poetry

The Tree-changers

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In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy (and Nancy)
Gone a winemaking up to Mudgee where all the tree-changers go,
Or are they doing permaculture? Not just sure of their fancy,
Only their life has pleasures that the city folk never know.

I am sitting in my dingy office in the dusty, dirty city,
Listening to meaningless talks from the next door jerk, 
Oops, I’ve missed another deadline, oh what a pity! 
Now to head home on trains that rarely ever work.

And I somehow fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy (and Nancy),
Have a home among the gum trees where the seasons come and go,
But I guess they’ll be out there till they go to ‘greener’ pastures,
And I’ll stay where I am and watch my in-tray overflow.

(Author’s note: Apologies to Australian poet Banjo Paterson for using some lines from ‘Clancy of the Overflow’)

© Neil Dufty

The joys of being an older runner

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Why do we? Why do we go back for more?
Perspiration pouring out like an artesian bore,
Groans in our bones, aches for goodness sakes,
The finish out of sight, this is what it takes.

Are we all masochists or are we just silly?
(I wish this darned course wasn’t that hilly!)
‘Fun run’: an oxymoron if ever there was one!
I’m sure this race has well and truly been won.

But I remember the day, the day of my PB,
It was so, so easy, I got a running stress freebie,
I felt virile, vibrant, young, I ran without fear,
The only thing, I can’t even remember the year.

Will I now walk? My legs they feel like rubber,
I’m a whale beached, heavy weight and all blubber,
No, no, I can’t give in to this easy walk option
Which seduces me like some sensuous siren.

And now one last strain as I cross the finish line,
I’ll sit down, catch my breath, then I’ll feel fine,
Then talk to the others, make up all the excuses,
And ask, ‘Do you know any good masseuses?’

Then home to start on the long road to recover,
Apply some ice, pop a pill, maybe then another,
But whatever the weather, if it’s hot, wet or cold,
We will all be back, as good as gold, or just old.

© Neil Dufty

Traveller

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Where are you going?
Where have you been?
Life for you flowing
Through scene after scene.

Are you any wiser
For life on the go?
To be a worldly advisor
There’s much more to know.

© Neil Dufty

The Bachelor

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I really want to be The Bachelor,
Inviting morsels for me to trawl,
Flicking them off, so spectacular,
I wish I could taste them all!

And I find The One, The Only One,
“My love is like a red, red, rose”,
The final, millions watch, she’s won,
A moment in time that froze.

But is it real this game of love?
Is it only a scripted illusion?
Parts are acted, producers shove,
All in all, a romantic delusion.

To be The Bach my looks will hinder,
I’ll go back to finding real love on Tinder.

© Neil Dufty

Phubbing

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When you’re in a crowd
And someone comes towards you
And ignores you
On their phone…
Phubbing 
Phone Snubbing

When you’re on a night out
At a restaurant
And your date
Constantly goes
On their phone…
Phubbing 
Phone Snubbing

When you want to have a conversation
With your teenager
And they just have to go
On their phone…
Phubbing 
Phone Snubbing

When there are laws about not 
Phoning and driving
But people 
Still drive
On their phone…
Phubbing 
Phone Snubbing

When you’re reading this poem
On your phone…

© Neil Dufty

The Lone Star Motel

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One Star Motel
The sun was setting in the west,
I could not drive much further,
My eyes were bleary, to stop was best,
“Safety first,” my mum I’d heard her.

I then drove through a tin-pot town,
You know the type with tumbleweed,
But lack of habitation made me frown,
All I wanted was a sleep and a feed.

There was nowhere to rest my weary head,
No Bed and Breakfast, not a hotel,
The next town I thought I would head,
But then I spied the ‘Lone Star Motel’.

Excited I knocked on the reception door,
Looking down I noted the ‘Welcome’ mat,
Finally a lady ambled across the floor,
Rollers in her hair, ciggy and a tatt.

“Are you on your own?” the lady said,
“I have to check if there’re vacancies,”
I pleaded, “Please only a feed and bed,
Your sign did not say ‘No Vacancies’.”

She checked whilst sucking on her smoke,
“Our tourist trade is running pretty hot,”
This comment almost made me choke,
As there were no cars in the parking lot!

“You are lucky, Luv,” the lady conceded,
“Number 5, you’re certainly in the hunt,
It has more than you would have needed,
But I need the money paid up front.”

“A restaurant?” my gut was starting to ache,
“Only room service,” the lady pursed her lips,
“For dinner, we have got chips and steak
And for breakfast it is steak and chips.”

It would have to do, I proceeded to pay,
And as I went out to await the tucker,
Plain as day I heard the lady say,
“Hey Harry, it is another city sucker.”

The first thing I noticed as I opened the door,
Was the smell, not that of lavender,
And was that tomato sauce on the floor?
I was hoping to not find a cadaver.

What’s more the TV was very blurry,
The AC didn’t work, the heat intense,
And around the bath was mould so furry,
‘Lone Star’, meaning one-star, was making sense.

“Room service,” the lady was at the door,
My chance to complain about the place,
As I was about to argue with great candour,
She said “Enjoy” closing the door in my face.

