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.

Ancestors

Do you really want to swim in that murky gene pool of your existence?

The flotsam and jetsam ; surprise and shock.

How deep do you dare to go

Into the sludge of aunts and uncles long since gone

Seeking validation of your suspicions and desires?

Spurred on maybe simply by medical apprehension

Or looking for an ancestor of note

Rather than more of the same beige blah blah blah

Or perhaps seeking an uncle for whom it’s all gone wrong ;

Who am I to judge?

Difficult to do with just a family tree of names;

An exoskeleton with no flesh to feed your curiosity

And in their world enmesh.

What’s in a name? Often not much

Unless it’s Ned or Dame Nelly or someone such.

Maybe Uncle Patrick in his leather trench coat and fedora

Carrying a guitar case; with a guitar?

Well who knows?

In the company of his host of shady characters;

Never enough food on the table

For his long-suffering wife and tribe of kids;

But still! Sporting a leather trench coat.

Or Great great Aunt Emily who ran a clothing factory from her wheelchair

And fell in love with a cucumber.

Maybe Great great Uncle Edward

In his “button up to just under the chin” suit

Grey bushy beard and piercing blue eyes ;

Correction , an assumption.

You can only say grey eyes, who knows?

With his”keep the women in their place ” superior stare.

Clutching “The Good Book”

‘Cos that’s what “The Good Book” says

The man’s the boss!

At least according to God ; perhaps a man?

At last count,seems to be the plan.

And Grandma

Nursing three of her ten kids through

“Do or Die!” diphtheria one unforgettable night.

Grandpa off bullocking ; no help there!

Not his fault though.

So in looking at aunts and uncles long since gone,

Has it all turned up roses or ended up terribly wrong?

I guess that depends on your point of view;

Where you’re coming from.

On The Other Side Of Midnight

When time is on the run,

When we’re either having nightmares

Or having so much fun,

Where the things we’re normally good at

Are driving us insane

Or we’re doing things with panache

Where normally we’re quite lame.

Dreaming’s a whole new world

Where we can fret or have some fun

On the other side of midnight

Before the morning sun.

Oreo

Not a bi-coloured American biscuit

But a lean and lanky two-toned Yankee

First life saved back in the States

When the kids took a shining to him

Or maybe the adults

Who needed a cheap ratter

For their apartment;

Plucked from a Manhattan Cat Refuge.

Smooches up to you

Figures of eight around your legs,

One of the boys!

With a mind of his own though,

Squeezing and wriggling from their hugs

When he’s had enough

To saunter out the gate and lie on the road

To soak up the bitumen warmth,

Oblivious to cars

In the Cul-De-Sac ending in a

Path between the houses

Running down to the bay.

Something had a go at him; maybe a fox.

Chunk out of his throat,

On a nocturnal foray

Hunting rats around the drains and rocks

Of the shoreline

Which he would proudly bring home

Depositing on the kitchen floor

Just out of sight of the Dining and Loungeroom

With their polished wooden floors,

Marble fireplaces and long drapes,

Wouldn’t do at all!

Not that he’d care.

In his mind he was helping

He’s a ratter!

Perhaps paying his way for his lodging

In this elegant house by the bay-

That Day In September

The Doggies are baying!

The Demons are looking cool

They’ve all decamped to Perth

To find out who will rule.

The Demon’s fans are desperate

Despite having so much loot.

While the Doggie’s fans have buggar all

And couldn’t give a hoot!

Yes they’re all facing the great leveller,

The Finals game of AFL

And the only thing that matters

Is having a seat at the game

It’s in Perth!!

Aw bloody hell!

The Demons think it’s their turn

But the Dogs don’t think that way.

They’re out to chew their balls off!

And take their cool away.

It’s going to be a close game,

They’re both looking up to scratch.

Let’s all camp in front of Tele

For a sizzling footy match.

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.

The Reunion

Fifty years on and I meet you again.

I recognised you immediately

Knowing you would be there;

Maybe not if I happened across you in the street.

Most of the others were strangers to me.

Platitudes and niceties , recalling what we shared,

But strangers.

I often remember the day on weekend leave

When we went for a spin in your MG sports

On the narrow country roads

Hawthorn hedges flickering the light

Under a clear blue morning sky;

Our lives before us.

Your banjo and my guitar and golf sticks,

What were we thinking?

Although the harmonica did come in handy

on that route march

When we stopped off at Launching Place Pub

For lunch and someone struck up a tune on the piano,

Dancing with the local girls.

We were in uniform and there was a war.

Of course they would.

Made me think of Mary

Who we both knew from Sydney;

The greek girl , so pretty and engaging.

Who you said was once your girlfriend.

I met her decades later in Melbourne,

Her face and eyes saddened by life,

Dressed in black.

Such is the way of things.

The Deep Stuff

The chances that life on earth is the only life in the Universe/Multiverse whatever; who knows?is extremely unlikely, so the likelihood that there is a god or gods who have a heaven or hell in store for us for eternity , seems unlikely to pass the pub test.For if heaven or hell has to accomodate methane breathing, oxygen farting , silicon based life forms, it does not fill me with longing or desire to share an infinite amount of time with them .

As for god or gods based on the human egocentric model; why would there be?There does seem to be a supreme intelligence but without ego or judgement ; is , was and always will be.Look around at the fundamental patterns of the universe, ecosystems and life itself; it’s everywhere you look.

The cost of life is joy and sorrow and realising there may be no tomorrow.

So suck it up and just be thankful for the brief time we get , enjoy it and not stuff it up for others.

Santa

I’ve traded in old Rudolf for a Mazda 2 you see!

It’s got more grunt up the front end

And with the air-con , I don’t freeze

As far as pressies go, there’s more room in the boot

If you fold the back seats down

There’s room for all the loot.

Wasn’t even an option with the old sleigh on me rounds!

Not forgetting all the bloody carrots

I had to carry in me sacks

To feed those bloody reindeer as we went around the traps

And after Chrissie’s over, I’ve time to take a pause

I can fold down the back seats at the Drive-In

And have me way with

Mrs Santa Clause

Depending on the movie

No sense steaming up the windows if a good movie’s on!

So I know that may be a shock te yer

But that’s progress don’t yer know

The freezer’s full of reindeer steaks

Bloody good eh?

Ho ho ho !

And we’ve moved down to Australia

Cos climate change is on the go

And cos the Mazda’s seriously hampered

When there’s too much bloody snow

I’ve had to leave the elves behind

The Mazda’s not that big!

And I get all the pressies made in China

I don’t really give a fig!

So kiddies send yer letters

To me mail-box at Uluru

It’s fairly central for Australia

If yer’ve got a Mazda 2

Salvation Creek

A piece of roofing iron tatt-tatters in the breeze

In this god-forsaken land devoid of any trees

Beside the dried-up river bed they call Salvation Creek.

A lizard blinks its uncomprehending stare

Atop a crumbling wall of utter sheer despair

The only thing to move is its shadow on the ground

As the sun slides on earth’s orb , slowly moving round

And oppressive heat of day gives way to chill of night

The lizard waits patiently for dawn

And return of warmth and light.