making up for lost time

race into the car. strap the babies in. slide in behind the wheel. did i really strap the little one in? out the door and check. yep. internal dialogue turned up to ten. drive to my destination - but don't remember how i got there. did i really stop at that red light? must have, there's no dents in the car. race around supermarket, bright lights flickering, bad muzak and old ladies deliberating over their tea. english breakfast or irish? get to the checkout and discover an odd arrangement. some extra biscuits with neon icing - definitely didn't want those. a small matchbox car. nope, not that either. must have been my little boy. hide them on the adjacent shelf. back out to the car, i'm always in a hurry, i can't wait to hit the brakes.

c h a l k talk

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parting with thee reluctantly: emily dickinson

1614

Parting with Thee reluctantly,

That we have never met,

A Heart sometimes a Foreigner,

Remembers it forgot—
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the happy prince: janet frame

In the children’s record of the Happy Prince,
before each gold flake is peeled from the Prince’s body,
the voice orders, Turn the Page, Turn the Page,
supposing that children do not know when to turn,
and may live at one line for many years,
sliding and bouncing boisterously along the words,
breaking the closed letters for a warm place to sleep.
Turn the Page, Turn the Page.
By the time the Happy Prince has lost his eyes,
and his melted heart is given to the poor,
and his body taken from the market-place and burned,
there is no need to order, Turn the Page,
for the children have grown up, and know when to turn,
and knowing when, will never again know where.

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if you wish our clock would stop, tell us. if you wish time stopped for no man, tell us that too.

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looking out the back of car windows, dirty from distant travels. blurs of semi-trailers in the distants, lights bleeding into the night rain. up in the front, there's some bad tune twirling out of the radio, ruining it all. all the while, i'm hoping i'll fall asleep, and when i wake - we'll just be there.

silver stripes

striped skivvies. striped pencils. striped scarves. striped towels. stripey plates. stripey boxes. bikes with racing stripes. yes. yes these are all good things featuring stripes. zebra crossings. zebras. double white lines. lollypop ladies. black and white stripes. red and white stripes. bulls-eyes. i have a little hankering for striped boiled lollies - the type that are kept in glass jars. nostalgia is kick-starting my taste buds. mmm. mattress ticking. speeding stripes. not one single spot in sight.

c h a l k talk

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a hank of her hair: anne french

When he found it
it was the blaze that shocked him
its red flare in the darkness,
its weight, like a body part
an amputation
a ripe fruit.
He sniffed it, expecting
a feral stink
the scent of her
some kind of perfume
or perhaps all three.
Its mustiness recalled all the cupboards
of all the houses they have ever lived in
in several countries
and it inside them all along,
wrapped and waiting
for this moment.
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garbageman: the man with the orderly mind: gwendolyn brooks

What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are
sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never score?
Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own roar.
Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.
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if you wish our stripe stopped, tell us. if you wish our pinstripes kept racing, tell us that too.

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the constant rhythm of waves crashing, sand underfoot, in the bottom of your bed. mosquitoes still linger, as though to suck out the very last of the sunshine via your veins. extra-early birds whistle in the morning light, i bunker down hiding under my doona, hoping it's darker for just a little longer. just fifteen more minutes. hit the snooze, well i would if i had one, but instead, my alarm comes in the shape of a three year old wanting to snuggle up close and bury his limbs under my body.

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