Once I had a hairy mop, A curly, furry crop, Hair today - gone tomorrow, Just one strand I’d like to borrow. My Kingdom for a hair, It really is not fair, Some have got it; Some have lost it, Why should I despair? Like Warnie, Loz and Mo, It’d be nice to buy a ‘fro, Even a hair here and there, There’s plenty out there to share! ‘Bald eagle’, ‘chrome dome’, There’s nothing on our pate, Yes, you don’t need a comb, But with the ladies we don’t rate. Some say ‘bald is beautiful’, Some say ‘bald are virile’, But trust me it’s all a ruse, Just a big excuse, We’re really only… man refuse. So c’mon baldies, let’s share the bare. O, Dome Sweet Dome!
I once had a teacher named Smillie, Yet smiley he was not, He ruled the class with an iron fist, Wielded the cane with a very strong wrist. Now Smillie was from the land of Burns, ‘Scootland’ he would attest, Yet to him love was not a ‘red, red rose’, But a scared class of boys that always froze. We were all supposed to be good at maths, This was class 2A no less, But Smillie always read the daily news, Giving us the chance to dream and cruise. ‘Eah Doofty where’s your maths homework?’ It was enough to make me choke, And when I couldn’t recite that theorem, Even the class down the building could hear him. The smartest in the class was Robert Smart, Yes ‘Smart’, I do not lie, And Smillie gave Smart his full attention, As he was the only one with good retention. And so it came to the Judgement Day, The end-of-term exams, Now Smart excelled with ninety four, And Dufty slightly less with twenty four. So off I strode to the class next door, Much to my parents’ chagrin, But how I struggled to withhold my glee, For I was in 2B and I was free!
Ice is not nice It makes be mad It makes me bad It makes me sad Ice is so nice I score the high Fly in the sky Never to die Ice is not nice The times I lied My brain is fried I will be tried Ice is so nice I’m in this jail I’ll soon get bail It’s in the mail Ice, Nice Baby?
A collection of over 50 poems I wrote between 2009 and 2019 including several unpublished poems. Access the book at https://www.amazon.com/Blend-collection-2009-2019-Neil-Dufty-ebook/dp/B08R7Y1ND3/ref=sr_1_2
Have you sat in a lobby watching them come and then go? In and out, to and fro, wondering where in fact they go. They say Life is like a lobby with a revolving door; In and out, to and fro, where in fact do we really go? See, watching in a lobby is becoming my hobby.
I won, he muttered to himself, in a moment of reflection sitting at his desk in the Oval Office.
This was not happening, I won on the night, fair and square. The election was rigged. Fake votes, fake news. To lose was unthinkable, to lose to Sleepy Joe, no way. Seventy million voted for me. They follow me, they love me. I am The President. I will show that I won. I won! I won! I won!
Don’t they realise I saved Americans from the China Flu? I have given them the cure. (Anyway, I had China Flu and it was no big deal). And I’m Making America Great Again, I deserve a second chance and I…
“That is me, My Son”
Standing in front of him was a swarthy, tall man with shoulder-length black hair dressed in long white robes. He wore leather sandals on his feet and held a long, slender piece of wood that was curled at the top.
“Security,” The President yelped. “Help, Security.”
“There is no reason to fear me, My Son. I come in peace.”
“Imposter, Bin Laden, armed terrorist…”
The President fumbled under his desk for the button. “Oops, not that one, that’s for Kim. Here it is, the security button.” He pressed it, nothing happened, no alarms, no security staff rushing in. In a lather he then sprang to his feet and rushed to the office door knocking over an American flag on the way. The door was locked. He banged on the door, “Help. Security”. But there was no response.
The President was isolated. He turned to the imposter who was impassively following his movements. He then thought of a gun and searched feverishly for a weapon. A gun, there has to be a gun, all Americans have guns, but no gun.
Sweating profusely, his face florid, The President then picked up a paper weight from his desk and confronted the imposter.
“Who are you? What do you want? How did you disable my security?” The President held the paper weight above his head threatening the impostor. “You will be killed for this.”
“I am Jesus Christ.”
“Oh, sure you are – and I’m Donald Duck.”
“My Father, the Lord God has sent me to save Mankind.”
Slightly placated, The President cautiously placed the paper weight back on his desk. He was still concerned about the long piece of wood held by the so-called Christ, but it did resemble a shepherd’s staff, not a dangerous weapon. The imposter looked harmless enough, and even had some type of circular light hovering over his head which gave off a peaceful aura.
The guy might just be a loony, The President thought, and there were plenty of those in America. He might even be one of those crackpot Democrats!
