Sketches in WordsFeet dangled over railway platform's edge hoping the train don't come
19 YEARS Nineteen years, nineteen more nineteen times dragged to the floor Nineteen children dragged away by nineteen others, one fine day. Nineteen denials turn your head nineteen bodies on tracks found dead. Nineteen Police around the bend just in case you’re...
They gave him a medal for his ideology
for the bile that laced every word
They gave him a medal for his own theology
and the poison that his vitriol stirred.
I’ve known about New Zealand’s Zero Carbon Emissions Bill for some time, as a Kiwi and as regular reader of New Zealand news. Across the Tasman, it’s old news.
Pigs in the barn
the farmer’s gone out for a spell
his Niece is covering for him
she’s had to lay down, she’s not well
In Dante’s Inferno, when trying to describe
the houses of Hell’s lamentations
the torments, the trials, laid quick to ascribe
amidst the curses and blessings of nations
I was only trying to be sensitive, my Mother always said
be mindful of others, offending
but she was good at it, she didn’t hold back
lived a life she did and if others
What was it? Where were we? Yesterday?
that made me stay away,
reined me in, stopped me calling,
not that you could hear me
The table for two is available now, once the staff clear the mess away
and the children stop their crying
mothers do their best at mothering and controlling the noise
we look on we know they’re trying
Lamingtons are cool,
lamingtons are a hit
I like eating lamingtons
more than just a bit
I attended the annual Brain Tumour Alliance Australia forum yesterday, in Sydney. On stage was a plethora of brilliant minds, caring souls and with it, a potpourri of information designed to either educate or bewilder the audience.
Colin Birtles is stuck in traffic, or more to the point, stuck in his car, in a queue, at a service station, idling his engine, with other unfortunates, in traffic, victims all of a garish advertising sign offering a fuel price discount, pock marked on the side of the road, with all the other pock marks, blathering the health benefits of Gatorade, the communication benefits of a mobile phone, or the freedom offered by the latest Jeep.
Her father found him rather too overt for his finely tuned diplomatic sensibilities, but nevertheless agreeable. A talent to be honed. And so invitations to various functions were arranged, to see how he might fit in.
It was a woman at the checkout buying coconut oil. She had put it in her bag, with all the other groceries she was purchasing when she noticed that the seal on the bottle underneath the screw top lid containing the coconut oil had come lose.
I was approaching, in my car, some months ago, one of those ubiquitous discount fuel outlets that have become symbolic of our consumer age. As I had a voucher handy I decided that I should probably refuel.
– And how will Sir be paying?
– I beg your pardon?
– At the risk of incurring the considerable wrath of my dear grandmother, who would remind me that I must never be required to repeat myself, I must, on this occasion, risking her shouting from her grave, repeat my question. How will Sir be paying?