaree to celebrate 

that special day, it was her sixtieth
and she decreed a picnic by the sea

we made the journey early to avoid
the heat, arrived upon a Bribie beach
where dogs on leash were deemed ok

and so it came to pass that Podge and
Money were at last to contemplate a
dose of sea-run sand and saltiness

they played the game with style and
queued to pee on every bushy clump
and tree for miles along the beach

we reached the end of their free reign
upon the esplanade and found that
Buckley’s Hole was truly out of bounds

a site preserved for birds to breed the
sign implied with dogs denied, although
intrepid trekkers might proceed

it was a shame but we curtailed the
stroll and threw a twig or two into sea
for Podge to swim out and retrieve

Money pranced excitedly but wouldn’t
take a chancy dive for twigs in surf that
barely lapped an inch upon the beach

we lunched in ease with Nature by the
sea, ate golden baked calzone stuffed
with prawns and cheese – sipped tea

the place rekindled memories of blissful
dreams we shared as kids, where
beachside airs indeed repaired our faith
© 19 November 2010, I. D. Carswell