“Look, Jesus or whatever you name is, I promise I won’t have you killed. We have plenty of aid programs for the mentally disturbed. I’ll personally have you committed to a mental institution and you’ll get plenty of help.”
“I wish to talk with you about God’s Kingdom.”
Must be one of those climate activists upset about my withdrawal from the Paris Accord.
“Look climate change is fake news, fake news. Coal is good…”
The Christ guy looked at him with a slight smile but did not comment.
That didn’t seem to work. Maybe he was here to protest about something else like racial abuse or the plight of the poor.
“If you are here about black people or the homeless. Look, I can see you’re poor and kinda black. I can help you get a job, I’ve got an empire you know”.
“I have returned to save all Mankind. For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
A Bible-basher, has to be. Better not upset this guy as he might be one of my God-fearing followers, The President mused, now sitting at his desk.
“OK, I think we are done here. You’ve got your 15 minutes of fame, for whatever you believe in. I’m extra busy trying to prove that I should have a Second Term. Now it’s time to reverse the magic trick and allow the security system to work again. I’ll let you go without conviction.”
“The Lord is my Shepherd…”
“I’m getting mad again. If you’re the real Jesus Christ and you’re back, then show me a miracle to prove it. Something like turning stone to bread, feeding the five thousand…”
“I have encased your world in silence so we can talk about the future of the world.”
The President pondered. Wait on, this guy might be legitimate. Who could disengage the security system of the greatest country on Earth? This was a miracle, not magic. It could very well be the second coming of Christ.
“Alright, I’m starting to warm to you as Christ, starting to believe. Look, I need some help to win the election I did win. Like you, it should be my second coming. I can take a selfie of us and post it on Twitter. ‘Jesus Christ endorses The President for another term.’ It’ll go viral. That’ll trump everything.”
Christ looked bewildered.
The President then rubbed his eyes. He was under his desk in the foetal position. Christ was gone.
“Hell!” he yelled.
A butterfly flew on by Flittered, fluttered Caught the eye It flew into the sky Blue, azure Flew so high Higher than I could spy Gutted, I muttered ‘I hope it will not die’.
When I turn Sixty – I’ll hike the Kokoda Trail (No way my body will fail), I’ll bound up the highest mountain, Frolic naked in a city fountain. And when I turn Sixty - I’ll photograph like a kid, No lines, wrinkles, nothing hid, My skin pristine, cheeks a flush, OK they might use the odd air brush. And when I turn Sixty - There’ll be no stopping me, Watch me climb the tallest tree, Hey, I will be the living proof Of the meaning of Eternal Youth. And when I turn Sixty - I’ll prove that being Sixty Is the new Fifty, Forty, Thirty, On the wrong side of middle age? No, Sixty’s got to be all the rage. But now that I’ve turned Sixty - I’ve started to feel a bit ditsy, Memories start to make me misty, And the old back is playing up, May be no longer the young pup. And now that I’ve turned Sixty - I think I’ll take Sixty lying down, Curl on the couch like a sleepy hound, Snooze, then pop open a can of VB, And watch adrenaline sports on TV,
Glad you’ve arrived –
Not a minute too late!
Look at you:
Skirting the crowd
Twirling for all to see.
Is that you?
Winking at waves
Flirting with flags
Refreshing to all.
And now you’re gone,
As fast as you came.
Are you really
‘A breath of fresh air’?
Bellows fan Satan’s pyre
engorging the limp land
flaming prongs that
Acrid, blackened sky
maelstrom of eucalypt burn
couple with Death’s crackle:
A bush holocaust.
like giant dragonflies
above a scarlet pool
Ashen faces face
the Devil’s inferno
by their past.
And people wait
at their gate:
‘Will it slow?
Or will we go?’
Blow out, evil wind!
…I beg you.
Blustering in from Antarctic climes
Whitecaps on a simmering sea
Boats scuttle to safety
Like mice to holes
In winter: harbinger of colder times
Overcoats and beanies
Land and Man
In summer: waking back porch chimes
Cooling frayed tempers
Turning bush fires
blowing from o’er the foam
from the oceans you roam.
drawing us to your breast
Suckling the Land
with moisture on request.
sky and sea
coalesce into grey.
And here I lie on the ground,
Just waiting to be found,
Thousands of teeth at the ready,
In a slither of mucous jelly.
Hey, there’s no need for fright,
You really will love my bite,
I’m only a swipp’ry little sucker,
With one big, slobbery pucker!
So please keep coming – I won’t hurt,
Like Dracula, I just want to flirt,
Only a little blood will do,
Oh…I’m now so stuck on you!