Making a cake for you.
Losing the will to live.
I stand in the middle of it all, contemplating sticking my hand in the blender.
Category: Poems for the Home
Emmentaler Love
Emmentaler left on the board.
Crackers are few and people many.
Savour a piece to celebrate love.
A Sausage of Feelings
I bought a sausage maker. It sat in the cupboard for a decade. Then, one day, I decided to make sausages.
I remember how young you and I were when you bought the machine; we were in our late 20’s? Yes, I think so.
Waists were smaller then, minds were less clouded, hearts less broken, and hope brighter.
I stood before the sausage maker and thought that if I could make the perfect sausage for you, it would contain the following ingredients:
one part happiness
one part hope
one part kindness
one part worth
one part 1000 echo’s from the sea
one part the essence of 100 sunsets and sunrises
one part 1000 snowflake feels
one part essence of 100 people laughing loud
Then I would present it to you, ask you to eat it, and then ask you to look at yourself in the mirror. I would ask you, “What do you see?” I hope you can see the person you are to me, my sweet bear.
Kettle Calling
From the day you were born, that kettle boiled water. The kettle boiled water for tea leaves, tea bags, herbal infusions, night toddies, water for cooking, and water for baking.
That kettle with the white handle and the sky blue frame was always on the bench in the kitchen. The kettle was used by Mum, and Dad would use the kettle when he was desperate.
Then, one day as you sat alone in the kitchen, the kettle started to move. Unable to establish if you are dreaming, you sit up straight, wondering if gumption is the key here?
Instead of silence, the kettle starts to rattle ever so softly. “Can Mum hear this?” you wonder, “Perhaps not, considering I’m all alone and everyone else seems to have vanished for a moment“.
Not sure if you should caress the kettle lovingly or throw it out the window, you move towards the kettle. Suddenly, the bloody thing stops and out pops a teabag. Not the usual brew, you are sure, but perhaps something more exotic.
The kettle moves, then the teabag ends up in your left hand. “What the actual…“
Then the kettle starts to boil, and you get the impression that the kettle wants you to steep this teabag of magic into a brew. What can you do? Mum loves tea, and who would care if you drank a magical tea brew?
You place your favourite cup onto the bench and proceed with the tea making process. Once strong and to your liking, you sit with the cup in front of you. Hesitation grips you. “What if I turn into a dolphin? How will I swim? There is no water? What if… fuck it!“
Sipping on the magic tea, you start to space out for a moment. There is a bit of disorientation in your mind; then you see other lands. There is another world inside your cup; there is a world quite different from our world. One where trees grow black and green, technology is far more advanced, and there is a clean order to things. “Well, I must be dreaming because this shit cannot be real…” Yet, you cannot shake the images produced from your magical teabag.
After finishing the brew, you take the teabag to your room and sit thinking about what you just saw within your mind. You feel your mind expanding at the thoughts, sounds, and world of magic.
No wonder Mum loves the kettle so much.
The Caravan Park
He’s a retired surgeon with a taste for woodwork. He lives with his wife in a lovely house with good security and a vegetable patch. There’s a park down past his rear fence, which is pretty and quiet. However, to the right of his house, just a few blocks away, is a caravan park.
No one knows how the caravan park came to be at this location. Some say it was a stroke of genius on the developer’s part, while others say that the developer bribed the Council. There is a reason why the caravan park now sits on that land, but let us not get carried away.
He loves the quiet. It’s a joy for reading, woodwork, painting, and more. Sometimes he likes to give the stereo a blast to remind him of the ’70s. It’s never before 9 am and always before 10 pm. He respects his neighbours. He thinks he’s sweet.
He remembers his first Saturday once the caravan park was up and running. There was never a Saturday like this one before, but there will probably be many in the future. That Saturday changed him forever.
Now Saturday has arrived again. It is the night. There is a wild party, and the caravan park is alive. What is this hell he must endure? Why is there so much noise? He finds relief with earplugs to grab a few hours of sleep.
