The Parable of the Pearl Oyster

pearl oyster

 

I envy the patience of pearl oysters

Which can labour up to twenty years

To produce a pearl of great price.

 

The freshwater ones lacking the deep

Patience of their seawater cousins

Produce a pearl in a mere six.

 

But I have the shallow patience

of a gnat: a poem in a few minutes

else I lose interest.

 

No wonder I produce little of lasting

Value.

At the Physio: A Humerus Poem

phsio

 

As soon as you walk in you see them paraded

along the walls

exemplars of Beauty and Strength:

Warnie unleashing a leg spinner,

Its eye on middle stump, Krygios rocketing another ball

past his opponent,

Thorpie diving into glory,

even one of cane growers in Queensland,

big blocky blokes in blue singlets

bringing in the harvest;

of Cathy Freeman at the Sydney Olympics.

But my humerus and hamstrings

were playing up.

On good days

I can do almost anything, but

on bad ones I can barely put one foot in front

of the other, bounce a ball

let alone slam it down centre court

at 200 kph

and the only way I could get in a pool is to fall in it.

The Perverse Mathematics of Anxiety

A_Man_Suffering_From_an_Anxiety_Attack_Royalty_Free_Clipart_Picture_110407-147882-026053

Something niggles you

All week

Like a nail

 

in yr shoe

And you put up with it

That’s what

 

You do.

And then it’s all over

In two minutes

 

Flat

and you wonder

hey! why did I

 

Ever worry that?

But listen up! here’s

the sting:

 

The very thing

You gave no thought

to at all

 

burdens you all week

like an extra ball

in yr pants.

 

Life is brief.

Loosen up. Don’t worry.

Dance

Trouble

 

ominous-clouds-bandw

 

I can hear trouble brewing

I can hear it in the leaves

I can hear it in the murmur

Of the apocalyptic bees

 

I can hear trouble brewing

I can hear it in the traffic

I can hear trouble brewing

I try not to panic

 

I can hear it in the boondocks

I can hear it in the city

Whatever it is it’s coming

It’s not going to be pretty

 

Now I hear it knocking

Insistently at the door

I pull down the shades

I’m not home anymore

 

But the postman’s shrill whistle

Warns me it is done

Whatever it is has found me

In the mailbox under the sun