Diary

 

good morning

to a world free of diaries

no time checks or meeting reminders

or words in waves about who knows

what people and thoughts come into sight

filling every curvy square inch

their meanings taking shape

their laughter as blossoms on the breeze

 

good afternoon

to the awesome but somehow hilarious

efforts to be one of a kind

the past has already converted

to yesterdays that could be anyone’s

while today’s mixture of pictures

passions unrequited opinions oft cited

stay white unwriterly

uninscribed as silent prayers

 

good evening

smiles at the domestic ceremonies

preparing the courses

unhyphenated conversations

wine rings all in the context

and cleaning up as usual after

without need for further comment

or several pages of the diary

decades decay

 

good night

to the deity of delight

to the daring and the darlings

deliriums and dramas

doldrums and disappoints

decisions and doubts

and dearie me the diary

blank this as so many other days

testament to something else in mind

strange to find

or the need to forget

Diary

Solid shadows, all shadows of myself

Dear Diary, buried, scurried letters;

Or these here, pompous, purple, unfettered,

Falling asleep, purposed, proper, top shelf.

Dear Diary, you talk back about things

Fantastic ago, now so prosaic,

So matter-of-factly elegiac,

Permanent vacation’s ego jottings.

Dear Diary, still here I see. Really, why?

Thursday you know and Sunday, that one too

Giving away secrets with scribbled ease.

Is it you or me, Dear Diary? Please

Own up to those blessed you confess unto –

Sure, tell me it all and then I won’t pry.

Diary (June)

I remember Brunswick and the nights of Rage, its anodyne heavy metal, its floral new wave. The days of walking the neighbour’s dog turned into nights of analysing who dobbed in their marijuana crop. The days of Victoria Market on the No. 19 tram turned into nights of  hunza pie, No. 1 homemade tomato relish. The days of outings to the Hills or the Bay turned into night outings of true confessions behind closed doors. The days of Helen Garner on death turned into the nights of Seamus Heaney on life. The days of June turned into the longest nights.