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October 27th 2022 - FLOOD

I miss my nook

encased by books

my shelves and shelves

of former selves

of thoughts

ideas and rhetoric

and trippin’ theories

fond and cheery

my history

composed of words

and rhyme

and dictionaries

I miss my comfy daggy chair

and footstool

brutal beige and cheap

from swap and sell

the view

out through the big tall door

no flyscreen ever fit

a place to sit

and catch my ancient breath

and marvel

at my battered pink flamingo

gold-tipped swan

and little pots of

ragged leaf and colour

on the deck

I miss the knowing

of where every single thing

I treasure


I reach my hand

to find the stapler


the paper knife

a key

a flashcard

button and

a business card

a note reminding me of something

that I need to do

my Maxfield Parrish picture book

my vintage Rolling Stone

with John and Yoko

curled up naked on the cover

a rosy piece of wrapping paper

I was saving

and some stamps

now all is damp

and clammy



my nook is stripped back

to the plaster

grey disaster area

with creepy sepia tide mark

that does not even try

to tell the tale

there is no refuge

to be had

within our home

stripped bare

we prop on fold-outs

make do

count our blessings

count the days

the weeks

the months

before we reach

the comfort zone

before we find our home again


from rubble

and it will be nice

it will be new

but that fond place

my nook

is gone

it is a memory

shored up tight

within my heart

I want to wave a magic wand

and bring it back

but I have let it go

that place

that sweet sanctuary

a little death

but not so sexy

the corpse home

pillaged by the stealthy water

crying ‘what’s this shit?’ and

‘what’s the point of that?’

like some relative

who never knew you

never knew your heart

or cared

or gave a flying fuck

it has dredged you

slaked you

with its toxic muck

where’s my hammer?

I see it in my toolbox

in my wardrobe

beneath a rack of frocks

then I remember


there is no rack

there is no wardrobe

a few frocks shiver

in a plastic sack

our homes

our houses

are ideas

are concepts

studded with

some bric-a-brac



a toothbrush

and a plastic mac

the bobcat’s coming

the tip awaits

it only hurts


you look


My book of poems, A Day At A Time In Rhyme (Littlefox Press) can be found here:

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1 Comment

Thanks Jane,

I feel the same,

the stories each and every object told, now,


A history torn.

All history, gone.

A reconstruction?

A band-aid solution;

glimpses of the past reflected in

shattered debris.

There will be parties,

celebratory hubris,

'we got through this!'

But, like post-funeral

we all then retreat to our

grieving solitude.

Knowing all others feel the same,


Thanks again Jane,

Genevieve (from Lismore NSW)

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