Take A Number .
To halt her nearing steps posed too great a threat to her new life found. To not allow the creative surge to complete its course, would be to steal from herself at the very moment her ‘self’ she’d found.
(Image from book, ‘World of Wonder’. Find poem in Clunk & Jam book.)
Drawing A Line .
The sun sets to draw a line on horizon and at water’s edge. It is a final moment. An acceptance of the smallness which is just the right fit for a mind’s long search for a place.
(Find poem in Clunk & Jam book.)
Wish Upon A Billboard .
For a time when …. billboards fall flat on their perfect faces. Golden arches buckle at the knees in shame. And we’re free from going anywhere “Quick!” …”While stocks last!”….”Before it ends!” …. so we “Don’t miss out on that must have!” And fat was used to make gravy not deemed as ugly and unsightly lumps to be hidden, sucked out (and in), massaged away, jogged off, measured and cut out – or provided a menu of celebrity cooking shows for those surfing for something to escape world news.
Kids associated ‘board’ with Scrabble and not nothing to do. Offers weren’t limited and we accepted fixing wasn’t quick. Buses had people going up and down through windows not wrapped in wrinkle free banners promoting the same. Googling was staring in wonder at the sky or the sound of a blocked sink – not entry into a world that home delivers an unsavoury feast for curious young minds to consume.
A time when watching the sun sizzle into the watery horizon was a celebration of the end of another good day – not a sear on the conscience of already burdened young souls we leave to carry with them into the future. And seagulls went fishing and stopped squabbling over chips.
( ‘Clunk & Jam’ book.)
(Untitled (Man on Ice), by Teun Hocks, 2003. Oil on silver print. Original in colour.)
Just Add Sugar .
Zippy balls of feathers hang delicate like a drip …. suckling flower centres from one to the next and the next ….. to the frog’s jig and chooks winding up down in the pen …. just beyond the close snap of beaks and the hum of blurring wings that stir shoulders to duck then stretch back to a tussle in the bushes …. on and up to trace colours bright against a cotton wool sky … fury, blurry bush critters hide then peek …. and honks from behind have you delightfully surrounded ….
(Footnote: Story written on verandah of Ruth’s farm, July 2010.)
