A Bloody Dog

I first saw you lying alone in your cage at 

the animal refuge. I was there to perform some 

repairs; not to see you. I don’t need a dog, especially 

a down-and-out, no-hope mutt like yourself -  

a bloody dog.

I was surprised at how expressive your face was; 

your sad dereliction. Your evident shame. That evening  

at home, I was also surprised that you came to 

mind on more than a few occasions - I don’t need 

a bloody dog.

So I returned to the pound - not to see you - but

to enquire about how the refuge works and the consequence

of arriving there without prospect. I understand now that 

being down-and-out is not a prerequisite for entry. Rather,

arriving there makes you down-and-out -  

a bloody dog.

And I remembered when I was made down-and-out

through no choice of my own - another’s decision. I recall

the growing sense of abandonment, the shame 

that increased my reproach; when others thought me 

a bloody dog.

I had no choice really. I couldn’t, in all good conscience, 

leave you to the end that had been so clearly explained to me. 

You may mistake my act as one of love, or intent, or 

the weakness of an old man, but I don’t need 

a bloody dog.

And just because you're intelligent enough to 

read my moods and soft-hearted enough to 

care what I think, doesn’t mean you are ever 

elevated above the status of a mutt - 

a bloody dog.

Sitting quietly with your head on my knee, hang-dog eyes 

devotedly watching me. Doesn’t impress me one bit.

You won’t persuade me that you are sharing my 

reproach and shame no matter how convincing you are. 

You don’t care for me -  you’re just an 

old bloody dog.

There is one reason I keep you around - someone 

has to look after you.  

I care for you. I look after you. 

I rescued you, to save you from being 

a lonely bloody dog.

MDC

June 2020

 

Rocket Man

He can’t afford the stellar prices of a unit in 

the city so must reside in a satellite.

His Ford spaceship rocketing him back and 

forward along a trajectory as black as a 

hole, certain that the cost to his flesh of all that 

time spent in stasis will one day have to be 

paid. If his goal was simple efficiency he would 

eat, sleep and work in the same room and he 

knows he doesn’t want to be a hermit. He 

feels alone when spending all that 

time solitary at the helm. Solitude is not a 

problem to him, but he can admit to himself that 

loneliness is. He wonders how many other 

planetary travellers are alone at their helms, in 

their satellites, eating microwave dinners, 

with the TV on but not watched, or music 

playing to assuage a burnt soul (but all the music 

in the universe is not enough to bring 

healing). And people whisper their envy of his 

far away dwelling place, and his fine rocket ship. His 

spacesuit, the only thing protecting him against the 

harsh realities of his environment, is cause for 

speculation and lust. And he doesn’t know how to 

relate to someone’s misperceptions of who he is 

and why he lives how he does.

He is in a stationary orbit, slowly spinning around 

a large mass of people who don’t know 

he is there.

MDC 23/10/2020

The Cicadas' Lament

  

Sally, my sister-in-law, half-sat 

half-lay crumpled on the 

front steps sobbing a prayer, 

the words of which I will never know, 

the sound of which I will never 

forget

Her dress was soiled with blood 

and water, and at four months pregnant, I 

instantly knew the terrible truth of her travail. 

I could only glimpse the horror but 

Sally saw all the dreadful desperate 

destiny

Her sobbing tore the air and dislodged 

the sky and when she saw 

me approaching, her sobs 

turned to wailing. My heart shifted 

on its pinions and I was 

undone

I rang for an ambulance, relieved

I didn't need to explain much 

as the operator heard the commotion. 

It's strange how we are thankful for the 

smallest gifts of grace in times of 

trouble

How do I render assistance without 

crossing a relational line? Will there be 

forever an awkwardness between the two of us? 

The uncomfortableness of sharing such  

personal calamity in such an intimate way 

made the air between us heavy

Bird-song and traffic noise muted, 

light lost its gleam, the sky its gloss, 

nature changing its demeanor, 

grieving too at the loss. 

Sally's low keening now the only sound, 

except for the coarse choir of cicadas 

lamenting in the murrayas.

MDC 20/10/2020

Early morning walk in the woods

 

Light, strained through a sieve of stalk and stipule, 

slides across stone and sand, sinks into casuarina epidermis  

and satinash skin, silently sheening every surface 

The air, corpulent with whisper and sighed susurrations, 

softens the breeze to a zephyr, its hushed insinuations 

settling tenderly upon spirit and soul

Steps slow, solid with rumination, neither slothful nor sluggish

Intentional, considered. No need of rush, aimless by design

The sparrows in the tea trees forming a chorus line

The bluing sky signals the cessation of the dawns caress

Not quite soundless, but quiet nonetheless

Mist beginning to clear from the air

Echoes of bird song bouncing off a dam’s mirrored shell

not so much an alert to other life, but a gentle compelling

towards other conversations

This alla breve breaking the reverie and quietly reminding me 

there is work to be done.

MDC

April 2021

The Ploughman

He ploughs her field, breaks up 

her fallow, tills her furrow,

seeds a dream of longing and 

hope. Brutal, physical, pain and 

anguish - from which arises fruit, 

new life, unaccountable joy and 

years of anxiety.

Again she willingly subjects herself 

to his ploughing.

