memory

Memory Car

when you drive it, memories come out

memories

of the memory car

the memory car has got a switch that can turn it on and off

do you know what it can go?

very fast!

there also is a backseat

for you

it’s so big

for you to get in

you can’t open the door

if you want to get in

because there is no door

we have to jump into the memory car

do you know what the memory car is?

it’s so long

do you know what it’s got?

a fire top

do you know where the memories all go?

out the roof

and like a pink one lands in my hand

can you drive it?

 

This was the Day 13 prompt (yesterday) to write about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive. This was a “found poem” taken mostly verbatim from something my four-year-old was telling me.

Boy blue

 

Like a triangle of stained glass

No, a diamond in blue

curl of censer smoke

caresses air bubbles

joyful

trapped in stasis

imperfections to some

perspective

looking through the lens

tears and beer froth

framed in lines of black

lions and jackals claw

endlessly

don’t trouble

a split of smile

twist of glee, the cackle

and the pain of it all

days many and so few

deep into something new

remember? I remember you

my little boy blue

 

 

Photo: Yu Siang Teo on Unsplash

 

 

fishing line

listen to the wind

restless, tepid, tossed free

the babble of summer parties

floats by

I

throw myself like a fishing line

into darkness and back, back

in time to back-lane bins and jasmine

scented evenings

encasing friends

warm drunkeness

bottoms dimpled by

milk crate imprints and the tiny

gravel of old cement

crumbing bare feet

swished aside

long cotton skirts

eyes glance up

that window high

mine

that window high

eyes glance up

long cotton skirts

swished aside

crumbing bare feet

gravel of old cement

milk crate imprints and tiny

bottoms dimpled by

warm drunkenness

encasing friends

scented evenings

in time to back-lane bins and jasmine

into darkness and back, back

throw myself like a fishing line

I

float by

the babble of summer parties

restless, tepid, tossed free

listen to the wind

 

 

Photo: https://unsplash.com/@ross_sokolovski

Rain

Roses in Zurich

Last time it rained like this

Rain, rain, rain

It was spring? autumn? In…

my share house in Newtown

the same rain, same, same

Some days it would stop

Then it’d start up

again, again, again

Uni textbooks damp and curling

lank hanks of velvet curtain

on my sliding bedroom door

over my barred window, hiding

the pane, pane, pane

Blocking out my hangovers, oh

the pain, the pain, the bane

Of my existence.

A lover called my room “the pit”

But I had a red rose

outside on the covered balcony

A little flame, flame, flame

One night another suitor

Left a small china dog on my doorstep

Racked returning from the pub–

a tender campaign, campaign, campaign.

I’d go to my beautiful friend’s house

Try to ease her sadness

with pizza, throwdowns, hairdye–

We’d laugh, tho her heart was

in twain, twain, twain.

I did my work, I felt sad and happy

I got drunk all the time.

It rained and rained and rained

Sometimes wonder how much has

changed, changed, changed

Alison

20160405_090202
She has died
A spot of life and suburban lustre
In the periphery of my childhood

Nailpolish, cigarettes, lipstick, candles
Her small orange Meteor
That sat like a full stop at the end of our street

Her Esoteric book shop. Crystals and tapestry
Jewel colours and sunbursts. Was there macramé too?
It was the 80s

Millie the friendly white Labrador
The hot tub
A plush golden-brown corner lounge

Her bedroom, slightly exotic and the smell
of perfume, makeup, incense, cigarettes (she quit eventually, I think)
And champagne

Sharing a glass of wine with mum
At the end of the day
Now I know how lovely that is
To have a friend
Just down the road
Who’ll chat with you as the kids entertain themselves

Kindness
“She always said she could tell it was me at the door because of the way I knocked with the door knocker which made me feel strangely special”
says James

She once showed us the Godlight
shining through clouds above the ocean – not religious, but holy
I always call it that when I see it now

The holiday houses where we were welcome
Never too neat. Sand underfoot
Just perfect. Goodbye x