Even Solomon in All His Glory
Brilliantly bleached sunlets
those big daisies bulge on their bush
the lurid cyclamens are crouched
in squeals of shocking pink
pigface and campanula
contribute their costume jewellery
but raggedy scarlet geraniums
have been out all winter
and don't give a stuff, in their simple way
aping these worn bricks and bluestone:
they are in, you might say
for the long unblushing haul.
Would it were possible
that we could all just keep on
blooming here
like they might long well be.
Ha!
This is mere lament
but I have seized at least
the coarse-barked, fruiting tree of life
and shaken the living daylights
out of its crown.
– Chris Wallace-Crabbe
We Bonfire Babies
burn inexplicably bright (for our age).
Psychedelic relics, mashed upwords
plopswer words dint done
dance once beneath birdcall.
Authority was once the kernel of riot.
He looked up glucuphage
& was redirected to a site on how to seduce women & that
has to be difficult because
'seduce' isn't even a word nowadays.
omg honey butter grevilias.
Crazy splendour & the Doors,
every welcome mat
those hands the raw
potencies of option though we just
wipe our feet blind deaf
Our fingers taught us nothing.
Heroes are the surgeons they take
our feet, we thereby lighten up.
From trudge to float,
evolve like saxophones.
Seniors' financial planning
jazzercise & computer skills.
Poor bloody Clarissa
is back on the tills –
Aldi Richmond. There's oil everywhere
we're rich, then reckless, then wrecked, exploded
living up the gritty ditty badge - boomer.
– Les Wicks
Chris Wallace-Crabbe is an Australian poet and emeritus professor in the Australian Centre, University of Melbourne.
Les Wicks has been published across 19 countries in ten languages. His 11th book of poetry is Sea of Heartbeak (Unexpected Resilience).
Cyclamens image by Shutterstock.