Editorial

[Editorial]

For Marilyn Klerx-Hardie

Said my editor to my splurger, that’s over the top.

Said my accountant to my raver, when’s this going to stop.

Said my censor to my free spirit, did you have to use fuck.

Said my caged-in to my free-range, friend you’re in luck.

Said my normal to my supernormal, it’s the end of lockdown.

Said my supernormal back again, that bug’s all over town.

Said my provocateur to my anam cara, go get a life.

Said in similar vein my anam cara, I’ll go get a life.

Said my aesthete to my preacher, what’s that all about.

Said my preacher to my aesthete, truth will out.

Said my death wish to my life force, isn’t darkness fun.

Said my life force back again, here comes the sun.

Said my inner critic to my latest effort, wetter and wetter.

Said my latest effort to my inner critic, you do better.

The sonnet, about the Inner Editorial that poets and writers live with, has in the background this long socio-political poem by Allen Ginsberg, ‘The Ballad of the Skeletons’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KWcmI802mw

Driveway

Stand in your driveway on Anzac Day.

Your own driveway where concrete meets gutter.

Your driveway on Anzac Day the gutter.

Between gutter and the stars your driveway.

Stand during Covid Day on your concrete.

Stay on the Ruby Princess you Anzacs!

Stand on concrete eating Anzac Biscuits.

Smoothed concrete gutter where driveway meets road.

Stand in your driveway with a bronze badge.

Stand in your staked driveway with BBQ.

Stand in your driveway with BBQ steak.

Stand within cooee of golf course driveway.

Drive fast as can to the golf course driveway.

Transfer funds for your Anzac Day driveway.

Normal

Normal wakes up to crowning achievements.

Safety, it’s a matter of opinion.

Things, he gets back to them, ignites the engine.

He (it’s not always he) leaves out what’s meant.

Won’t. Normal will not be told stay at home.

Signs the supermarket visitors book.

Impatiently relaxes, takes a good look

At unprecedenteds. Hair wants a comb.

The new Normal coughs, might have a headache.

A fever? Too early to say. Not though, why.

Things, there are things that he just can’t fake.

More like the old Normal, up for a laugh

Eats his saved sandwich, doesn’t want to die.

He, all that remains of his skeleton staff.

Puzzle

It is the empty shops behind the glass.

Download more buttons to tell us the time.

X marks the place for long distance mime.

A million phones give an online class.

Trains fill with no one in particular.

Carpark of rust sharps and wet autumn leaves.

A mirage of masks it seems, half-day gloves.

Jog with dog at sunset spectacular.

Life’s so precious people do anything.

Avenues of stay home, roads of asleep.

State of emergency now resetting.

The mental hustle, the indoor bustle.

Which bits to fit which bits, what not to keep.

This infernal pest of a jigsaw puzzle.