Chooks - Magpie 39

A headless chook runs around the back yard of my childhod home.
A friend publishes a knitting book which features a tea cosy in the form of a chook.
An urban myth about a headless chook living for six months turns out to be true.
People under pressure run around like headless chooks making choices they might regret.

Every year my father bought a chicken or duck in November
and gave it the run of the back yard for two months.
Life was good, plenty of feed and no inkling of what was to come.
I can still conjure up the smell of those plucked feathers.
A headless corpse dunked into the boiling water in the downstairs copper,
then me up to my elbows in a pile of feathers and down.
Christmas dinner tasted all the better knowing it was home grown.

Loani Prior is the international queen of the tea cosies.
having two runaway best selling books of patterns
based on the simple idea that tea cosies can be fun
and that knitting and craft is BACK.
Women flock to her workshops to sit at her feet and knit
Chooky tea cosies.


I'm watching TV.
One of my favourite eccentrics, Stephen Fry, is hosting a wacky show called QI.
It's a play on words - QI IQ.
He's infuriatingly bright and his panellists set out to subvert his intellect
by answering his questions as wrongly as possible.
He asks a question about Mike the Headless Chook.
No one has any idea what he's talking about
but this Colorado freak (the chook that is)
has achieved international stardom.
Even if the whole thing turns out to be a fabrication.



I am watching quite intelligent people make unintelligent decisions.
They are under pressure to solve unsolvable problems.
The old 'do more with less' edict from an organisation in meltdown.
They seek to solve the irresolvable by 'making decisions'.
Even a chook will tell you that making decisions
when your head is on the chopping block
can be fraught with problems.

Chooks without heads don't seem to think straight.

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Dead Men Talking - Magpie 38

1847
100,000 Irish sail to British North America
in a flotilla of coffin ships destined for Quebec.
One out of five die from disease and malnutrition.

1848-50
4000 young female orphans
from Irish workhouses are shipped to Australia
to meet a demand for domestic servants.
The girls frequently die in poverty

1868
The last convict ship lands at Fremantle
carrying the final 279 of 160 000 felons
transported from Britain over a period of 80 years.
40 000 Irish - many transported for political activity.

What terrible times
drove you to seek a new life
risking death and starvation.

What harsh political regimes
condemned you
to these desperate solutions

What environmental disasters
provoked this exodus
from your native lands.

A mere three or four generation past
yet we have lost contact -
your voices buried and silent.

Gravestones marked and unmarked
ravaged by storm and tempest and time
your stories broken and fragmented.

And now a generation too late
I'm listening for your voices
Your dialect carried on the winds
Tangled tales lost in overgrown fields

I am following the rivers to their source.
I meditate on your fate
I am a vessel waiting to resonate with the sound of your voice.

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Post script.
1881
217 Italian migrants arrive in Sydney
100 less than had embarked on their ill-fated voyage
seeking a new life in the South Pacific.

The Irish and Italians of New South Wales intermarry
My heritage lies buried in the lush forests
and coastal sands of the Richmond River Valley.

Magpie 37 The hole he left behind

There is a sense of sadness in this image. A sense of things discarded. Of lives and time forgotten.


He was a regular visitor.
Like clockwork - every sunday he'd arrive at 4pm
apologising for his intrusion, apologising for being early.
A giant lump of a man; a wool bale of a man.
His ruddy complexion and giant hands
in stark contrast to his older brother
my father

I never knew where he lived only
that he travelled by tram every sunday to have a family meal
and came bearing gifts - lollies and chocolates mainly,
except during 'ekka" week when he'd arrive laden with show bags.
Two of everything
Minties, Allens Sweets, Licorice and a Magic Bag to share -
for us his two nephews.

One sunday he wasn't there
Uncle Nat regular as clockwork failed to appear.
It was a minor change to routine. The family meal went ahead -
Uncle Nat was not coming today we were told.
His gravy covered roast beef sat forlorn on its white china plate
congealing before our eyes.

His place was set the following week, his plate of food remained untouched.
Our questions were answered with a lift of the shoulders
"I don't know love. He's probably gone on holidays'.
We missed the chocolates but got used to their absence
as we got used to the empty chair at the sunday roast.

The riverside wool stores became bric a brac markets
then upmarket apartments for the young suited aspirationals
transforming Uncle Nat's wharves to industrial chic.
The ekka became a distant country ritual.
Childhood led to adolescence then independence
and adult life and parenthood
and the moments of panic at the possibility of loss.

Now
snippets of family stories emerged
of Nat's troubles, of Nat's disappearance as a teenager
and the sense of the hole he left behind.

Week by week
month by month
ekka after ekka
Uncle Nat had just slowly
slipped away
beyond reach
beyond family
to seek
a peaceful place.

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Magpie 33 Diego Luca Paolo di Parma

1916

a small perfume factory

Parma

Italy

three Italian businessmen

Diego

Luca

Paolo.

