BELIEVE anyone who votes Labor
no one that stupid could lie
don’t believe anyone who owns a Barry Manilow CD
don’t believe anyone who owns a Guns & Roses CD
to be safe, don’t believe anyone who owns a CD player
and never, but never, believe doctors who say
“everything will be all right”.
The photo
It’s the only photo I carry
the four of us
Dad with his arm around Mum’s waist
both standing in the holiday fresh water
Desiree and me pushing into the frame
I’m pointing at Dad’s arm
I’d never seen them stand that close
Desiree is looking straight at the camera
her chest out
the pride of a one-piece swimsuit
at thirteen, sunning in the attention.
After the photo Mum and Dad
lie on the sand
they hold hands
I keep kicking the ball their way
like a troublesome dog with a stick
no one wants to throw.
Desiree is off talking to boys
I kick the ball for the return of the waves
and count how many times Mum and Dad kiss.
Seven years ago
on the beach
Mum and Dad
kissed
twenty-four times
and never once
saw anyone else
or thought of anyone else.
Twenty-four times.
It’s the only photo I carry
it’s in my wallet.
The family holiday
I remember that last holiday with my wife,
Jack and Desiree.
Fish and chips, with no dishes to wash
teaching Jack to bodysurf
sand in our shorts
Desiree talking to the boys at the shops
looking to see if we could hear
ice-cream for dessert
kissing my wife on the beach
the orange evening sky
walking from headland to lighthouse
Jack kicking the ball at seagulls
the rain that only fell at night
and cleared to summer at six am.
The distant hum of Saturday sport
everyone nodding “hello” down the main street
Desiree and Jack sleeping till late
my wife, my wife
talking to me
and I’m drinking it in.
There’s a ghost in our house
There’s a ghost in our house
in a red evening dress
black stockings
and Mum’s slingback shoes
her hair whispers
over white shoulders
as she dances through the rooms.
In Desiree’s
she cleans under the bed
folds the five pairs of Levi’s
Des wears for months without washing.
In my room
she flips through my poems
to the one about Mum & Dad at the beach
the poem glows as I sleep.
In Dad’s room
she sits at the dresser
I can see her
smiling at the mirror too scared
to announce her presence.
Once, when I stood to watch
she winked
like an over-excited schoolgirl
the ghost winked at me.
Annabel Browning
Ms Curling
and whatever future I’d planned
disappeared
in that moment of me and the ghost
playing hide & seek
breathing
in the shadow of history
retying a cord
that should never have been cut.
There’s a ghost in our house
in Mum’s
red evening dress.
Shoes, socks, the lock on the bathroom door
When I think of our house
I think of shoes
socks
and the lock on the bathroom door.
Dad’s golf shoes on the washing machine
Desiree’s work shoes on her wardrobe
her Baxter boots flung over the lounge
with the rest of her attached.
Dad’s socks, as he walks to the bathroom
Dad’s socks, soaking in the sink
Desiree’s stockings hanging from the shower rail
the run in her black ones.
My football boots, shiny, worn once
in the garbage
my Doc’s with the toe pushing through
Dad’s brown shoes
“brown shoes, brown personality” Desiree says.
Desiree’s baby booties tied to her mirror
pink, with pink bows, my Mum’s handiwork.
My socks, the ones with Batman on them
Dad’s idea of cool!
my football socks, full of spare change
sagging from a hook on the wall.
The lock on the bathroom door
when my Dad reads the paper.
Desiree every morning in a rush.
Me, when I eat too much
or when I want to write and the TV’s on
where I’m sitting now
in the bath, writing this,
thinking one day, to please Dad
I’m going to have to wear
those bloody Batman socks!
Coooeee
Me and Dad
have nothing to do this Saturday
so we go for a walk
through the bush
to our favourite spot
“Jack’s Lookout”
Dad named it
on our first visit
with Mum and Desiree
when I was five.
It’s a granite rock
high above Megalong Valley
and on a sunny day
you can see forever.
