pouches

I stand with my child
strapped to my chest
held tight in her polyester pouch,
by velcro tabs and plastic clips.

The wallaby stands near the door,
her joey poking its head out.
And they stare at us,
and we stare at them.

And I have no more idea
of what my baby thinks
of the wallaby and her child
than I do
of what the wallaby’s baby
thinks of us.

_________

One from the archives, 29/03/2013. I found it while rummaging for something else. We used to get a lot of visits from a particular wallaby, and often she had a joey.

autumn child

Two poems for my daughter:

I
My autumn child,
with the sky
in her eyes –
her gold hair flies
as she dances past,
with long-limbed grace,
trailing laughter
in her wake.

She dances past me.
And on, away.

II

My goblin child,
with monkey feet,
climbs the walls
to spiders greet.

She runs about,
with loud nee-naws
then drops on the couch
with great guffaws.

She roars and squeals,
yowls and squawks,
and leaves a mess
where e‘er she walks.

Mouth open wide,
like a split-top head,
her massive yawn,
means time for bed.

Through her room,
that obstacle course,
she jumps into bed
with excessive force.

At last some peace,
just gentle snores,
her Diney toy
in her filthy paws.

I close the door
and tiptoe away,
and pray to god,
asleep she’ll stay.

______________________________

I often suspect my daughter is a changeling, but left by the elves or the goblins?  

leadership training II

“Today, in pairs, let’s all discuss”
(just kill me now) “our team’s purpose.”
So many fatuous platitudes
(be still my bad, bad attitude)

Autumn spell

A riddle in rhyme, in response to Eugi’s weekly prompt, “magic”. What are the Orb, Staff and Crown? 

Take the Orb, the Staff, the Crown,
bury them, shallow, in the ground.

talking to N

Side by side on her long verandah,
we gaze out across the paddocks,
grazed by the horses and ‘roos.

Gin in hand,
her eyes focussed years distant
she begins:

F=ma (is over-rated)

Newton’s second
is all they know –

Raspberry canes

Ten bare sticks lie
across my hand

water

10th Feb 2020, when the drought broke:

Follow me:
downhill from the
overflowing dam,
clambering over rocks
and fallen trees
to the waterfall place.

Dirt-road dystopia

My boots pursue a circle of torchlight,
toes catching its edge with each step.

Fantastic Mr Fox?

Blood flows, feathers fly,
on the ground their bodies lie.
Reynard has come by.