Mid week poem – Monsoon – part1


Come with me.

Join me now

As I wander home through the streets towards my house.

A collection of streets and curcuits, crescents and cul de sacs

on the edge of a small city

on the rim of a large wide deep blue sea

at the tip of a large empty island

far away from Southern ills and fears and bigotry and narrowness.

Walk with me

Past houses, units, flats and townhouses

Parks, shops, the school

Breath in the warmth, the blackness

The sweet, almost sickly smell of the air

The perfume of frangipani, gardenia, bougainvillea, jasmine

Mangoes flowering in the branches, rotting on the ground

Bat attacked.

Stroll with me.

And listen

Let’s listen

Shh now….



The night is down

The dark is gathering, rolling in thicker and thicker

settling down over the streets, the people at the end of their day.

The sun slips quickly from sight

leaving streaks of violent pink and blue

as bats fly in.



Quick bat

Black bat

Squawking bat

Scavenging bat

Black poo shitting bat

all over my path, my car, my pool, my left-out-overnight-washing.

Clouds slowly quietly roll in under the moon

Already huge and copper suspended in the inky sky.

Streetlights fizz into life

Hidden under palms, over grown branches that throw

lurid figures across the road

Frightening the young boy racing home on his bike

Late from karate training.

Late for dinner.

Too old to believe in ghosts and creeping figures in the night

Too young to be sure.

The howl of his neighbour’s dog makes him start,

quiver in his thonged feet

The squeal of his front gate makes him look back

Look behind

Look into the night for the stranger, the mugger, the murderer

who may lurk there


hoping for one such as him

young, innocent

Mummy’s love, Mummy’s boy

To rip life, love; all that he is

from his family

from this world.



But stop.

This is not a dark story of crimes against children,

of deeds against the innocent.

This is not about the Beast without

But the Beast within.



Come in search of dreams and fears

Pry inside houses, homes

Inside bedrooms, kitchens, bathrooms, lounge rooms

Inside heads, hearts, minds

Without need to pry hard, no need to be spies


Predators on the sins and desires, crimes and evils of

ordinary people

As they prowl their homes,

lie barely asleep in their beds

Their cries, moans, whispers will ease out of them


Find life and voice in the air on the streets outside

take wing under a turbulent sky, heavy with expectancy

sopping up the electricity, the tensions below

Waiting for release

in the early hours of the morrow

when all but a few of our players

lie asleep

– if not soundly or peacefully.

In bed they will murmur, moan, stretch a little, roll over, and wake

for a moment as the rains tumble down

crashing on the roofs, hissing slightly on the night-cooled-asphalt-roads, slipping in through open windows and louvres

Startling dogs and cats from their sleeping spots in gardens

Rousing fruit-filled bats from the trees, sending them back across the night skies, scaring possums, waking children

Cooling the world

Calming the street

Allowing a few hours of peace and still before the day begins.



But I am ahead of myself.

The morning lies hours away, will not occur for some time

Let’s to the night.

The night.

Black night

Velvet night

Smooth night

Magic night. (Darwin images courtesy Google Images)


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