The Bottle

We are a people who are great lovers

——–Of wine.

We raise our glass and tilt it

So that it catches the light with a bloom of colour.

Then rolling it In the glass,

We swish it into a whirlpool

And sniffing it , we absorb the bouquet

With a look of concentration  on our faces

Reminiscent of two dogs meeting in the street

——In the way that only dogs can do.

Swishing it again into a whirlpool

As the body of it caresses the glass

And the clear liquid clings there

 Just above the surface.

We  wonder 

—-What magic?

—-What alchemy is this?

Then placing the glass down,

Hopefully with satisfaction,

We might stare into the middle distance

Transported into a state of rapture

No doubt with the anticipation of what is to follow. 

Then raising the glass to our lips,

Eyes , all but closed;

For there’s no need now for eyes

With what is about to happen 

—–Beneath our nose,

We let it enter the inner sanctum,

Massaging it between tongue and cheeks,

Seduced by all it has to offer,

—-As velvety as a French kiss.

And  then swallow

Albeit with reluctance

For all good things must eventually end.

But wait!

There’s more in the glass and in the bottle to boot! 

And so our mood imperceptibly changes

We become more loquacious and knowledgeable,

More discerning

And with each eventful mouthful,

More pissed!

To be pissed or not to piss?

That is the question

And a matter of fine judgement.

A skill,  that the experienced Oenophile has honed 

Not so much for the appreciation of the wine

But for the appreciation and respect of his fellow drinkers

Who are now his bosom buddies

Free of the inhibitions that beset 

Those of a more sober disposition.

So let’s raise a glass

In mutual respect to each other 

And the joy that a good bottle can bring

Unless cupboard drinking is your thing.

Chin Chin!

High Country

The currawongs are calling

With their mournful echoes falling

Through the creaking of tall timbers

To the valley floor below

The ice crystals a-tinkling

On the breeze,

The sunlight twinkling

Crystal frozen leaves

On the branches in the snow.

The brumbies stand and listen

‘Neath the trees their shoulders glisten

And twitch with apprehension

At the first unfamiliar sound

And they send the flint stones clacking

And the twigs and branches snapping

As they gallop off through the eucalypts

And undergrowth below.

It’s a land of rolling ranges,

Deep valleys and deeper shadows

Where virgin streams are bubbling

Over rocks and fallen trees

And it fills my heart with wonder 

As its silence I do ponder,

Each muted sound so distant

As its vastness speaks to me.

It makes me feel humble

And sets my mind at ease

To wander through these tall stands of timber

Midst the smell of eucalyptus trees,

Where the Snowy’s  flowing swiftly

Through the valleys ‘neath the ranges

Past the mountain men’s selections

And out into the sea.

And when the river rises with the melting of Spring snow

It’s time to muster up the cattle

With packhorse and dogs in tow,

And head up to the high plains

Where the sweetest grasses grow.

Up through  the Mountain Ash’s

To where only snow gums can survive,

Where the snow is quickly melting

And the alpine pastures thrive

To our rustic cabin

With welcoming stove and sturdy door,

Table, fruit case shelves and hessian beds

On a dusty earthen floor.

With a view fit for a castle

Surveying all the land below

Where the flies take some getting used to

As the cattle graze and sometimes low.

There’s not that much to do here

X’cept tell a yarn or make a brew,

Gather timber for the fuel stove,

Have a smoke or heat some stew.

X’Cept if the clouds do gather

With the warning of a storm,

If the herd gets spooked by thunder

We’ll mount up and keep them calm

But it happens pretty rarely

We’ve lost none up to this day

It’s just a time to rest , soak up the sun

And while the days away.

For the Colliwoblers and other football tragics

The steal!

Coming from out of nowhere,

The feint!

Throwing the defender off balance

Then the counter-clockwise spin

Disengaging the pursuing tackler,

Torpedoing the footy through the closing gap

To the forward

Who snaps it through from twenty metres out

For a goal!

That’s Footy!

That’s what I’m talking about!

That’s Poetry!

Farewell To Airstream

Neil’s feeling tearful!

It’s been twenty years you know!

Since he hung up his abacus

And decided to have a go!

He pitched his stake in Airstream

Where the Chef was temperemental

And when the waitress’s were hormonal

It would almost drive him mental.

But that’s what life’s like at the coalface

When you deal with human beings.

You need to be a master of diplomacy

And adept at everything , it seems.

Like when the stock is getting low

And the order fails to come

And the customers are oblivious

As you gnash your teeth down to the gum.

It’s all in the perception

You just smile!

Say “Tout est bon!”

Kick the cat up the alley

Box Manuel’s ears and carry on.

Twenty years is a long time

And the Glen’s come into play.

Neil’s end of town is largely empty.

Seems Airstream has had its day.

We’ll all think fondly of him

Because for five years or more

He’s always been there to greet us.

We’ve kept coming back, for sure!

With a comprehensive menu

And the wine list? just supreme!

Thanks to a knowing nod and “Bob’s your uncle!”

For which we hold him in esteem.

As our lunch would draw to a close,

You could sense it in the air!

Like meerkats on the prairie

When their heads rise up in fear.

‘Cos the last one to the cash register

Might face a gnarly bill.

If some nameless, sodden bastard

Forgot to pay for everything they ate,

the last unlucky bastard

Would end up paying for their plate.

But Neil would face the stampede

With grace and equanimity

Always greeting each of us as we left

and ensuring. our liquidity.

“Enjoy the change of pace Neil

Take your time,

Settle back , soak up the sun

You’ve put in twenty. years or so!

Here’s to you Neil!

From all of us ,

Well done!”

