Poem # 90 Man with a box

I stopped my van on a main arterial road.
The rain was too heavy to continue. In the
rear view mirror I could see a hunched
blurred figure approaching. Under his arm
a large collapsed flat pak. He knocked on
the window.
'Have a heart friend, can I come in? it's like
Noah's flood out here'
I nodded my consent and he placed the
flat pak into the back of the van and
slipped into the cab beside me.
'Thank you, thank you, I am Lucien -
so pleased you could help- the box is
my home - but not in the rain - rain and
cardboard don't mix. Oh no! Not at all
- caught me by surprise. Lucky I found
you.
He smelled like banana stew. I gave him
an orange and a cup of coffee for a change
in diet. He seemed unaware of his
personal aroma and didn't seem to mind
it's effect on himself or any other person.
He happily explained to me, while
brushing his teeth with his index finger
why the world was out of control and
why we are all so anxious.
Uranus!
The refined green folk who inhabit
that planet don't have the technology
to build modern Sullivan derived
cities. Lucien explained that the
Uranians can build farmhouses to
delight your eyes, but high rise are
beyond them. 'But they desire them
badly do you see? Now that we've
successfully built all these high rise
the Urani are ready to take over.
They have pissed into the rain, he
explained, filling our water with a
violence and corruption inducing
drug. Within a few decades, Lucien
confided in me, earth society will
have imploded, and the cities would
be theirs. A big green party in
Centrepoint tower.
I asked Lucien where he would be
then.
He stopped rubbing his teeth for a minute
and looked me directly in the eyes.
' Back on Uranus, of course' He leaned
in close and I almost passed out from
the smell. 'I'm one of them'.
I said 'Of course you are', and opened
the door for him so he could exit
into the emerging dry weather.
After retrieving his box he turned
and gave me a broad smile.
'Been a pleasure to meet you sir!,
but I must away. I have an
appointment with the mother ship,
or the government, I forget which.
I must consult the Blackberry,
and with a salute he left me where
I was.

Poem # 89 Cats/ Cat

When cats settle
themselves down to sleep
they always place
themselves as the focus
of a composition that makes
them look good. They
make sure they take into
account colour; arrangement;
balance; and rhythm.
When a cat's paw vibrates,
her nose and whiskers twitch,
and a soft growl emanates.
Is she dreaming? Yes!
What does she dream about
we wonder, when she does
the equivalent of muttering,
and her legs move in a running
motion whilst she is asleep.
Cat stuff I suppose.
Most likely she is dreaming of
killing.
  Perhaps this cat has never
learned to meow and maybe
she never will, but she makes
known her emotional state.
I am the hunter! I am the
warrior, the ninja, the
little panther of the garden.
Beware oh thou who holds me
in thrall, one day I might
vanquish you!                                

Poem # 88 Buffalo Shooting, Arnhem Land 1969

In 1969 we shot the buffalo.
The meat was prime - lean
and filled with iron. Hundreds
would graze in a grove of
paperbark trees on the
Marrakai plains.We would
step from the shade onto a
mosaic of cracked mud and
they would lift their black
moist nostrils, sniff the air,
and then run, their feet a
drum beat on the earth.
Once an extra big one was
sleeping on his feet in the shade
of the grove, his eyes closed
tightly in their wrinkled pouches.
Tears oozed in a long dark stain
down his cheeks, and a fine haze
of midges hovered around the
head that was centered in the
middle of a wide expanse of
horns.
Our shooter saw him and
picked his way towards him
through the paperbark and
pandanus. The low sun
illuminated the grove with
gold and insects produced
a resonant drone.
He circled round till he was
head on to the target and
then he moved in.
When he was twenty metres
away he stopped and stood
with feet apart the rifle held
ready.
The shot was thunderous in the
peaceful air of the Billabong, it
shattered into a thousand echoes
against the trunks of the trees.
The legs of the one tonne
buffalo buckled and he toppled
forward, a loose avalanche of
flesh and bone and long long
horns.
Our shooter ejected the spent
shell and picked it up, and then
we moved in with our knives
and the axe.
That night his totem family
wailed and sang and danced
to mourn his death.
                                             

Poem # 87 Cape Tribulations

The pub was in a clearing
in the rainforest in the
far north. On Friday nights
they had " Bull fighting"
where a pair of males, or
females, or mixed would
have their hands  fastened
behind their backs with
plastic ties and then head butt
each other until one could
not stand. The patrons would
bet , stamp the dust, and yell
and cheer on their favourite.
Above the bar, foreign, torn,
and defaced notes were pinned.
Some were from the time
when only FJ utes, Jeeps,
Landrovers, and trucks
passed through on narrow
dirt tracks. They bore
messages " Woz and Baz's
honeymoon", " Cane toads
rule", and " Support mental
health care or I'll kill you!"
The huge head of a boar was
mounted on display above the
bar, it's tusks as long as Arab
knives.Stuffed cane toads dressed
as hookers or swaggies stood
erect next to the spirit bottles
their pouting lips an azulian red.
A huge stuffed rat guarded the
cash register. A sign proclaimed
" Largest rat on record shot at
the No Name pub".
Through the trees across the
beach I could see trawlers
moored. Black silouettes
against the moonlit horizon
illuminated by a slowly descending
red//orange/yellow glow. A sharp
contrast with the noise and
aggression of the bar.
When the hard Chechen next
to me downed his ninth vodka
shot and told me " the rat was
telling him to do bad things."
I knew it was time to go.