Genie of the Forest

We rest our weary legs
in a Weeping Meadow Grass carpeted clearing.
Rufous Fantails dart between Clerodendrums,
beckoning us to follow.

The hum of traffic is a fading memory.
Her fingertips bathe me in compassion.
The gleam in her eyes,
the wonder of her words,
such a bewitching duet.

If an excruciating debacle
snuffs out her precious sparkle,
I want to cradle her in my arms,
resuscitate her joyful charms.

Later, I meditate on the paradise of a kiss
and imagine her face in the throes of bliss.
Genie of the forest,
you granted every wish but one.

Bus Stop Prophet

In Dwite’s desert there’s no oasis;
his wall of faces holds no aces.
‘You wanted a bloke with a six pack,
well it’s sloshing around in here somewhere baby,’
read his tattered second hand t-shirt.
Dwite’s greasy beard
looked like
a penicillin coated golf ball
glued to his chin.
Bewitching wisteria charmed him like diphtheria.

It was obviously a spy pod,
that purple crowned lorikeet flying south.
The young man trembled and he screamed,
waking never banished what he dreamed,
a frantic warning tumbled from his mouth.
‘Beyond this foggy schoolroom planet
there will be no hiding.
W
e’ll be garnish on the cockroach quiche
of homicidal swans.’

‘Come again’ I gazed at him perplexed.
We discussed murderous swans at length.
In exchange for an emu feather talisman
I give him my mental health services directory.