A Kiss
I sat as a boy at the table,
Silent and neat
My plate was clean
Nothing to do but eat
Since children
Are seen and not heard
I wasn’t allowed to say a word.
(This is the sixties,
You too were just seen
So off your high horse
You know what I mean.)
But it wasn’t a burden
A chore to be borne.
It was just as things were then.
Like a hat to be worn.
I tried to gain my Mum’s attention
In the hope she would know
My face’s contortion that show’d
‘Please let me go.
I’ve got books to read
Rollers to skate
Animals to feed
I can’t stay awake
So please, I just need …
To go, can’t you see?’
She finally caught
The look on my face
And turned to him
For him to say grace.
He did as was bid
Not knowing the words
Their meaning I mean,
It was just a chant
An act to be seen
By an invisible god
That no-one believed
Just a Sunday thing.
I was so relieved.
I wrote many stories
Without any ends
Since ends needed thought
A point to be made
I had ideas, no joins, just dots
I had no points, just starts
No stops.
I knew she was fucking the delivery man
Who came in a truck, The Faulding Van
It opened up like a shop with steps
There it was by the gate, and yet
No one was there
No one around
Not even a Mum or man to be found
Where were they fucking, where did they go?
The feed shed? Peppertree?, I’d like to know.
But once in my room, to change as I must
I saw the van in a cloud of dust
And there in the kitchen, stood Mum
Tying her apron,
A new job to get done.
So all was right, as right as rain
Until she needed some lovin’ again.
The boys, them too, the brothers I gained
When Mum hitch’d a farmer
Grew nothing but grain,
And sheep to be traded
Graded and sold
One killed every month
But one that was old.
Four legs it had, like Sundays in a month
As if god ordained
That if sheep had four
That’s what roasts were for my Mum explained
But still not able
To talk at the table
Until I was older, an adult no less
But then could I secretly still wear a dress?
Oh, pets and books and ducks and chooks
Reading and writing and watching TV
Black and white it seemed to me
To tell me what I dreamed to know
How to be older, and how to grow
To be someone taller, smarter, a good looker
A house that was modern.
False teeth, pressure cooker
Wasn’t enough to satisfy me
I wanted a life, a life more than this
But all I had was the back of my hand
To practice a kiss.
_________________________________________________
Poetry
In the musical play Carousel, a spruiker called Bill, and Julie, who works in a mill, try to tell each other how they feel. They don’t have the words to be true to such feelings so they sing it to make it real: what “if I loved you?” The scene needs the music to supply the emotion and for the would-be-lovers to be who they are, not for writers to give them words they would never use. Songs in musicals happen when words are not enough. Poetry happens when prose in not enough. To describe a spectacular tree, you can try to write it realistically as best you can but if it is truly spectacular you will get to a stage where you have to forget what you see and write what you feel; what it reminds you of; what the words are for: sense, surprise, and metaphor. When Auden wrote “As I walked out one evening, walking down Bristol Street” he described what he did, and then what he saw, but what he saw was so such more and he had no words that did justice to the scenery, “The crowds upon the pavement” so he slipped into poetry, “were fields of harvest wheat.” And this adds meaning and insight; yes, and there’s rhyme and rhythm of course, a tune if you like. What confuses poetics for the readers of verse is that so often the text is so personal, perverse, and has no meaning, no revelation; but like masturbation, it may satisfy the writer, but does nothing for the reader. I’m going to read more poetry now and stop flogging myself since it isn’t a test. I’ll treasure those words that light something up, and dismiss those that maybe a gas for the poet, but hot air for the rest of us.
The Orchid on the 14th Floor
There is an orchid on the 14th floor
Trapped in the still, apartment air
Its seven faces staring
Just staring,
Staring.
Some say phalaenopsis, some say moth
It’s stubby wings, ever so white
Hold expectantly, patiently
They will fold one day like mine
One day.
One day.
The greys and the blacks of the bustle below
Stirs the monied atmosphere
Where people rush, stop for a bit
Stop for a bite and then
Rush some more.
Not here.
Down there, touch, bumps, collisions
Avoided at all costs, can cost even fines
Up here, we scream for contact
Wishing, urging, yearning, hoping
Waiting.
Waiting.
Days go by, no movement, answer,
Not even growth, it seems to me.
No flies, no ants, no moths, no bees
To tickle its throat
And sex its genes
Not here.
So it waits, waits and waits.
No sag, decline, weep or sigh
So unlike a mirror this thing to me
It shows me pluck
But I read but waste.
And wonder.
Wonder.
Wars can wane and words can fail
And still it sits, so still
As months go by.
Its time is held
Like a freeze frame shot
Of a Becket play
Waiting.
But oh how it mocks and
Prickles the gall
As I sit in the kitchen
And wait for your call.
