The Genie and The Bottle

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As the genie once remarked

The question’s more important than the reply


So think carefully before you ask

As the response may change your life


Provide a revelation

Or a Pandora’s box of woe


Think carefully about the question

Before you have a go!


Of course it depends on the situation


On the empathy or the vibe

Maybe a stand-off confrontation

Inviting a rebuke or a jibe.


Conversation can be soothing

Mutually beneficial and improving


Or in some cases daunting

Even harassing or haunting.


No wonder some are stuck for words

When confronted by a stranger


Or maybe not even a stranger

But a strange situation where they perceive some danger.


So if I choose my  words perhaps too carefully

Or appear to you too shy


It’s not that I don’t respect or like you

In fact it’s just because I do

That makes me want to try

To get to know you better, to make you like me too.


Or maybe the question’s really important to me

But I’m not sure how you’ll reply

Am I up for a truthful answer?

Or will you spare my feelings with a lie?


“Think carefully before you ask the question”

That’s what the Genie said


The answer may not be

The one you’re entertaining in your head.

And you’ll end up wishing you were somewhere else

Or wishing you were dead


It’s good to put it out there

To take a leap of faith


Yes sometimes feelings may get hurt

You can’t always play it safe.


So here’s a bit of advice

Make of it what you will


Don’t keep the Genie in the bottle

Or you will never know


Put the pedal to the metal

Open up the throttle

Get some guts and pull the cork out

Go on and have a go!



Reading Poetry at The Jar


Reading :


The Fencer

He fitted right in

As he entered through the door

Like a foot in an old shoe,

Cast a look around the floor.


A look that took our measure,

Accepting us for what we are

A curt greeting to the Publican

Who knew just what he would need

Regular as clockwork

He’d pull him his VB


Then a nod that said it all




And you?”

Muffled words 


A guffaw

“Get out of here?!

Y’seen Stew?”

And he settled on the bar stool


Feet akimbo to the floor


Took off his Akoubra,

Wiped away the sweat

And relaxing on his seat,

Sculled down half of his VB


“Good to get ya parched throat wet!”


And looked out towards the door.


He was slim and tall and wiry

With tough and stringy limbs

Like the malee scrub outside.

Checked cotton shirt

With lanky faded jeans

And a sun-tanned leather hide.


Blue eyes that 

Held your gaze

Sense of humour on his lips

And when he laughed,

Strong white teeth,

Imperfect with some chips.


He’d put in his hard labour

In the mounting morning sun

Sinking posts and tensioning wires

So when you plucked them

They would thrum.


A lone figure on a landscape

Wet with sweat and swathed in flies

No sound except the wind——

And the odd crows mournful cry


Under the steely glare

Of the mounting morning sun


‘Till midday came around

And the morning’s work was done.


So he’d come in through the door

To the coolness of the bar


To share an hour’s respite

Rest his bones and have a jar

And get into some tucker

For you can’t work out all alone

When your belly’s grumbling

And you’re wishing you were home.


Not many words were spoken

By these bushies when at rest,

The muffled earnest conversation

Then guffaw at someone’s jest.


They took comfort in each other

In this shady, quiet retreat;

Cattle under that one tree

Taking shelter from the heat.


For a bushie’s life is lonely

When you’re out there in the sun

Whether in an air-conditioned cabin 

Or standing—-

And making fencing wires thrum.






Her eyes spoke the truth

No matter what she said,

Window to the soul;

Made my stomach quiver,

A lift falling

On a bottomless descent.




Without hope, aim or purpose

Nowhere to go,

But through the motions.



We parted with platitudes, intentions;

“O.K, ’til next time!”

And similar inventions.



We would never meet again.

Time dulled the pain

But not the regret.



Unequal love

Cruel enslaver?

Love?    maybe!

Or just wounded pride?

True love , I’m told is

Selfless, balanced and mature.

Wish that I could be like that

And not some love-sick fool.


What Next?

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The USA has lost its way

They’ve lost their moral compass

The alt-right will be here to stay

As long as they can Trump us.


But surely the next time they vote

They’ll all turn out “en mass”

To try and find a President

With at least a bit of class

And maybe tell the current President

To stick his “pinkie” up his —.


And realise that it’s up to them.

Let’s hope they see the light,

To have a say on election day

And neuter the alt-right.

A Lassie Named Jill

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A sweet lassie named Jill from Moama

Was turned on by a chappie

Who fancied himself wearing Lycra.



When he loomed through the mist

Her heart filled with sheer bliss,

Though three score years and ten,

She still fancied that man

And would whisper to him

“I still like ya!”

(which is pretty raunchy for Moama!)



To which he would say

“Well then!

Can I have my way?”



Not while your still pooncing around in that Lycra!”


(Play it again Sam!)

Do Ya Ken John Ken?

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                       Do ya ken John Ken

                       In his lycra gear

                       looking like a gnome?

                       Seventy-one this year !

                       With his Bolshy views

                       You’ll just see his rear

                        As he pedals down the road in the morning.


                      With big ears like that!

                       Like aileron flaps

                       He must watch how fast

                       He goes speeding past

                       Or he might lift on highhhhhhh!

                        ———up into the sky

                       Through the misty, misty fog in the morning.


                        As he squashes his nuts and deak

                        On a star picket seat,

                        Trying hard not to grimace

                        And hard not to leak,

                        I can’t fathom why he does it

                        Every daaay!

                        And not just ,  once  a week

                        (or why he does it at all-full stop)

                        As he rides thru the mist in the morning.


                        Like Rumple Stiltskin on steroids

                        He’s a dismal sight

                        As he looms through the mist

                        On that bloody bike.

                        You’ve got to hand it to the maaaaan!

                       He’s got no feeling or no bairn


                       To put his nuts thru that 

                       Every morrrrning.



Intimacy and Old Shoes

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        My old shoes and I are intimate

       We feel so much at home

        I love to wear my old shoes

       But it makes my dear wife groan

      “Why don’t you buy some new ones?”

       She berates me in despair

      “Well these old ones are to blame,

       They’re the ones I love to wear.”


        I feel like telling her

       “It’s like you and me, 

        Even though there are 

       More fashionable ones on the shelf

        ————–You know what I mean?”

        But I don’t think she’d take it well

        So I keep it to myself.


        For I love to wear my old shoes

        The feeling is sublime

         I don’t care if they’re worn or down at heel

         I feel that they are mine.


        Yes, me and my old shoes are intimate

        We go like hand in glove

        I may  lust after new ones

       But it’s the old pair that I love.