The Coot

The Coot stands in
the same place
every morning
to announce that
she owns the pond.
"I am Coot of Coot's pond.
Do not try to take it from me
or I will drink your blood,
eat your eyes
and the wails of your young and
the cries of your mate
will be my lullabies!"
Her haka is the fiercest
and my son calls her
Aggro Coot.
I have heard the squeals
of a water rat who got
too close to her chicks
 and have seen her in
stand offs with ducks and even a swan.
Her obsidian eyes glittering
as she swore at them
full of menace and rage.
Yet with her chicks
she is the mother of dreams.
Calling them all 'cheep cheep"
and covering them with her wings
as they  fit into her nest
on a log, in the pond.
Yet it is the metre long
 silent submariner eel
who has the last say
with her cheep cheeps.

Future so Bright

This is just it,
the actual thing.
While we are quite correctly
concerned about
surveillance and spooks
pawing through
our lives.
The rest of the
population
don't give a damn.
Are happy for that
ploughing up of their
home paddock
the mining in the dark
tunnels of
whatever they call a soul.
As long as they
have a big TV
and sugary beer
 to numb the pain
of a life stolen
when it can be
from corporate overlords.
They'll keep voting and voting and voting
for a used car salesman
of the old school
who guides your  hand
to the dotted line.
So it was us
with our high minded
democracy talk and
thoughts of equality
who were wrong
about this country.

Moment under the Moment

I am travelling toward my hometown
With Ruapehu to my right
looking like it is etched into silver
as the sun catches it at such
an angle that it shines.
Ahead I see Taranaki
through some haze looking
like an ancient picture
painted on rice paper
so that it is translucent
yet its perfect shape
is recognizable even from here.
I have Dylan and The Band playing and
they are asking me how long
can a mountain exist so
that I wonder how these mountains
 looked before there were
people here and do the
sheep in the fields now
realise that those peaks are there.
But by the look of
the lambs in there now
 they do not see much past
the udders of their mothers
right now.
And the realisation comes to me
that this is one of Russell Hoban's
"Moments under the Moment"
and my heart sings.

Visited

Death came in today
sat down in the corner chair
 took out his fiddle
made of bones
 and started to play
 the saddest tune.
Which is why
he played it because
you have to know
he is there for him to be there.
He wants you to realize
why he's around
as if the skull
and the eye sockets
did not tell you enough.
As if the keening
wind at his back
did not chill
you to the bone
And who is he here for?
Why it's you,
some day, maybe not
this one but there will
come a time
on a corner taken
too fast or
on a pills and
 alcohol afternoon.
When he'll step
out of the corner
remove his hat
and say "Show's over
 man, time to move on"

© Hamish Mack

Words

My friend writes that
words leech into paintings.
I think he means leach but
I wonder about the other
because maybe the words
 do wait around looking
for pictures to attach
themselves to.  
Growing fatter on the canvas
as they assume more and more meaning.
Combining with
the brushstrokes to make
more than the artist
first thought.
I wonder if back
out on the Serengeti
we walked swish, swoosh
through the long grass and
words attached themselves
straight to our legs
so that we picked up
"bush with nice fruit" and
"place with water" and
"the piece of darkness that kills".
We are too mature
for words to teach us now
and they must wait for
the artist to lift them into art.
And enshrine them
in the frame.

©Hamish Mack

Blues

The one Bob
Dylan, is in my head
telling me that
it's all right.
But something
is wrong and
I don't feel
good enough
any more.
I shouldn't
be breathing this
hard from such
a short walk.
Heart shouldn't
be so raced.
And I have issues
about being
unemployed,
 not achieving
enough or
much at all.
And on those
terms Bob's
not much help.
But I think
I can fake it.
Which is
probably not
healthy but is
the best
I can do.

©Hamish Mack

John Lennon's Master

It is not supposed to be like this
not out in the open,
 on Bridge Road, Melbourne.
 A metaphor unfolds
on an absolutely normal day.
Yet there it  is, a man on the other side
of Bridge Road, washing a Ferrari.
He is wearing a suit so is
being very careful and restrained
while the car is the very
definition of red, sharklike power.
Over here on my side of the road
A old guy sits in a doorway
he has a grimy face except around
his eyes, so he looks
surprised all of the time.
He has a once white little dog with him
and they watch the people going by.
 I am all right with the world
so I buy them a sausage roll
and a muffin and a cup of coffee.
He says thanks and introduces the dog.
"Here is John Lennon' He says
"He was the best of them, you know"
I agree and we watch John
  eating his sausage roll.
Washing man is now
talking into a phone that glints golden
at us. He is jabbing the air
 with his finger and we hear
him say "You had better deliver".
We watch John a bit more
and the old guy eats and drinks.
Then John sneezes, coughs and farts.
The old man starts to laugh
and then I do and John is
barking embarrassedly.
Car wash man glances our way
gets in his car and
heads toward the city.
I say goodbye to
John Lennon and his master
and wish them luck
It is not our world
it belongs to the others.