The Plain



The plain: uniform terrain. Plains-people: strong, resolute against drought, flooding rain … and the boredom of the plain. Does the rain fall mainly on the plain? What about the orographic effect? You’ve probably guessed by now that this is a planar poem – as flat as the plain: it rambles across this plain page. A road train rumbles through the plain to make noise to liven up the plain. The plains-wanderer is a bird that wanders across the plain trying to find and eat something that likes the pain of the plain. It builds a mound to lay its eggs and make a mountain out of a molehill … or is that bird the mallee-fowl? The plains-wanderers sometimes get run over by road trains. Stratus clouds work in parallel with plains. Planking is people trying to be plains. I would like to live on a plain, then I wouldn’t fall down a hill like Jack and Jill. Life can be a real plain: they always want you to stay calm, not show your emotional highs and lows. Have you felt emotionally controlled before? That’s a plain. And when you die and your heartbeat stops, the line on the machine you are attached to shows a plain; a plain life from birth to death. This poem is flat-lining: it’s dead. Mirages are shimmering, glitzy sirens like the Lorelei that lure you to keep travelling across the plain (beware of plains-wanderer’s mounds, road trains, bored plains-people, and death). Plains of the world unite as one – the prairie, the tundra, all plains come together and adopt a flat earth policy. But then, see, if you’re in a plane and you look down, the plain is not plain, it is: Creased, Cracked, Contoured, Colourful










Ode to my Smartphone


Capture 4



Our connection is so close

We talk all day, gossip

You organise me, tell me where to go

Remind me of events – birthdays, meetings

You sing to me, over 1,000 tunes

Do my banking, run my business

Tell me about the weather, sport, news

Play games with me, humour me

Take photos of me, come on my trips

Our attachment is so strong

You are My Wife

I mean, My Life.

Man Bun: A Poem




I think I will grow a man bun,

A man bun, yes that will be fun,

Tie it high so it can fly,

I’ll be a modern kinda guy.


Pull it back like ole Ma Kettle,

That will really test my mettle,

Some may think it’s really girlish,

I think they’re only being churlish.


And in days of yore it was the go,

A perfumed wig to steal the show,

History shows there’s nothing to hide,

Be in touch with your feminine side.


And I’ve been told they can’t resist

The juxtaposition of brawn and twist:

Six-pack abs and rippling pectoral,

And a bun: the ultimate metrosexual.


So I hope there’ll be no strong derision,

I might even get a gig on Eurovision,

The bun instant fame it will render,

To get as many hits as Kendall Jenner.

Sometimes we don’t need our mobile/cell phones



Alone, at last, away from all care,

Gone bush to lose the daily stress,

Around blades of grass like spindly hair

Shimmer under the wind’s duress.


Close, a trickle from a lonely creek,

Somnolent music sounding so sweet,

This rustic mood for long I did seek,

Soil crumbles beneath my bare feet.


And in the distance a laconic herd,

Flapping tails fend off droning flies,

Early moon rises, the night’s first word

As the fading light of the sun replies.


Golden cascades stream across the earth,

Gone my aches, pains, the nervous cough,

This bucolic spa, it has the upmost worth,

Oh no, that’s my mobile phone going off.

Onesie poem




all alone

in my Onesie

I once won my Onesie

at a show

It’s a skeleton Onesie

They say One is the loneliest number

but I’m not really alone

I’ve got my Onesie

And now I’m snuggled up

in my Onesie

on the couch

And I think to myself

what if all the world

was like a Onesie?

we wouldn’t be separated

all for One, One for all

together forever

We’d be



The Procrastinator


I almost didn’t write this poem

I wondered, I pondered

Walked around my home.


I thought of an excuse not to write

Fed the pet, placed a bet

Went and got a bite.


I went for walk around the block

To clear the mind, find a line

I must have writer’s block.


I turned the computer on again

Stared at the screen, at a scene

I was finding this a pain.


I almost put off procrastinating

What a shame, no words came

Sat there contemplating…


We almost didn’t save the Earth

Thought of money, of our tummy

Didn’t know what it was worth.


The Necklace (a short story)


The Necklace

A short story about bouncing back from adversity. What option do you think he took?


– Mummy, can we sit here?

He opened an eye.

– No, not there, Victoria. Further down the carriage.

Both blood-shot eyes open.

– Why not here, Mummy?

His eyes recognised two figures in front of him: one short, one tall.

– Don’t argue with me, Victoria. We are not sitting here. Let’s go now.
– But why can’t we sit here? Is there something wrong with this man?
– Victoria, don’t argue with your Mum. We will find another seat.

Victoria, you’d better do what you are told, he thought. Can’t sit near a scruffy thing like me, lying down. I’m sure Mum will tell you later to beware of vagrants/ homeless/ bums/ dirty old men/ paedophiles or whatever description she thinks applies to me. She probably won’t tell you, Victoria, that we (whatever term) are people, yes people, that live and breathe like you Victoria, but have fallen on hard times.

As he dwelled on his lot (again), his glazed eyes started to focus on his surrounds: seats; the usual early morning commuters; and, directly in front, a column of nascent sun beaming down to something that glistened.

His eyes concentrated on the lustrous object. It was a necklace.

He slowly rose, tentatively looked around for the potential owner, and with no acknowledgement from the crowded carriage, grabbed the necklace.

