5min posting a day (#257)

#257

Today is the day
the first Thursday of the month
like clockwork
the Marleys go to town

They leave their house
their shack in the back
of beyond

Out they go they get into their car
they pile into the car
for that is their way
the Marleys

Their car
an old Falcon
hierloom variety
metallic blue
old beyond old
the previous model
to the previous model
in a long line of previous models

They drive slowly
because that is as fast as the car will go
Karl, Stevo and their sister Ruth Marley
Jeb, however travels alone
he cannot bear the car
it too slow
stuck forever in second gear
with arms hanging out the window
they travel as quietly as it will go

Jeb whizzes past
on his motor-scooter
leaving them in a cloud of blue smoke
which annoys the others
it annoys everybody he passes along the way
but he doesn’t know it
the motorcycle has no mirrors
he only sees the road in front of him

At town they will go to the bank
Jeb, who arrived in town first
will arrive last
smelling of oil
coated in a good layer of grime
a gritty, grimy, sometimes handsome bloke

Then go down to the dairy
pie and beers
and all of the vittles and supplies
they might need
new spoons too
it always annoys Jeb how it is that Ruth
manages to bend the spoons
into strange and unusual angles

This month he will secret a couple of them away
that they might survive
whatever force it is
that bends them

Jumping on his motor-scooter and roaring off
in a cloud and cough
of blue-smoke
departing before the others
arriving home long before they do

Hiding the spoons on the ledge
above the cupboard door

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5 min pressing a day (#256)

#256

Down the road
at the old church
giant yew tree in the churchyard
someone has pinned a note
on the door

The locals come up
one by one
to read it
but none of them can
understand what it says

Whether their eyes are getting weak
and fuzzy
or perhaps the message gets lost
on the way home
they each look at it for a while
and then leave
a conclusion is reached
amongst those that discuss
this phenomenon
that it is an announcement for
a competition for being alive

A queue forms at the door
there is a wooden man
who likes a quiet life
another, a frail lady
unable to be
as much of herself as
she would like to be
a shy boy
who will speak to those who sit near
a frenchman
with his loaf and bit of cheese
a lovely laughy lady
always sloping on
to her next adventure
there are many more
a horseman recently ridden-in from the steppe
another lying on the sofa watching Korean soap operas
as many as there are people in the planet

The note is decyphered and determined
wrongly
to be a competition
of who can be the most
alive

The hyper achievers, dominaterons and studifiers perk up
immediately leaving in a flurry
but it is too late – they have gone
the interpretation is wrong
results will not be publicly posted
neither shared nor compared
it will simply evaporate into the aether

This is not well know
and the queue moves forward
one step
at a time
one person
at a time

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5min pressing a day (#255)

#255

It would seem that the pressure in the room increases
all of the words tangled in the mind
churning in every direction
any direction that they so desire

Doctor, psychologist, therapist
providing an endless commentary
of what is happening
she is sparging and disparging
in turn
the room seems to become tighter and tighter
sparging and disparging
a bubbling sound from out in the hall
that, my dears,
says the therapist
is thinking
bubbles passing through the mind
sparging and disparging
those that escape float away
bubbling up in all of the primary colours
eventually it will either collapse – or explode
the mind
depending on which comes first

With the mind fully sparged
the words line-up
and march-out
one by one
a more managable way
to get them out the door
they will march offwards
to whoever has the ears to listen

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5min pressing a day (#254)

#254

There is a certain type of gentleman
known to inhabit
fields of grass
they walk
backwards and forwards
hands clasped together
behind their back
there is a game of cricket
nearby
watching the players bowl the ball
hit the ball
run and catch
up with time as it runs away
from them

There is a duck sitting at our feet
hoping that we will drop some food
and a magpie sitting on the fence
magpie doesn’t need feeding
there are plenty of worms in the field
they come out every day
at ten in the morning

The old girl comes along
walking up the path
she always has bits of wool
stuck to her coat

They aren’t the only ones
with their hands clasped
behind their backs
she says
the monks do it
all of the time
and so too do Sunday garden walkers
there are pensioners
who walk that way
up and down the garden path
come-on, she says
it is time to go home
dinner is ready

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5min pressing a day (#253)

#253

All over the world
kids
held like prisoners
in traffic jams
no way to escape

One day they will make pickles
and every type of jam
imagine themselves living in a bus
travelling from place to place
never more than one night in each scene
one day they will make a garden
with beans that climb up the walls
a fig tree in the corner
citrus and apples
rows of tomatos
and every useful herb

Looking out the window
into the imagination
seeing that they are not alone
in their confinement

A group of kids walk for hours
on the embankment between rice paddies
others cycle down long straight roads
or walk for miles through dusty savannah
even in the distant reaches of adulthood
someone in a factory
pressing a button all day
or driving a truck
backwards and forwards
each plotting their escape

When no-one is looking
they will run free
catch snakes and then chase their friends with them
others will climb up to high places
never looking down
or invite tigers in
to sit for the evening

When these adventures are all done
the air will be fresher
the colours brighter
the day will pass too quickly

In the evening
a magpie watching from on top of the fence
will jump onto the grass
collecting bits of wool, feather or straw

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5min pressing a day (#252)

#252

There is a corner of town where
they gather
the folk who don’t
seem to have anything to do
no purpose drives them
no responsibilities call
or if they do
they don’t listen

So they come down here
and sit
watching the world
pass by

Hoping that the great-one will come by
that some of their greatness
might drip off
emanate like a cloud of steam
leaving a bit with those whom it touches

We are all a collection of parts
says one to the other
a frankenstein
of sorts
a little bit of beach person
a touch of city dweller
a hint of efficient
a splash of artist
and of poet
mixed with bushwhacker
academic adventurer
religionist scientist and philosopher
wandering through many cloaks
many costumes
many tides
many seasons

Looking through the shop window
there is a man with a bottle of pickle
he speaks with the storeowner
about the bottle of pickle
actually there are usually many other types
of pickle
but today I could only find this
where are the other types
when will they arrive
the storeowner responds politely
well you are the only person
who buys this
and we finally ran out
behind them the next customer waits
no-one tells the next customer
that the pickle man has been there all day

There is a bar on the corner
those that frequent it
have done so for years
which wore them away
their bodies had aged
more than their accumulated number of years
their whole life seemed to pass quickly
becoming old and worn
faster than the things around them

The other people seem to zap past
seeming to never return
like flies and mosquitos
they seem to present themselves as a picture
a moment of their own little lives
the folk on the corner quietly absorb their lives

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5min pressing a day (#251)

#251

At first it hovered over Wainui
a black cloud
a hint of rain
a fat drop or two
a falling leaf
a plop in the duck pond

The picnickers fold their books
their newspapers and magazines
ran away without looking
over their shoulder
they didn’t see
the black cloud

Ballerinas and fairies
flying this way
a great storm of them
I’ve never seen such a gathering
I didn’t even know there were that many
but it would seem
there are

With some practice it is easy
to tell them apart
the fairies have wings
real ones that move
the ballerinas have still wings
that don’t move
a flower shaped hat
big floppy feet
a tutu and a string of lights
over their head

Flying as a swarm
they buzz around the theatre
slowly dropping down
settling in the trees and amongst the roses
the doors to the theatre fly open
the ballerinas rush-in

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