Desistance Hunting

JUST SIT

 

 

The pursuit of happiness is alright

And a fine delight for a chase

But latterly I have found

That happiness surprises me.

 

In my case persistence hunting

Left me breathless and agonized

As the bucks and harts would break

Into the thickets and shadows.

 

But if I sit quietly like an ancient wizard

Under a blossomed tree, it comes shyly

At first, the chaste, unhindered unicorn

And crowns my lap.

 

Fat with the Promise of Lean Streaks

PERSONAL TRAINER

Late harvest saw us lifting bales to trailers And up from the trailers to shippon lofts Using a 2-pronged pitchfork or pikel Jabbed centre-bale and hefted up in one sweep.   At the glooming of a late summer’s day The last loads would be brought in As a chill caught sweat and chaff With aches akimbo as the tractor backed up.   Dank bales leaved with Cheshire autumn From the flats along the Ankersplatt A fair jag on and one last tussle To put them overhead aired aloft.   “Tha mun shape lad Dunna be like th’owd woman With a belly-full of butter milk An wimmy-wammy i’the bitlin.   There inna any way but reet. Tha mun stand reet lad - Jab an swing in one go Shifting as th’weight rises”.   Big men and me a youth of sixteen Jokes and hard judgments - But they are long gone Mown down by salty home-cured bacon - Fat with the promise of lean streaks .

Late in life I have come back to the gym And succumbed to the debonaire charm Of my personal trainer Maria Who comes from Wroclaw or ‘vrotswaf.   She has devised a program to improve me And I stand looking at myself in the mirror Holding a weighted ball out-stretched Balancing on a BoSu and bending low.   I try to think of new things to say or ask About Poland to reduce the pain - But then she has me bridging And holding for 10 more – she can’t count.   “That’s very good” She says unconvincingly: “Lift your tummy up And squeeze your glutes.   Take a break if you are dizzy - Next time bring a water bottle. Now for your favourite The lunges, leading leg straight at first”.   Beautiful people in pink and black lycra Pounding music and purposeful endeavour And I am still here Ready for a chick-pea and kinwa salad at the Maranui - Fat with the promise of lean streaks.

 

 

 

Thursday Morning

BLOSSOM THROSTLE

 

Every morning, I say:

“Do you want some coffee

Blossom Throstle?”

 

And you say:

“That would be great”

Or, “Maybe”

Or, “I have to have a shower

Because I need to do my hair”

Or, “I‘ll just do my make-up”.

 

You like it strong with a dash of milk

I like buckets of Trim

But we both abjure sugar

As it is a modern-day excess.

 

After my heart has stopped

Palpitating, I settle

In my favourite green chair

And meditate.

 

I always look at the bank

Under the mustard-coloured house

And try to see how far

My planting is coming along.

On Thursdays, we take out the rubbish

In our green wheelie bins

Because the trucks might

Damage the road.

 

This morning, Joanne scurried out

Through the morning rain

With her bin and sprinted back -

More of a wet chook than a thrush.


And you are taking the boys

Early for road patrol

And then on to sort the clothes

With Justine for the School Fair.

Now the rain has died down

The birds are singing again.
 

My Alma Mater - University House at the Australian National University in Canberra

 EARLY MORNING AT UNIVERSITY HOUSE

 

The brightness startles when the blinds are drawn

And smacks across the window’s sleepy brow

As sunshine rages there against the lawn

And dawning makes a last flamboyant bow.

 

My entrance to the court unmasks delight:

The choisya is so very pure and white

Beset abuzz by jezebels and nymphs

That hover nectar-yielding labyrinths.

 

The pool is quiet where carp will bide the day

But then the birds alight - alert and keen:

The cockatoo sips morning mist away,

While come the tufted doves to coo and preen

 

And nesting mynas strut, weighing their searches,

As the chorus rises and then takes song

Amid the shrubs and the silver birches -

So swoops and chortles then the kurrawong.

 

And so by heaven, I thank the wakened sun

For this Canberra day that’s just begun.
 

 

 

Also a Poem that I wrote for Larry - the Golden Labradog of one of Canberra's premier Sybils

LARRY’S SONG

 

Fer ‘er sweet sake I’ve lain down on me trampoline:

No trees and posts an' all that sniffy game

Fer when a mutt ‘as come to know Maureen,

It ain’t the same.

There’s ‘igher things, she sez, fer dogs to do.

An’ I am ‘arf believin’ that it’s true.

 

 

[after C.J. Denis’ true blue Aussie poetry in The Sentimental Bloke (1919)]

Keith Johnson's Australasian Bestiary - the Kaka and the Kuku [Kereru]

FUNNY OLD BIRDS

 

The kuku loves domestic bliss

The kaka likes life’s turns and twists

 

The kuku is at its best at home

The kaka though is prone to roam.

 

While kukus plump for picturesque

The kaka goes for picaresque

 

For the kuku absences are antithetic

Contrast the kaka - he’s peripatetic

 

Like Zorro the kaka wears a red bolero

Not so, the demure and retired kereru

 

The kuku is polite and workaholic

Where kakas are ever prone to frolic

 

At a party, you can guess who’s most shambolic

The kaka always gins without the tonic

 

The kuku rarely doffs its vest

While kakas often dance a wild burlesque

 

The kaka will raise the decibels with yakka

And soon he’ll ask his mates to haka

 

So all in all, the kuku’s just an early player

And it’s the kaka who’s the party-stayer

 

Birds of a different feather they may be.

“Have a drink! Which of them do you think is me?”

 

‘He kuku ki te kainga,

He kaka ki te haere.’

 

[“He is a wood-pigeon (kuku / kereru) when he's at home but a noisy parrot (kaka) when he's out and about.”]

Since Captain Cook's arrival, no more memorable event has happened than the advent of the Australian fleet