toast for tea

I’ve just been out to feed the rabbit and say hello to the chooks. Ruby’s looking old and tired. I wonder if she misses Miranda? Do chooks have feelings? When her sister died last year, Ruby stopped laying eggs. I thought it was because she was grieving. Maybe she’d layed all the eggs she was ever going to, and the fact that her sister died was immaterial. I cried when Miranda died. Is it silly to grieve over a chook? Samuel – then 14 – asked me whether we’d be having her for tea. At the time, I wondered how I could have brought such a hard-hearted child into the world. But when I thought about it, I realised it’s just the way his brain works. He didn’t mean to be hurtful. No malice intended what-so-ever. He was coming from a purely practical point of view. Why waste a good chook by burying her in the garden, when you could enjoy her for dinner. You know – really savour her. And save a few dollars on the supermarket bill to boot. Our memorial service, as it turned out, was quite moving...

Listen carefully – I have something to tell you When my heart is aching because I can’t sit at my desk and write, don’t berate me for tipping the chook’s water and damaging my spine. Don’t tell me I should have known better. Tell me to think about what Maria said. What is the invitation in this for you? This is what I think the invitation is. It’s to slow down. It’s not to feel guilty doing nothing. Nothing . It’s to stand still in one spot and feel the grass between my toes – then marvel that the knot in the tree I’ve been gazing at is a tawny frogmouth. It’s to watch the clouds move past overhead with no other thought in my head except clouds. It’s to sit by myself in a café – close to the window – and pretend that everyone who walks by is a movie star. Even the fat woman in the pink track pants and the tee-shirt that doesn’t match. It’s to turn the music up so loud the bass thumps in my chest then dance into every room in the house like I was Tina Turner. Remind me of what Maria sa...

Here's a poem recently published in Box Hill Tafe's anthology, Avant. I read it at the launch late last year. It was largely inspired by the death of my dear friend, Marion, to cancer, several years ago. Her sincerity, sense of humour, thoughtfulness, incredible memory for detail and the many other qualities she constantly displayed touched the lives of all who knew her. One day in 1979 we wagged college together and went to the Royal Melbourne Show. It was absolutely spontaneous and deliciously illegal. Who said that a spot of truancy couldn't cement a friendship? Blah! While earth turns by Carole Poustie (God said to Moses, ‘I am who I am.’ The Bible) I am the first blade of morning that cuts through the stone-wall black of night razes the darkness with a solitary shaft of colour banishes trash-can marauders from their back-alleyed haunts. I am the boy who stands alone in the playground the girl who is plucked from the playground to stand alone on a corner, to lean on a l...

Here's some pics of our new 'babies'. Milly (dog) and Fyodor (cat) are five months now, so not really babies, but in our household we refer to them as 'the babies'. Like when Hannah gets home from school, she'll ask what mischief the babies got up to today. Alot is usually the answer. These two are partners in crime. When no one's home, I can just imagine the conversation going something like: F: Hey, Mills, what'll we do next? I'm sick of chasey. I don't remember the hat-stand falling over - was that you or me? That woolly hat'll make a nice place for a nap a bit later. M: What's it taste like? Mmm. Not bad. Go and get the toilet roll started - I'll be there in a minute. Let's see if we can roll it through the kitchen and right down the stairs today. F: Sure, Mills. I'll check out the kitchen bench on my way. Several minutes later... F: Hey, Milly babe. They left tonight's tea out to defrost. It's a bit ...

Here's my winning poem from the 2007 Page Seventeen Poetry Competition: The Irises I passed the house today. The irises were blooming – pushed their way through the long grass of ‘I don’t care’, through weeds of ‘you don’t exist’. Nodded their heads when a whiff of wind whispered my secret. We were in cahoots ― the wind and I. ‘You can’t ignore the irises’, we said. I walked up Byron Street, past that block of flats with the jacaranda. I hoped she’d be there ― the old Chinese lady with the poodle. Always weeding her garden. Except today. I wanted to tell someone about the irises. On Hemp Avenue the house with the magnolia that reminds me of holidays in Eden has high fence posts along the front and palings piled in the drive. Tomorrow it will be a private magnolia. I was crossing Henry Street to walk through the park to sit on the seat near the duck pond. I wanted to feel the morning sun soak into my dark places. Wanted to upend my urn of grief, watch the wind scatter the ashes – fl...

There's no better time to try out something new than when you think you can't do it, you're convinced you don't have the time for this or when you've injured your back and you can't sit down for more than ten minutes at a time. Well here goes! The headings will probably be in all the wrong places, there'll be bits missing and I don't really want to sign off as hennypenny, but until I can find the page that lets me change to what I do want to sign off as - which is toots - in case you were wondering, I guess I'll be hennypenny. I spend too much time telling myself the sky is falling, the sky is falling as it is. Don't want to encourage that... Now, if I could just find out how to add my profile and maybe a pic...