No Jacket Required
Cannot
draw, paint, sculpt,
create symphonies, move to
mirth or action,
enthrall,
sing with the voice of angels
(or the sublime Ms Fitzgerald),
cure with digitalis,
build to withstand
the aftershocks of a billion
humans,
yet,
can,
in an instant,
locate true north
of a moral compass,
see the colour of a
beating heart
No Worries
The esky’s packed with ice and toots,
we’ve phoned for fish ‘n chips,
dressed down in thongs and ugg boots,
for the nuptials of His Nibs
—-
Our PM, a Republican daggy,
an atheist, and unmarried to boot,
will schmooze at Westminster Abbey
with First Bloke, toasting our roots
—
‘The Chaser’s been given the flick,
Beeb and not-amused Charlie to blame,
Instead, Antipodean kicks
will come from that dodgy old Dame
—-
Yes, for today, we’ll forgo real news,
indulge in some frivolous folly,
chuck a sickie from workaday blues
and quaff a few bottles of Bolly
—
In the Ring
Like a champion, he takes the blows,
And they keep on coming,
left, right, uppercut, and…
(Commentator) “Ohhh, that was dirty, but LIFE
hasn’t blown his whistle!”
..punch-drunk, reeling, but he’ll not lie
down for a TKO -
never give the schadenfreude crowd
their satisfaction
Whalewatchingyou
If you were first to look her in the eye,
would you plunge that dagger through her heart?
©beeblu.wordpress.com
This image may not be copied, downloaded or reproduced in any form.
1 + 1 = ?
golden opportunity -
wormhole to a smidgen of
the universe -
squandered
in too much big
hair, Kate Bush
and Saturday Night Fever,
and,
who cares to know it,
an absence of self-trust,
So,
mathematics – the Ark of the Covenant,
and I – just another stupid girl
An Easter egg hunt (sort of)
A bit of fun for Easter – a competition inspired by The only Cin’s Pesto Princess apron competitions.
image – www.sxc.hu
Competition Conditions
The competition is open to all WordPress bloggers who reside in countries to which Australia Post delivers and, more importantly, who have a stationery fetish. 
The first WordPress blogger to post the correct answer in a comment against this post after 10pm Sydney (Australia) time on Tuesday, 26th April, 2011 wins this Corban & Blair limited edition scribble journal (no, it’s not chocolate).
Please note that answers posted before 10pm Sydney (Australia) time on Tuesday, 26th April, 2011 won’t be considered. If you are unsure of the current time difference between your location and Sydney, Australia, check out the World Clock.
Your answer should correctly fill in the gaps denoted by ? in the final paragraph of the article below.
Where am I hiding?
Hidden on the east side exists a place like no other in this expansive outdoor playground in Sydney. Like a fortress, the high walls and lockable gate are a signal, not for the protection of its occupants, as is the shadehouse on the west side with its delicate Pteridophyta, but as a warning to those who enter. Inside, the stone underfoot discourages the rough and tumble of lawn games and in case you miss this subtle semaphoring, the printed warning signs are everywhere advising of the dangers of the marvellously peculiar residents.
Not for its inhabitants, the soft frilly edges of those poseurs up there in the Rose Garden, coyly hiding their barbs under delicate foliage. No. Instead, these street-fighters seem to take diabolical delight in their savage armoury of spikes and needles, goading the enemy to engage…just once. And unlike those one-hit wonders next door on Spring Walk, these perennial sentinels bear witness to countless seasons, tacitly challenging their vacuous neighbours to stand firm in the face of ageing and the elements. Undaunted by the assaults of sun, wind and rain, and perfectly adapted for water storage, they hold their positions and live to fight another decade.
Spurning the aid of the flamboyant colours of the Camellia Garden crowd and the bling of the fuchsia, this gang attracts a different set with its alternative charms. More Harvey Keitel than Paris Hilton, they yield their arcana only to the subculture of the intensely curious. A closer look at the apparent absurdity of their shapes is rewarded by the discovery of exquisite symmetries drawn from the entire geometric spectrum, and the epiphany that many are living fractals exhibiting the perfection of mathematics, science and art in all their parts.
Dispensing with the need for the eye candy of the ornamental cherry blossom or the cloying perfume of the wisteria, they trounce the surface seductions of the raunch culture with their covert treasures. With their exotic provenances—Bolivia, California, Eritrea, Galapagos, Jamaica, Madagascar, Mexico, Peru, South Africa, Texas, West Indies—they form a kind of botanical Médecins Sans Frontières, providing essential ingredients for treatments from sunburn to diabetes. And much like their allies up there in the Herb Garden, their outward appearance belies a Heston’s feast of weird and wonderful culinary applications. Tequila and Oysters Guggenheim, anyone?
So, when you next visit, I urge you to take a different path; break away from the regular crowd of pretty young poppy-and-tulip things. Resist the lure of the riotously coloured rhododendrons and the fragrance of the floribunda; spurn the steamy sauna of the Tropical Centre and the shelter of the shadehouse. Instead, head east and enter this fortress of fascination to join the sunbaking lizards in silent contemplation of their bizarre companions: the euphorbia, echeveria, opuntia, agaves and aloes living in the ? of the ? As I said, there’s no place quite like it.
©beeblu.wordpress.com
Good luck and happy Easter, Fellow Bloggers 
image – www.sxc.hu
A History of Fear
it’s
the dark, those monsters
under the bed, first day
at school – bruce m trying to kiss
you in the sandpit
and hell-to-pay for jumping in every puddle on your way home,
men in hearses and dark
glasses – stranger-danger,
not running solo, nor flying, but
an umbrella on the wind – cruel and unusual,
old man on the street corner -
feathered hat, immaculately
polished shoes, threadbare clothes,
a broken headlamp in the rear-view
and unspeakable things,
and then, you know, the death of a parent,
DNA gone awry,
that your actions caused this -
suffering,
not of your own shadow but
rage, betrayals,
the sound
of your own screaming,
depravity of infant
body-bombs,
spectres – Margaret Hassan, the Falling
Man,
Afghani children smashed
into dirt playgrounds,
the death of dreams, sadness
of others,
hearts beating through walls,
and then,
somehow, nothing
much
at
all
…
least of all
death
The Writing on the Wall
So, you went to a place you don’t belong,
knew, of course, that it was wrong,
spied troubled waters, jumped right in
with fatuous thoughts that you could win
Wild force unseen, current strong,
roared out to sea, swept you along,
dragged and drowned you in your whim,
Arachnida Activitas
I feel the bounce before the break
I’m entwined…
so strong –
is he trying to trap me in his crucifixed
silence
as I go to water the Tibouchina?
On the back porch, an unknown abseiler
at the penumbra
of sunlight reveries -
Miss Muffet redux,
So, I clean
and re-arrange
the garden furniture, that canvas
of redback cubism
I don’t care much for
End of a Dream
C-sharp minor
plays through the eaves
of this house,
wind-cold emptiness, the ambient noise
of destruction
where laughter once lived,
Shoji, last opened to plum-blossom whispers,
now lachrymose with silent
half-life,
a bird singing for
no-one