I loved it there
the parrots chimed through the gums
a stream rippled below
and I think of our first visit
the picnic lunch
and Dad, hands cupped, shouting
“Coooooeeeee”
across the cliffs
their echo sounding once each
for the four of us.
At five years old, I thought Dad
was shouting
“do a wee”
and kept asking him
for one more echo
A grown man telling the world
about his toilet habits
and his kids rolling on the rock
saying
“One more Dad, one more”
and him, never understanding
why we laughed the whole weekend.
I’m sixteen now,
I’m trying to decide
as we walk this bush track
whether to ask my Dad
to shout once more
and tell him about it
or keep a secret
between Des, and Mum, and me,
and the family history.
Dad writes poetry
Jack, when I was sixteen
I wanted to play football every day
until I was old, thirty-five, or forty.
And at forty
I wanted to buy a house on a cliff
wander to the beach
make love in the sand
then come home and drink all afternoon.
This seemed a good plan for my life.
My teacher said I was being unrealistic
my Mother said I was being stupid
my Dad said I wasn’t that good at football
and my girlfriend didn’t say anything
because I didn’t have one.
So at sixteen
I set off on my plan.
> The first game of football
I broke my arm
the first time at the beach
I nearly drowned
the first time I drank lots of beer
I puked
and the first time I made love
I’d rather not say.
So I gave up football
and swimming
although I still occasionally practise drinking
and alone at fifty
making love is not such an issue
although everyone says it should be.
So Jack, when I look back
the only thing that was worthwhile,
apart from having you and Desiree
and falling in love with your Mum,
was writing poetry.
At sixteen I thought poems were for old people
and always about flowers, or death,
or “ducks gliding gracefully across the millpond”
but the only ducks I saw
were in Chinese take-away shops
so I guess I have learnt something
even if it’s taken me
half my life.
The family team
We wanted more children
I planned a football team
Desiree’s kick in your Mother’s stomach
held promise
a backyard of winners
we had a long list of names
ready, in the top drawer
we saved your baby clothes
we planned extra bedrooms
we promised your Grandma
(she held on for years)
we had dreams of a farm
we’d welcome each year with a child
we’d fill the one-teacher-school with our own
I was going to learn to milk a cow
drive a tractor
change a nappy
all at the same time!
we would never grow old
with so many children
but the cancer ripped our family
and this heart
that now only pumps blood
we wanted more children
we would never grow old
now
I want more children
and your Mother will never grow old.
The cubbyhouse
Dad’s thinking of knocking down the cubbyhouse.
It sits, weed lonely at the bottom of the yard
home of rusted toys
rain-soaked curtains
and my initials carved inside the door.
Dad says he could use the space
and the wood.
The last time any of us went inside
was the night Des and I got locked out
and needed somewhere to wait.
So Dad and I
hammer, saw, crowbar,
circle the cubbyhouse
neither wanting to swing the first blow
and I check inside for my initials
and show Dad
and he fingers the hinge of the door
and smells the scent of old timber
and gets that faraway look in his eyes
as he tells me how
he built this
the day of the 1986 Grand Final
Dad in the backyard hammering nails
as Parramatta hammered Canterbury
and he tells me that
Des and I climbed in
as soon as the floor was up
and we didn’t leave till dark
and every night for two weeks
Mum had to bring dinner down here
and once, in summer,
Des and I, and Dad,
slept here all night
and told stories to the wind.
Dad and I pick up the tools
and put them back in the shed.
Dad takes one look at the untouched cubby
and says he’s heading into town
to the hardware
for some paint.
Wine
He drinks red wine during the week
one glass at dinner
another for dessert
he pats his stomach
smiles, with perfect teeth
and tells us
he’s fighting ulcers and a heart condition
the best way he knows.
Desiree says
at least red wine doesn’t smell,
not like the bottle of Riesling
he drinks for Saturday lunch
and afterwards
he tries to interest me
in a game of cricket.