The original scent

hand-distilled in

cylindrical bottles

for perfumed handkerchiefs

of stylish and elegant Italian men

in rounded boxes

Colonia.

Then

came

Audrey,

Cary,

Ava

to the rescue

Colonia Intensa

a unisex celebrity scent

for high society devotees

in

bright yellow packaging.

AND

Leather goods,

aromatherapy,

linens,

candles,

terrycloth bathrobes in

luxury hotels on

cruise ship liners in

cylindrical bottles and

rounded boxes

not to forget

Blu Mediterraneo

in bright yellow packaging.

Refined alchemy.

(thanks to Wikipedia)

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Magpie 32 Some Days

some days are difficult
a tiny hole
separates present from future past
from present.
my dreams just don't fit
some days.
each grain of sand drops
individually
some days
my dreams are clusters
some days
the grains get
out of order
I try my best
but keeping them is line is near impossible
some days.

and it's such a long drop


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Magpie 31 Haiku for a blissful weekend

My son and i went camping for the weekend. My wife was overjoyed. How beautiful - father and son bonding; how even more beautiful - no husband, no son for a whole weekend. For an expanded story of the weekend and some photos see Giraween Connections.

Haiku for a blissful weekend I

mother's tears of joy
flowing behind drawn curtains
boys gone a-camping


Haiku for a blissful weekend II

A wife's guilty smile
beaming behind sad drapes
husband and son gone

Haiku for a blissful weekend III

dad and son bereft
a weekend without mother
forgot to say goodby

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Magpie 30 What Eve Knew.

eve knew
what she was looking for
eve understood
how dangerous apples really are
delicious
dangerous
succulent
sensual
forbidden fruit

she weighed that apple with her fingertips
caressed it with her kissing lips
licked it with her reptilian tongue
rolled it between her breasts
crushed it under her armpit
measured it against her pubis
massaged her thighs
rolled it under each foot
saw it for what it was
took a bite
exposed its luminous flesh
its streaming juices
and took a sugar hit

entered the world of
love
lust
sex
sensuality
intelligence
knowledge
fully formed
a new planet
orbiting an old sun

adam watched
his jaw unhinged
his mouth an ocean of saliva
his body at attention
circuitry crackling
as an electrical storm
swept through his body

he understood little
only saw that
life would never again be the same

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Magpie 29 Picture perfect

Wistful, dreamy, picture book homes exist.
Slate roofed, cream brick, vine covered
set in large estates
with huge dogs loping across expansive lawns.
I know.
I've driven past them.
They sit in suburbs on hills with views of the city.
Highgate in London, Ascot in Brisbane, Potts Point in Sydney.
I'm not envious.
I'm just more aligned to other planets.
And other lives.

I drive through the poorer suburbs
and wonder at their lives.
I see small houses on small lots.
Fibro, corrugated iron, champerboard.
The yards are sometimes bare.
They're rentals or housing commission.
Some of them are unkempt
but many are proudly neat and loved.
There's an honesty about these suburbs.
A lack of pretension.
I grow to like that about them.

Aussie Rules

Today I'm visiting a youth centre in one of these areas. I'm in the simple kitchen of this simple youth facility making myself a cup of tea. I'm not familiar with the place so I'm searching for the tea bags and the mugs and the sugar. I open every cupboard and drawer. All the time I'm doing this I notice out of the corner of my eye these three African boys sitting together on the floor. There's no one else here except for the three staff members and myself. It's 11am and all the local kids are at school or hiding at local skate parks or in the bush on their bikes. They don't turn up here if their wagging school. But here are these three looking very comfortable. They look about 16 and maybe school age but Jeff, who's in charge, doesn't make any comment.

After a while I wander over towards them. They're sitting in the far corner of the activity space and they're playing a game on the TV. A Playstation game I guess. They are totally engrossed and calling to the screen as they compete against each other.

There's been a lot of tension in the local suburbs lately. In the past few years increasing numbers of African migrants and refugees have arrived and settled here. The locals don't like the way they hang around the street and gather in groups in parks. They're too different. They've come from refugee camps where home has been a cardboard box or a sheet of iron held up by four posts or, if they're lucky, a tent with sides.

Now here they are in Australia. Their housing commission home is luxury. And here they are playing and feeling safe. I step a bit closer to see what game they're playing. I'm looking for a way in. I want to make contact. They're playing a ball game, but it's not their native game. It's not soccer. I hear one of them call to his player on the screen 'MARK!' It's a term I'm familiar with. I look more closely. My whole body bursts into a smile. An athletic figure wearing the colours of my favourite team, the Brisbane Lions, soars into the air to take a beautiful high catch. A mark. 'Do you like that game?' I ask. 'Yeah, its good' they say and turn back to the game to send their players scrambling for the ball. To take that mark and kick a long low drop punt towards the goals.

They're playing Australian Rules Football. Aussie Rules. The iconic Australian game which obsesses the nation. If only their neighbours knew. Aussie Rules could change the world!


