Ranga

60 ‘s burnt orange is my body armour , bilious fake tan the shade. Anoxeric weight  proportions are a mere   2.1 kg .  Fast and speedy ,   never needy , wheels are my feet. Malvern spawned ,  Eastern Europe borne ,my neck is a steel double strut with black softtop . I have zips , zips , zips everywhere ,  zips to spare that go nowhere .

 

 

My Case
My Case

I am flashy ,

a tad trashy .

 

Portable , expandable , expendable , and dependable . Ryanair reject me if you dare .Comfortable , reliable , undeniably viable , packed tight with my tourist treasure trash , and forbidden glorious stash .

Relentless pleasure seeking , airborne , and always peaking , on another adventure and travel trail . Look out , I’ll  soon be in your town  , shouting the baggage carousel down , with garish tones of orange hue , zips , a handle , and a scuff or two . I am your ultra light , dynamic dream holder who won’t let you down , flight bound and constantly touring around .

 

 

Rain

sandcastle
sandcastle

Grey rain its Melbourne’s turn  to be bleak again
Windows streak
Rain turns to sleet
Gums wave in the night sky
Sodden branches flex and fly
Icy freezing artic winds make my coat spin
This winter has been grim
unrelenting cold has made me feel old
I yearn for summer
Her warm embraces and
Soft gentle touch that lanquidly grazes

Gym

Spinning wheels , sweat soaked bodies , yelps of pain . I am at the gym . Early morning disciples of fitness , we stagger blindly towards the garishly lit beacon , on the suburban side street . A torturous procession of exercises awaits us . Grinding , relentless , painful , and methodical . We push our reluctant body through weaves , turns , runs , squats, and stretches . Its painful , its boring , its becomes instinctive . Our bodies baulk , stop , evade and refuse to co-operate always taking the easy way out like a naughty child . We persist , pushing , pulling , pummelling and following our exercises by route .

starjumps
starjumps

Early morning starts , car refusing to start , its dark , lonely , solitary , and daunting on the empty morning streets . We cajole our lacklustre frames , into some semblance of fitness . The grungy , down at heel exercise mecca in gritty inner city St Kilda , becomes the backdrop to our trials , tests , and triumphs . The desk jockeys become our early morning friends , the pumping music a mask to our ineptitude . Why do we persist ? Its an inane reaction to ageing , an antidote to poor health , and a promise of nirvana that lies waiting at the end of all our toil , that encourages us and binds us to the path of semi acceptable fitness .

St Kilda Vaults

tunnel 3
tunnel 3

 

 

tunnel stk
tunnel stk

orbs

 

Corrosive sulphur smell masks raggedy peeling paint of a cerulean blue shade . Dim , dark spaces , tunnelling back into cavernous curving arches . Two iridescent orbs shimmering against black , inky , fetid air . Sea stench ,  chemical car exhaust , rotting vegetation , ancient dust ,  ground up insect carcasses , and embedded paint textures . Where am I ? Incarcerated in the St Kilda Vaults . Rust , dust and sea must , I am in a subterranean vault , below bitumen , juxtaposed between the upper and lower esplanades , of St Kilda . A boarded up retail space , sacrificed f0r the sweeping expansion of the bitumen tentacles of a spinning roadway .

Leaving

stk tram
stk tram

A vicious volley of words , slammed doors and hurled insults . It became obvious that the time to leave was imminent . Fleeing the family home with a clutch of possessions and a heart full of resentment , a lonely drive from inner urban madness , to semi rural tranquility , my oldest child has left home .

 

bub shoe
bub shoe

 

 

Illness had decimated the family home . Daily tasks presented monumental difficulties , happy faces were replaced with ones of foreboding , and personal space eaten up . A mother’s love , and sibling affection not enough to hold a young man to the family unit .

 

can
can

A kaleidoscope of emotions rage through my body as he arrives to pack up the remains of  a life  , shared with his family of 24 years . Collective memories of a firstborn ,   tinkling laughter , and the early shared adventures of a nervous parent and inspiring child  . Latterly , charting the child’s progression from boy , through gawky adolescence , to manhood. Harbouring a furtive pride in the genetic transference of same eye colour and wiry hair , of the compassionate and caring nature of  the man he has become .

 

street art
street art

He has left . A sense of desolation engulfs me in a sea of sadness , and unshed tears . I brace myself and know I must go forward , grateful for the life I have created and nurtured , ever mindful of  the lifelong journey of parenthood , the deep passion it evokes , and the unrepentant  task it employs .