Young man, who tore down Lord Street on your bike
and called my love a deaf old ugly dyke
because her body occupied a space
you wanted to traverse at lycra pace
(though you’d admit it was a narrow path
designed for walkers), you whose noisy wrath
resounded once you’d left her in your wake
until the lights at King Street made you brake,
you know, I’ve nothing much to say to you
except perhaps, Yah sucks bum piss, dog poo
and pubic hair. Our guava tree meanwhile
drops fruit as if it’s going out of style.
The tree won’t read this rhyme, nor I suppose
will you. Your droppings are a lot more on the nose.*
* Though I love the smell of guavas, other people say that to them it’s like a cross between vomit and excrement.
Me fail? I fly! 
Mild imprecations but delivered with some justification at the back of that speeding dangerous cyclist in defence of your loved one!
So if guava has that odour – like the squashed fruit of gingko trees – or of ripe durian (?) – is there some connection – of DNA? I hear you were seen by a friend at the Palm Sunday rally …
My wife and I were similarly – with bridesmaid of 43+ years gone by – avoiding bicycles on the path that leads out on to the sea wall on the south side of the port entrance in Coffs Harbour – though the day before. Sunday was our return down the highway to the Beach with Caves near the Sea of Swans south from the Castle that is New.
We stopped for sustenance at Cool-on Go-look (or Coolongolook). Parking off the highway we crossed the busy-ness via a subterranean tunnel – beautiful painted with murals evoking the region and its history – logging and rural and coastal scenes replete with birds, dingoes, wallabies and trees – and even fairies and gnomes seated in the forest parts. Sadly some local (making assumptions, I know) wits have decorated male fronts with male bits. But to rescue that – a central panel of painted hand-prints (to evoke an Indigenous past, perhaps) with names attached – one of (distant) cousin and regional character (Coolongolook is just south of Nabiac – across country from Bunyah) and poet of some repute: Les MURRAY – and just nearby – his son Alex. I searched for Val’s name in the gloom but couldn’t spy it!
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Jim: I really don’t think it has that odour – at least I can’t detect any similarity.
It was interesting meeting your friend on Palm Sunday – becoming part of your great network of connection. Goodto hear your reflections on Coolongolook
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You did well to refuse to enraged. I didn’t manage to be so calm after this encounter (its expression inspired by you):
Middle-aged man in Mosman in your massive
Car that makes you aggro, never passive,
So wide it barely makes it round the corn
Er, Forcing you to toot your horn
At me. Trying to do a u-turn in this street
Having dropped the two disabled at the beach
(One ninety-six – one having trouble breathing)
You leave me seething.
So I drive on into a narrow lane where
Happily I find a park, but there
You’re right behind me, tooting yet again.
I park the car despite your noise, and then
Get out and take a good hard look at you.
You might be rich you might be wealthy too
But middle-aged Mosman man you’re just a poo
And all that you deserve is (loud) F U.
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Bravissima, Kathy. I read it out to the Emerging Artist, who loved it too.
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(smiley face)
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Perfect rejoinder to your own musings, Jonathan – that of KathyP. There are times I wish I possessed that poetic flair – and that I could enter the fray, here, too! (I guess you recalled our bridesmaid as younger sister of Paddy M of Bro Marist note!?)
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