Alone I whiled away the hours to bed,
My phone had no signal, I played Solitaire,
This place was starting to do in my head,
It was like in a cell full of fetid air.

Sleep was how to deal with the yearning,
The bed bowed in the middle like a valley,
Midnight, one, two, me tossing and turning,
I felt destitute in some backstreet alley.

The chips and steak gurgled in my gut, 
Sleep virtue of some painkilling drugs,
I had found respite from the Lone Star rut,
But then I dreamt of some giant bed bugs.

Groggy in the morning I handed in the key,
Too tired to rustle up any type of complain,
I was just glad to escape, be finally free,
And drive quickly across the wide open plain.

“How was it? I hope you enjoyed the room,”
She must have thought that I was a goon,
“I am sure you will be back here real soon,”
She smarmily sniggered as I left the room.

“No way,” I thought as I got into my car,
Pondering her final words would not be smart,
So, I turned the key to escape the Lone Star,
But for some reason my car wouldn’t start.

© Neil Dufty

in The Cloud

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I wandered lonely in The Cloud,
I was trying to find some meaning,
Sifting through Big Data as allowed,
Searching for our very being,
When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host of faces in The Cloud.

The faces were ordered like a book,
They stretched in never-ending line, 
Hard to comprehend at first look, 
Continuous as the stars that shine,
Faces promoted through pure vanity,
A clear insight into our humanity.

But as I stared, I spied a face
That suddenly grabbed my attention,
You had the visage of good grace,
Inspiring my immediate retention,
Your eyes, demeanour, so refined,
I quickly opened your Timeline.

And there you were for me to see, 
Friends, interests, your life laid there,
I gazed – and gazed – how could it be?
That I would find love in the air,
I then reached out to touch your face
But you evaporated without a trace.

(Apologies to William Wordsworth for the use of a few of his lines from the poem ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’)

© Neil Dufty

Whittlin’ our life away

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See me and me cousins - old Daryl and Bede,
We sat on the porch at the front of our home,
We used to laze ‘round, have a drink and a feed,
Coz we had to make sure them cows didn’t roam.

Some say folk in the sticks have so little to do, 
They say we have plenty of time on our hands,
But now we are part of the active crew few, 
Coz for whittlin’ we are the biggest of fans.

We started to whittle the odd gum tree stick,
Carvin’ them sticks into nothin’ much at all,
But then after a while we gave sticks the big flick,
Coz there weren’t any more on the trees to fall.

We then took to whittlin’ all the wood that we found
(I know you must think this is pretty outrageous),
And all that was left were some chips on the ground,
As whittlin’ for us was becomin’ highly contagious!

So we called for whittlin’ help from all of our relos, 
(There are lots, as not much happens in them hills),
Whittlin’ was now a big job for gals and the fellows,
Coz we were sellin’ more chips than them log cuttin’ mills.

Now as we’re all whittlin’, I gets to do some thinkin’,
Started to make up a tune for all of us to know,
A song ‘bout whittlin’ that would get us all a hootin’, 
Let’s call it: ‘From Big Things, Little Things Grow’!

And thought all big words could do with a whittle,
Cut them down to size, get rid of the word pith,
It would make them word books be ever so little,
For doin’ this craft, they’ll call us a ‘wordsmith’!

Could word whittlin’ catch on across our great land?
Would it be fine with our Mister Gough Whitlam?
Now we don’t want to upset our current boss man,
Coz if you cut the ‘wit’ out of him - all that’s left is a ‘lamb’!

Back from my thoughts to our whittlin’ adventure,
There’s not much wood left as you look around,
Gone are fences, the house door and its wood floor,
And there’s none of them trees still growin’ on the ground.

Hey, we might of overdone the extent of our wood work,
May be we couldn’t see ‘the forest for the trees’,
But we’ve just heard some news that made us all smirk:
There are lots of big trees in Brazil that are free!

© Neil Dufty

My Mullet

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(Author’s note: To be sung to that classic ‘Achy Breaky Heart’)

Don’t shave my mullet, my lovely flowin’ mullet,
Just watch it swayin’ in the breeze,
And if you shave my mullet, my lovely flowin’ mullet,
I’ll fall down cryin’ on my knees.

You can stand and bellow that I’m not a modern fellow,
That my hair is shorter at the side,
But lookin’ at my mane that’s givin’ me my fame,
There’s no need to make it go and hide.

Now you can trash my trailer, yell it from a loud hailer,
Laugh and joke at my retro look,
But Billy Ray perfected it, why are you rejectin’ it?
I’m proud of it and will not be a sook.

I can say it’s fair that the girls just love my hair,
They stroke and fondle it like a cat,
But there’s an older dame who really adores my mane,
It’s aunt Raelene with her ciggy and her tat.

So you can look like new and grow a mullet too,
There are styles that never ever fail,
Now there‘s one with a perm, with bleach to make it firm,
Why not that trendy ratty tail?

Don’t sneer at my mullet, my lovely flowing mullet,
It’s the greatest hair-do by a mile,
And if you sneer at my mullet, my lovely flowing mullet,
It might soon come back into style!

© Neil Dufty