Then, Sunday descended. Saturday was trying, yet Sunday is so much worse. Sunday consists of many fights from hell. Beer bottles fly about, kitchen utensils and tools go everywhere, shouting and banging lingers, and there’s an awful lot of barbecues.
There is a lull at 3 am, which turns into quiet. The weekend is over for another week. There is so much relief.
Boxes
I am packing the boxes to find old treasures that I thought didn’t exist, for I forgot about them.
I find that old black and white picture, a vase from Mum’s place with purple orchards, a trinket with sentimental value from school, and the plaster from my broken arm.
I’m thinking about the awakened memories as feelings start to rush and mess with my heartstrings.
Sniffing the items a little, I’m sneezing and crying.
Ice Cube Heart
Ice cubes sit in the freezer. I think about how they used to be liquid from the tap, and now they are blocks of ice. My thoughts remind me of a story once told by an old sentimental fool.
A man and a woman loved each other. When his love was new to her, his heart was warm. He and she moved through life easily, for the days were sunny despite the weather. His laughter was so infectious to her that she would often bloom with a smile.
After some time passed, his heart turned into those ice cubes. In her heart, he remained dear despite the cold feelings that crept into his arteries. Although there was no warmth in his heart anymore, she never gave up hope that his love was real.
Then, on a day like any other, they travelled together in the car; He was driving and calling her names over something trivial; She was very upset. He did not realise that soon she would leave this world, and he would no longer have the sunshine of his heart.
An accident occurred. As she lay dying in the passenger seat, his heart began to melt. He then realised how much he loved her. He promised to honour her memory by climbing many mountains and exploring the Earth with her ashes so that they could both see the world together.
That sentimental old fool is the man in this story. He died a few years ago and had her ashes sprinkled all over him before he was cremated.
The Heater
In the winter, when the southerly winds blow from Antarctica through Tasmania and make their presence known to the people of Melbourne, we turn the heating on. We don’t ask much of you. We ask that you do your job and heat the house for us. Is this too much to ask?
Winter went on for months without end. You worked for us well until you thought Spring was coming early. Now you’re resetting all the time, turning yourself off, keeping your status at the rather puzzling setting, “On Waiting”, and telling us you are going to be uncooperative.
You remind me of my good friend’s partner. She was always telling him to get turned on, but he was always turned off. She would cry to him, “Why do I always have to turn you on!?…why don’t you ever turn me on anymore!?”
Turns out, he wasn’t really into her. They end up going their separate ways. Now he is a distant memory.
Heater, please don’t make me replace you because you won’t turn it on for me, even though I’m trying to turn you on.
Cullender of Colander
At home, she rinses the vegetables in the Colander. The water washes the vegetables and then flows down through the holes and into the drain to head to the water treatment plant. Once the water arrives, it is treated and cleaned so that humans can consume the resource again.
You stand in the kitchen talking to her about how unsuitable she is to cook your food, then how everything about the two of you is disintegrating. She wonders what you are on about or if you have lost the plot.
Unable to deal with your talking after many attempts to obtain a resolution, she turns the Colander into a Cullender, places your head in it, and washes water over you until you cool down.
Now that you are her vegetable, all the rubbish flows down through the drain from your head for the water treatment plant; Perhaps they can clean up your bullshit.
My Knees Squeak
You fucked off.
Where you went is none of my concern, now that your heart and mine don’t sing a pretty song.
Now, all I can do is talk to myself about regrets and shit. I’m alone, in my 30’s, and my bank balance is small. You even took the cat with you because you said fluffy loves you more!
In my desolation and decay, I put on five kilograms from eating too many Swiss chocolates, my clothes don’t fit properly, and I look like a frump.
Now that I have taken the path of least resistance and succumbed to watching shit loads of television and listening to crap music, my knees squeak as I move from the couch to the coffee table, and I talk to myself in a morphed language.
When will you acknowledge that I still love you, or am I just blowing hot air up my arse?
C & K 