At sixteen years of age
I realise how regular
adults need humouring
Desiree tells him to act his age
Dad and I ignore her
as I tap the cricket bat
in front of the stumps
and Dad walks back to his mark
a glass in one hand
ball in the other
and for the past five years
I’ve watched him bowl his gangly
leg-spin
and never once
spill a drop.
Signature
Ezra is my friend
he’s finishing school soon
moving straight to work
and his father’s designs.
I’ll miss him
we sit against the fence
he takes a poem he’s written
out of the sling for his broken arm
I read it
his parents arguing down the page.
Ezra looks across the oval
tapping his fingers
on the plaster cast
I can see the poem hurt more than the arm
he’s waiting for me
to lie
or tear it up
or tell him to change the last line.
And I can’t help thinking
that the poem and the arm
happened in the same place
and which came first
which will last longer
and then I know what to do
I give him back the poem
smile
and ask if I can sign my name
on his plaster cast.
Katoomba
This is the only school assignment I’ve enjoyed.
I’ve been looking through a book of
Aboriginal Place Names
for a study of our suburb
whose name means
“place where waters tumble over hill”
now this may have been accurate before 1813
but today I’d say it’s either
“place where Japanese tourists tumble over hill”
or
“place where polluted water stagnates”.
If I had a choice I’d call it
Cobba-da-mana
meaning “caught by the head”
and I know a few Year 9s that name suits perfectly.
Or this one, in honour of our
Physical Education teacher:
Barnawather . . . “deaf and dumb”
or Desiree’s favourite:
Pugonda, meaning “fight”.
I love the way you can spit these words out.
I’m glad I come from Katoomba
not “Kensington Gardens” or “Pacific Vista”.
Maybe we can also change the names of our States?
For Victoria (named after some dead Queen)
give me Pullabooka
for Tasmania — Murrumba
South Australia — Kameruka
New South Wales — Cudgewa
for Queensland — Bulla Bulla
and for Western Australia how about
“People who play stupid football!”
no, OK, how about Wanbi,
meaning “wild dogs” —
I think that says it all.
The new teacher
He must teach Science
see ho
w he squints
and looks at his lunch
like a failed experiment.
Or Maths!
the grey of his shorts
the expanse of his ears
the lovely floral tie & check shirt
all add up.
He couldn’t teach English
because he’s always reading
and he seems able to string a few words together
and, as yet,
he hasn’t misspelt his own name.
He’s too old to teach History
and the neat way he packs his briefcase
implies a sense of place —
maybe Geography?
No. Well, definitely not Physical Education
because he doesn’t have a moustache
and he hasn’t called anyone “mate” yet
so by class consensus
we all agree on Industrial Arts
the fine style of his wig
gives it away —
that, and his spotless four-wheel drive
with the “Eat beef, you bastards” sticker
we’re sure he’ll fit into this school
like a burger into a bun.
Shiver
Sometimes in winter
when the mist buries our suburb
Desiree and I
walk to the golf course
(scene of Dad’s weekend despair)
we crawl through the fence
and wander the fairways
gleaming wet and dark
in the chill evening.
We sit on the roof of the halfway hut.
I tell Desiree about my poems
or school
and try not to mention boys
or else I’ll set Des off!
Desiree talks about her work
Dad, her clothes
our house.
But tonight
with the mist closing down
and dripping heavy from trees
Des tells me of talking to Mum
just before she died
she tells me of
the calm woman who held her hand
and how her eyes never seemed to blink
as she told Des
that we were the painkillers of her night
and she refused all regrets
in the time she had left
to brush Desiree’s hair back
and tell her what she felt
the day the doctor diagnosed
and that day was the middle of a heatwave
but she shivered
as she stepped from the surgery
and saw Dad waiting in the car
and both of us
waving from the back seat.
But as we drove home
Des and I told her of our school day
and she knew
the doctor, the heatwave
or this death
couldn’t touch her
Love, Ghosts, & Facial Hair Page 2