Skipping Girl

The skipping girl stands tall

Frozen in time

Has seen grand old buildings fall

‘Til they’re lying supine.

What saved you my lass?

Was it your innocent air?

As Whelan The Wrecker polluted the air.

Were you too human

To put to the chain?

Your childish appearance,

Happy carefree name?

You’ve connected us all

To a more innocent age.

May you live on forever!

Skipping up there!

So my children can reflect

When life truly was,

A more simple, carefree affair.

TallyHo

He stirs mid sheets and quilt

As morning glow dimly lights the scene

Dresses in his shorts , shirt and runners

Careful to not disturb the sleeping Queen

Of his small kingdom

Or there’ll be Hell to pay!

Legs in motion, brain still half in bed

He climbs into his car

Dumps bag in boot

Starts up the engine,

Turns out onto the route

Eventually heading on straight roads

Toward the morning sun,

Careful not to be blinded by its light

Wishing the car heater

Did not take so long.

He pulls into the carpark at the hall

Where many cars are gathered such as he

And maybe greets, acknowledges someone

As they head in and dump their bags,

Lively greetings made,

Enlivened by the brightness of the room

Then to the hall where footies fly end to end

From those with deft boots and equally deft hand

As groups around the edge converse

With wary eye

For errant balls

May strike the unaware.

Lethargically some start circling the hall ,

Some jogging while still the balls do fly

Until order takes over with commands

And the morning begins by and by

With a brief introduction from the President

As those in yellow split us into groups.

Boxing, jogging, chasing balls,

Harmonising with heavy ropes,

Avoiding dog turds on the oval ,

Stretching , puffing,

Exercising in the hall ,

Lost in translation

By those who can’t see the leader

But only those around them.

No matter!

It is still exercise after all!

Feeling justified and validated!

As our muscles start too feel sore.

“We’ve had a good workout!”

We proclaim at “Young and Foolish” Over coffee and breakfast

And we’ll come back next week

To do it all again.

How The Game Of Golf Was Born

Like some ghastly apparition

The novice steps up to the tee.

In a state of deep contrition

He swings and shifts his stance.

Others eye with approbation or unrestrained glee

As the ball sails off down the fairway

Or rockets right and hits a tree.

Only a Scotsman could’a thought of it

Spending so much time with sheep

Who he eye’d with approbation

And a certain speculation;

Get a grip on it! While control he tried to keep.

Which comes with wearing nothing but a kilt

And developing a most perturbing tilt.

Yet the act seemed too unnatural

For further contemplation

So he picked up his crummock

Wacking rocks around the fields.

As he wacked around the paddock

To keep his mind off sheep and haddock,

One rolled and rolled and dribbled in a hole.

“Ha Ha!” he thought” Well I’m a clever soul!”

So the game of golf was born

When the sheep weren’t being shorn

And to this day we love to spend our time,

For it is no matter whether

It is fine or stormy weather,

We’re just happy chasing balls across the lawn.

And that putting on the green

We know, plays havoc with our score

For less putting, putting, putting

But in the hole just puting

Is an open affirmation of that well known situation,

That often quoted fact where less is more.

And what of lady golfers

It seems they are a natural;

With the game of golf it seems they are at ease.

As they grab that shaft in supplication

You can sense their deep elation

As they thwack those balls so far

It makes you wheeze.

You’re just filled with admiration

And perhaps to of castration

As those flying balls, they lob onto the green.

Makes you glad to just retire

And at the nineteenth hole expire

As you reminisce the fairways and the greens

And the shot that almost made it

When you o’er the bunker played it.

Ah well!

There’s always next week so it seems.

Requiem For Aldo

Aldo weeps , Aldo bleeds.

.

Offers legless struggling cicadas

On their backs ,

Sprinkled with sugar

To the industrious ants.

.

Aldo in Naana’s sunroom,

A cut on his finger,

Flinging fine flecks of blood

Across her Venetian blinds

And soft furnishings ;

Aldo centre stage

In a rage.

.

Aldo in the basement garage

Crafting a catapult and wooden pea gun

On his father’s workbench

For forays in the mangrove swamp

With others like-minded ,

Ready to be led astray.

.

Saturday afternoon

In the pitch black Cinema hall

Beneath the ever-changing screen ;

Jaffas roll noisily down the wooden floor ;

Aldo’s on the scene.

.

Until one Saturday afternoon

No Aldo!

We are all in awe!

Death has intervened .

.

We never fully comprehended

The pace and nature of Aldo’s life ;

While just off-stage waited Death .

.

Now I do;

How he may have felt

And how he bled, raging at the inevitable.

He was only eleven.

.

I was only eight ,

But old enough be shocked by Death ,

As I guess , was Aldo.

The Corkman Poem

Is called “Last Round At The Pub”

Type “Last Round At The Pub” in Search

Vale Warnie

Like that long haired Nazarean

Who could spin a good story,

There came another spinner.

They called the lad Warnie.

Adored by thousands, nay millions, it’s true!

Thanks to colour TV and the media too.

Well renowned for a joke with a sting in its tale

Yes, that kind of a bloke;

A real alpha male!

Just like his deliveries

When he played in a match,

He’d outwit the batsman;

They’d be out for the catch.

And the crowd, they adored him;

In the palm of his hand!

As they roared with approval from up in the Stand,

Like in the Colosseum of grand ancient Rome,

Gladiator Warnie was a class of his own

And made boring Test Cricket a thrilling affair.

When his ball hit the wicket, you just had to be there!

Those inner disciples who could touch the hem of his threads

Knew him simply as Shane.

Now the poor Buggar’s dead!

Yes! We’re all going to miss him but one thing is true!

He’ll always be that young larrikin Warnie

For me and for you.