online today!FargoFan Poetry (77)

Yet in my memory is no such scene
I saw how she stood behind when necessary
Yet she was the dominant one
in fact.
No one ever remarked but she was the power
In fact,
no need to wield the strop
to hold the power is there?
I didn't really understand this
or perhaps I did
until I saw her decisions
after dad had died.

But that's not the story!

Then he rose, the man,
Inked dark and blue to the wrist
And the boy elbows on knees
Bent and ears covered
Wept it seemed
While the woman walked up
Approached
But a wave of the arm
and away she went

Roasting on Tuesday, thirty nine degrees
then clouds, cool and rain
two days and more and yet
I heard the sun emerge today
Heard?
Yes the cicadas burst out in song
chirr chirrup chirp
with night a choir of crickets
took up their cacaphonous song
dropping off one by one till now
one hesitant chirr remains
no answering call his resolution fades
halts resumes fades
reminds me somewhat of me
in seeking
someone.
He's stopped

Not unlike him
My chirruping ceases
If someone comes too close.

A poem resented, published but never
approved agreed assented.
Aggrieved I spied it fifty
near sixty years later
at the tail of the school magazine
The Pines 1963
and my name mispelt to boot!
Pretentious crap at seventeen
I wrote and reluctantly stood
beckoned commanded
to read aloud in class and
Mr Wright heeded not my protest.
Oh you buggers you bastards!

It goes to show, it doesn't pay
to join the Facebook alumni
nigh on 60 years later does it,
and stir such ne'er seen
and newly to be forgotten
embarrassments past...

The doors rattle, each has its own sound
My office door behind me Is the click of the latch
the door with the economic map of China 2008
But there are light booms of doors downstairs
The upstairs bedroom doors each their own sound
In unison more or less with the sighing trees
Sighing not quite so loud that the streets, morning,
will be strewn with flowers leaves and branches
Midnight has gone and the slight screech
of distant train wheels scraping the curving rails
Too
I will go out and stand in the dark silence
as the sliding windows shudder slightly
then stop.
As does the wind.

Midnight Jan 15-16th

What should I do but shrug
you walked away deleted
disappeared and silence
these years thereafter.
this morning early I thought
of this wordless 'ectomy'
effronted it seems
you reject a criticism
so I am a father no more to you.
what can I do but shrug?
it is as you will have it.
my own parents
cold shoulders too for years
for some perceived offence
until I reached out
and like a cloud
dissolved by the sun
the offence disappeared.
But this time no,
have it as you will.
What should I do but shrug?

Trees sighing and upturned pots
Soil scattered
El ninya comes bringing
wind and rain welcome
if gentle enough
but does that ever happen?
Unlikely here in this harsh land isn't it?
Californian fires fade as
the Ozzie bushfire season looms
this year droughts thirst quenched somewhat
and fuel consumed
the fire is not so ominous we hope
Year in year out harsh is ever harsher.

the first inkling I had
rang alarm bells I did not heed
but I should have.
the voice is so sweet when it is sweet
and sour when it is coarse
hoarse in the first soft words
is a curse to hear and I should have heard
but did not heed.
indeed in another life I will
ah! when I hear her the shoulders twitch
that witch knows not how I cringe.
Those first words my eyes opened wide
but my brain shut out the fierce sound.
Fool!

Anger
rage
never
rises
mouth
high

Irritation
sometimes
retching
reaches
upper
regions

rich
fulsome
ruminant
memory
ascends
blissfully

food
chilli
salami
salmon
all
mingle

ah
so
passes
this
lovely
saturday!

And a sudden irrestible urge
possessed my right shoulder
my right foot first slowly
then with intent
pressed forward and then
I was looking up the street
the pub horse-cart a single carriage
away from her
high hat on head
I strode away.
and that was that

But in those days no one would have said 'whatever' so...
I was looking up the street
there the rare corner pub
from an era past,
away from her
chin high as always
I strode away.
and that was that

I vaguely remember when
last I felt the delight
or the pain and
so hurry not to fight
to seek either again

twenty five years or so before
a birthday greeting.
all but one her last letter
then silence each day meeting.
gone, nothing to say, love? no more

but it's no big deal, really, is it?
no one touches my shaggy eyebrows, so?
or tweaks my earlobe, looks
askance with a private smile, or slow
knocks on the door for a clandestine visit...

but it's no big deal, you will agree
the final letter - three words she wrote
in a hand unused to an alphabet
'finished is finished' - unexplained, I quote
but one year later, just single and free

That female so fearsome
With eyebrows like bullwhips
When one is cocked you wait for
the crack of the whip

lips pursed and so rigid
when she hisses kisses
through her teeth whistling
wee and far oh no cummings
is coming alive again

fierce and forbidding
forboding a frightful night
but in fact she is so funny
and the photo is just
to scare away foolish males