#################################
THE TERRORIST
Bloody Roman arselickers
With shackles in sacks
To remind them which way to bow
Keep me dry and down trodden
In this hell of a cell
For talken and tellen what I see
All I do is talk talk talk
From the dusty trackside
And if people like what I say
Or think they might
They turn a verge to a mount
When they tell their mate
Or their aunt
When next she comes
So how was your week dear
Since I last was here
Is a hook cast by aunties
Down the eons of years
And the nosepicking nephew
Who was there at the back
Didnt hear much but
Likes to see his aunts
Eye brows raise
So he says things
And tells things
Hes seen at a glance
And coloured with what
All aunts want their nephews to tell
That a bloke
Me this is ya see says
The meek shall inherit the earth
Of course the meek love hearing that
And this too
Did you hear the one about the camel and pin
But the stand-up gets all twisted in the reretellen
And so here I am in a dusty hole
That smells of piss wetdog like
Because someone with eyesapoppen
Says I said somethen stand out godlike
And I did but who got the gist
So now I have to bare my arse to bootjacks
To speak to mates I have who know
What really went on
And what I really said was
Kill the fuckers and send em packen
Back to where they came from
They eat what we dont eat
They praise what we don’t praise
They sing what we don’t know
They favour what we think vile
What the fuck are they doen here
And I hear about one dirtsmeared whore
Called Mary my mothers name do you mind
Who says she loves me and yes she does
Cos I did her a favour
Once
And now Im a miracle worker
With hangerson just waiten
To see me do it again
And again
Like the do I went to
A wedden
Pissed in a wine jar
Thought it was dry
But they drank it and marvelled
Ya see
The depth of flavour my arse
The fuckers were too pissed to know
Every girl every bloke
So word gets round
And round and round
The water I turned to wine
And Im havin a great fucken time
Cheap wine bloody oath cheap
But then it gets out of hand
And theyre stalken me
And walken me
To see me do it all over again
Then
You wont believe this
Some dude runs from his burial cave
As Im sayen nice things
Mid rave
As you do at funerals
And so Im a hero
Bringen him back to life
Hell
Fuck me
If you knew the life he led
You wouldnt be wishen him
Back from the dead
But word gets out none the less
All twisted yeah and what a mess
No wonder I need a backup crew
To punch and paths to clear
So twelves a bit rich
I know
But watta ya do
If thats what they want
A jobs a job
And the fishens shit this year
Tried it too
Took em all out in an open boat
Teachen them to earn a crust
But ran aground
So I gets out
Ankle deep
No big deal
To lighten the load
But word gets back
To the aunts you bet
And theyre talken on it
And talken on it
And they add a bit here
And add a bit there
And wamo
Im walken on it
Im a weirdo magnet
No sweat
And now Im off to see
This poostabben bloke and I know
It wont go well
What the fuck can I say
He dont speak the lingo
So Ill say what I say
And some bloke will tell
It on and on and on
And get it all wrong
But because of some shiela
Some daughter of Zion no less
To impress
It will all be exploded
And the storyll go
Round and round
Oo-ah and jump up and down
Theyll go find
Societies and cliques
That demand special clothes
Head gear bells odd day weeks
Flowing robes
So theyll stand high from the mob
Who wont have a clue
But wholl want to ask a few
Like the meaning of life
And theyll say something grand
That will basically mean we have to
Remain in the shit-hole were in
And stand
In the sun and sell
Shrivellin dates and shrivellin bums
But give us some loot
And a ticket to boot
To the life after death
No evidence but
Trust us they say and trust em youll do
And those twelve blokes
Of mine will write it all
On tablets in tomes
And mark them sold
For pieces of gold
But what I need now
Is a godlike jaunt
Ill stuff thunder in a jar
A Volcano no less
And lob it in straight
At the temple door
Kaboom
And then theyll take heed
Theyll listen to me then
More god like then
Yeah thats what I need
Fucken yeah.
#################################
Fold Me Down (2020)
Fold me down
You old grey town
Fold me down
In rocks and ground.
Lift me high
But low you be
Lift me high.
Complicity
Fold me down
You old clay town
Fold me down
In rocks and ground.
Leave I must
But leave I can’t
Leave I must
But. Leave I must.
Fold me down
You old grey town
Fold me down
In rocks and ground.
Take me back
As used as lips
Burn me black
Like eucalypts
Put me up
And let me be
Set me down
Eternally
Fold me down
You old grey town
Fold me down
In rocks and ground Fold me down In rocks and ground.
AMERICAN ADDICTION (April 2022)
Americans are addicted to guns
But blame the fingers that pull the triggers
But who blames the fingers when pointed.
Americans are addicted to democracy
But only the democracy of those who vote
Those who don’t are addicted to not voting.
Americans are addicted to beauty
Except those who are not beautiful
They are addicted to striving to be.
Americans are addicted to money
Even those who don’t have any
But they are addicted to not keeping it.
Americans are addicted to food
Because food will make them strong
And a good boy is a big boy.
Americans are addicted to television
Even if they don’t understand what they see
Most don’t watch what they don’t understand.
Americans are addicted to war
Even though they haven’t won any – on their own – since 1898
Some are addicted to believing they have.
Americans are addicted to truth
But only when they see it in print
But only the truth they believe.
Americans are addicted to right
But only when history agrees
But addicted to history they are not.
Americans are addicted to god
As a way of proving them right
So they are not addicted to blame.
Americans are addicted to home
Because they are blind to what isn’t
So hate it when someone wants a bit.
Americans are addicted to health
But only the kind that costs
The other kind they call socialism.
Americans are addicted to communists
As though it’s still a threat
But can’t see the ones in their heads.
Americans are addicted to enemies
And if they can’t find any
They make them out of microphones.
Americans are addicted to talent
And all wish they had some
But talent is anything with a phone.
Americans are addicted to Americans
Name town and state, name town and state
But they are not addicted to maps.
Writing (2022)
When I write, the I is me.
All those writers I read
Toibin, Porter, White, Winton, Boyne, And Gale
And the way they write
Is of no concern.
What I hope
Is
The things About them I agree with And admire
Have oozed themselves into how I write
So when I write
I write what comes into my head
And what comes into my head
Is the writing child of those above.
I give it rein And to ignore that
That voice
Is death.
When I write the I is me.
Sophie – a Lyric (2022)
What a lovely dress, Sophie,
You look so beautiful
Sorry
But I’m a bigger size girl
What such killer shoes Sophie
You look so out there
Sorry
But I’m a bigger size girl
I’m a girl who takes a size two up
But don’t you worry
Don’t be sorry
I know what looks so good on you
I like to look good too
But I’m a size two up girl
A size too up from you.
I’m a bigger size girl.
Michael K Freundt 