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Magpie 27 Putrid

I may be past it
but I can still drain
the waste from your sinks
so all that remains
is a scum line of leftovers
a sweet smelling refrain
of casserole chicken
and carrots and grain




I'm feeling neglected
you don't seem to care
you don't even notice
that I'm worse for wear
I'm fed up and putrid
I'm gasping for air
until you repair me
you'll know that I'm there.






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Magpie 26 - Panama Palendrome Variations

Can in hand
Panama hat on head
I wander the back yard
looking for lonely plants to save

Plants deprived of love
plants others have rejected
plants that have disappeared
under thickening overgrowth.
Weeds

I am a compassionate gardener.
All plants should be treated equally.
I have not designated any hierarchy,
any insider outsider class structure.
Gangly locals and thorny foreigners
equally fail to offend me

The majority of my garden
arrived as imports, migrants
carried as precious cargo
by botanists and adventurers
intent on taming this wild land
replacing the angular and irregular
with manicured hedges and
stately symmetrical giants
from far off lands.

Some arrived as stowaways
with less legitimacy than the convicts
with whom they shared a hold,
mere burrs on the backs of sacks
or foreign seeds
masquerading as wheat or rice
barley or oats

If I had a plan I would begin.
Instead I wander another circuit
unable to decide upon
even the most rudimentary action.
To plant or pull,
to trim or train or trample.
I am a man without a plan
a saviour without the will
to wield the secateurs.

A man with a can
with a panama but no plan
is unlikely to save the planet
and is bound
to be compared (unfavourably)
to George Washington Geothals
who tamed a wilderness, no less.
Front and back.
A man
a plan
a canal
Panama.

Magpie 25 Heart

Only the locksmith
knows the intricate workings
of the hidden heart








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Magpie 23 - Fire Postscript

This week the prompt for the Magpie writers was an antique fire extinguisher. I wrote about Bob Hawke, an antique former prime Minister of Australia. Many others wrote about fire and smoke and near death experiences.

Yesterday I visited my wife in her city building to take her for a coffee; it was her birthday. As I arrived at 2:30pm there was a queue for the lift. Strange i thought, that all these people had taken afternoon tea at the same time! It gradually dawned on me that there had been an evacuation. FIRE!! I couldn't see Andrea anywhere in the foyer or in the queue so I headed for the 9th floor to surprise her. She was pleased to see me but perplexed, as we left the building, to find all her colleagues re-entering the building.

She suddenly realised that she had missed the evacuation, missed the fire, had been missed by the fire warden and, well, died on her birthday and gone to heaven. That's where I come in - narcissisist that i am. My helpful observation was that death on your birthday would make for a neat entry on your headstone.

She enjoyed the coffee but not the joke.

Magpie 23 - Bob Hawke - Man on fire

Bob Hawke was Prime Minister of Australia from the mid 80s to the early 90s. He has recently been the subject of a TV drama and the second biography of his life by Blanche d'Alpuget.

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Bob Hawke had
ambition
charisma
a family
a fire in his guts
to lead his beloved Australia

Bob Hawke
lived the life of a public larrikin
drank to excess
laughed too loudly
cried for his daughter
worked his charm on skirts across town
fell in love
with an inconvenient woman

Bob Hawke
gave up the grog
curbed his loutish side
cooled the embers of his secret love
to become Prime Minister

Nine years he lived
his truth
his lie
walked beside his public wife
to pursue his destiny.

Nine years he warmed his hands
with the fire
for his invisible beloved
Blanche
doused the embers for his faithful Hazel
to love his love
as he loved himself -
With a burning passion

Magpie 22 - Fruit salad

If tomatoes are a fruit why do we never find them in fruit salad?
Is it predjudice?
Is there an unstated caste system?
If so who are the Brahmins and are who are the untouchables?
Do tomatoes not mix well? Is it a social skills issue?
Or are they simply inclined to dress in bad raste? All that showy red and sometimes even teamed with a jaundiced yellow or sickly green.
Instead they choose to mix with the vegetables - carrots, lettuce, cucumbers, even potatoes - all in all a none too classy lot.
I guess it all comes down to nature versus nurture. In this case both. Brought up in the vege patch with beans and radishes, cabbages and brocolli as playmates and role models, they have just never learnt how to behave in the sophisticated manner of the citrus family and don't get invited to the fruit salad gatherings.




And speaking of strange flavours - in Lisbon, Portugal I discovered Eucalyptus Gelati in the ice creamery but was too afraid to try it. My memory of Eucalyptus Oil as a burning antiseptic was too strong.


This is in response to the Magpie Tales weekly writing prompt Click on the image for more responses from writers across the globe.

Magpie 17 Stoney Faced

Call me old but
I like my women
with chiselled features,
mouths wide open with laughter
and love.

I like my women
with sandblasted cheeks
eyes alive with excitement
and anticipation.



I like my women
with blond(ish) hair
broad foreheads
full of knowledge
and stories.

Call me old but
I like my women
au natural and botex free
with laughter lines and
lively eyebrows
and maybe even a hint of gray.





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