MDC

Dec 2020

Reef

There is a shoal in my lungs that catches 

my breath every time you walk into the room

Sometimes made of coral, craggy, easily 

snagging my attention to the watery 

waves of your silk. Other times it is 

rocky, bursting asunder the hull of my heart

so I drown in your presence.

And when your stormy winds blow, though

my ears fill with foreboding my eyes rejoice 

for the coming aftermath of honeyed calm.

MDC

Dec 2020

Scarecrow

Reaping from what’s been sown, 

I eat the fruit of loneliness; abandonment

my only asset. Left to stand in the rain, 

rooted in solitude, torn by the wind which 

whips my pleas into the whitewashed welkin, 

clothed only in the rags of disrespect and 

condemnation, my vestments mirroring the 

vitriol of my accusers. I am judged for ineffectively 

managing my role - keeping my field clear 

of crows. But at least they keep me company.

MDC

Dec 2020

Dawn

 

Dawn kneels quietly at my window, 

peering in, gently waking me. 

The fringe of the morning, the cool blue of first light 

as the moon's ardour wanes and cornsilk yellow 

silently ushers in the sun, crowned in its 

helmet of gold, bringing light’s unsingable psalm.

The dawn's demure revelation of another day, 

crowned with grace and provisioned with new mercies, 

eclipses the gaudy glory of a day's cessation, 

the grandeur of a sunset incapable of matching 

the nobility of the envoy bringing 

life and hope to all.

MDC 

April 2021

Prisoner

I swore an oath to love a girl for better and for worse

A solemn vow, a curse, a blessing, that would cost gladly dear.

Before the Lord I pledged this sacred stipulation never 

dreaming that this pact would bring dire tribulation.

There was joy, there was pain, there was fearful, dreadful illness

At times it was difficult to find peace and stillness

Never in my wildest dreams did I consider us ruined

But gradually we both became bereft and disillusioned

With no parole from this contractual jail, so dark each future night,

For only death will bring release from this ordained plight

But in the pitch of this dungeon dim behold! there came a light! 

A hand outstretched offering robes washed clean and white.

He Who holds me to my bond approving my avowal 

Ignoring my complaints, and more! - my offensive howl

As His prisoner I now rejoice and at last I see

as I join His sufferings He has bound Himself to me

Like Paul and Silas with shackled limbs ignoring their restraints

Singing psalms and hymns to Him - not fearful, no complaint

He Who rules in man’s affairs, the planner of their confinement,

they knew would test and try their faith, perfecting their refinement

So this oath I swore, this assurance of my fidelity

I realise now was never made by mistake or accidently

And as He works in Me His will, I swear truly to you

I know He will finish His work faithfully and true.

MDC

December 2020

 

'Zactly

Accuracy is important!
Some things require millimetre perfection, like cabinetmaking.
Others need the precision of micrometres, like internal combustion engines. 
We want our surgeons and scientists to be even more accurate. 

What about money? You and I only ever get things resolved

to two decimal places. I read about a fellow working for a

bank who took the third decimal place for himself. 

He made a fortune until he was caught.

 

We measure in millimetres, 

decimal places, 

light years and 

thousandths of a second 

but the most important things in our lives 

are measured in tenebrous,

nebulous,

vague,

clumsy terms.

It seems that the more important the subject, the less precise 

we are about quantifying and qualifying it.

Our youth use words like gnarly, wicked, rad, sick, awesome

and despite the unfamiliarity of whatever word they choose

we know exactly what they mean. 

The ah moment when the penny drops. 

The flash of cognition when we finally understand what our 

small child has been trying to tell us. 

Meeting someone who is a gnarly dude

Parties that are wicked and holidays that are rad, 

Concerts that are awesome.

Receiving a gift that is sick. 

So maybe we only need precision for things,

but when it comes to people the

soft-edged,

furry,

fuzzy, vague and clumsy

is precisely what we need, and filling the gaps 

with unarticulated living is what makes things work.

MDC

October 2020

Car Park

The bays in the shopping centre car 

park are staggered, making the

rows of their inhabitants look like so 

many zippers fastening the grey 

patches together. There’s one bay that 

contains only white and silvers, increasing 

the effect, except for a solitary red 

sedan near the end that spoils the result

MDC

November 2020

Consequences

 Buckling under the weight of 
opinion and condemnation
Peter fills himself with Oxycodone, 
scotch and beer chasers, then 
chases his demons at high speed 
down the straight knowing his 
confused reflexes will be too dull to 
take the curve, causing his parents 
to grieve for the rest of their 
shortened lives.

Unwilling to accept the painful 
loneliness any more Sheila jams 
the hose through the gap in 
her old Mazda’s window 
and finds slow solace 
in the monoxide mist as it 
erases her memories of 
betrayal, leaving her 
friends confounded and 
feeling guilty.

After his birthday party 
on Sunday night, 
Larry’s Saturday-night 
special becomes a 
Monday-night special 
when he places the muzzle 
in his mouth, momentarily 
pauses, then triggers the
door open to hell for himself 
and his family

In our rising up and lying down,
our going in and going out, these 
acts fracture our perspectives,
unsettle our peace and
rightfully ask How did you miss 
their loss of hope? Too late 
for apology. Far too late 
to care.

MDC

November 2020