Furtively under his overcoat, he examined the treasure. Wow, this is my lucky day! For on inspection the necklace was a dazzling array of what appeared to be diamonds coupled with colourful gems. Even if fake it would have value, but if real, then this really was his day.

Not a religious man, he believed in Providence: that God or someone was watching over him, that this higher being would someday rescue him. There were others like him that ended it all in a stupor of booze, drugs or by jumping in front of what he was on. He was different. He was still hanging in there, waiting for help, and help had arrived. He’d done his time.

He hypothesised that the necklace must have dropped from a wealthy party-goer heading home in the early hours from the city. The broken clasp supported his theory. She might have caught the necklace on something, or in a boozy state flicked it with her hand, or lost it whilst playing around with her escort. Off the train, she awoke to the fact that it was gone, but all too late. It was his now.

Although hungry – as he always was – he had to decide what to do with his ‘prize’. Making important, life-changing decisions was not commonplace for him. His main decisions were made through a haze of hunger, tiredness and hangovers from whatever alcohol he could get his hands on. The decisions were those of survival: which way to get food, to get sleep, to get grog. And how to avoid the transit officers and cops who would always evict him from the trains (then they’d try to fine him – fact chance he’d pay at ‘no fixed address’!).

But now he would really have to decide something – what to do with this necklace. The train would soon be terminating; the rail staff will be cleaning out the train of rubbish, including him.

He summoned all vestiges of rational thought. He identified three courses of action:
1. Hand the necklace in to authorities at the station
2. Cash the necklace in and use the funds himself
3. Give it to Shaz to get back in the ‘good books’.

The first idea was honourable and he could be rewarded. But would he get a reward for handing the necklace in? Knowing his luck he would get a ‘thank you’ and the station clerk would get the reward. Or there would be no reward, and he’d be back to living on the trains.

The second option had more merit, he mused. He would get some financial benefit that would enable him to live in a swanky hotel, for a while. But would a pawn shop believe a down-and-outer like him? They’d probably call the cops and then he’d be up on a theft charge. However, there was always the ‘street market’ – he had connections.

And then there was Shaz.

Shaz had been both his strength and his weakness, he reflected. Their relationship was like a tropical climate: warm and languid most of the time, punctuated by violent cyclones (the bust-ups). The ‘Shaz 4 ever’ tat on the inside of his arm reminded him of their bond. I’ve burned for you, he reminisced.
He’d had a job as a security officer, but when he lost his temper (for the umpteenth time) and Shaz booted him out (for the umpteenth time), he went on a booze binge, and didn’t turn up at work for days. Who wants an insecure security officer?

But Shaz could be impressed by the necklace, and might allow him back to into her home, her room, her pants. He could make up a story about how he’d earned the money to buy it just for her from a new job. I’m turning my life around Shaz, things will be better this time, you’ll see. On the other hand, she might take one look at him, remember the ‘dark old days’, and no necklace might help.

The train was terminating.

What to do?

He bolted out of the train, jumped the turnstile, and strode off to a better life.

Poem about the rubbish in our oceans


Plastics in The Ocean


We’re in the North Pacific Gyre
To the horizon, a flotilla of plastic flotsam
Hey, there’s even the odd tyre!

We’re in the doldrums of PET remains
Bobbing up and down like sailing boats
Far from the shipping lanes.

We’re in a mire of goopity goop
A slowly spinning whirlpool of waste
A ‘messpool’ of plastic poop.

“This is the best eco-tour of the fabulous five hundreds! So fly on over for a once-in-a-lifetime experience and join us for the Fantastic Plastic Tundra Tour across part of the spellbinding Northern Plastific Ocean. There’s solid pristine plastic as far as the eye can see, borne from over five hundred years of natural accumulation. You’ll be amazed at the white wilderness expanse; wonder at our plastic effigies of extinct animals like the seal, the polar bear; marvel at the size of our plastic Blue Whale – a species that once roamed the vast waters below. Far from the rat-race of our land masses you can even shed your breathing mask and take in our sterilised air. Relax in the comfort of our air conditioned skidoos that float effortlessly across the plastic ice. And then brace yourself for an exhilarating ride up Tyre Mountain from where you can take in the full expanse of the eerie, white wonderland similar to that former frozen landscape: The Arctic. And for the ultimate in ultimate experiences…bungie off a massive tyre cliff stopping only centimetres from the rock-hard plastic icesheet. This and much more to explore with our company: Plastiglorious Tours. And don’t forget our motto – ‘A Plastic Tour will mould your life!’”

(Author’s note: * There sadly is such a place)

Selfie (a sonnet)


With the great interest in taking selfies at the moment, I thought I’d write a sonnet about them:


I thought that I’d take a photo of myself
As ‘selfie’ is the most popular new word,
So I asked my daughter to provide some help,
For my snap might turn out quite absurd.
“Place the phone in front of you just like this,
See Dad, it is so such a piece of cake,
Now smile and click, you can hardly miss,
You’ll find a selfie is so easy to take!”

Now here I am in front of the Eiffel Tower,
I’d like to be seen with the Tower I confess,
So now is the hour, there is no time to cower,
I turn the phone to me and button I did press.

But a first look at the pic has made me so glum
As the only thing I see of ‘self’ is my big thumb.