My Father Away From Home
T still smell
the pervasive urine
in my sleep
the old nursing home
of lost teeth
and too much sleep
the seeping sores
that never heal
an ignominious end
to a valiant life
of silent courage.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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The Staples Of Life
The food bowl
for the world
becomes the bowser
for its cars
the staples of life
have to be kept
for its cars
the cars run over the poor
they'll make ideal
fossil fuel
for the milleniums
ahead.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Heaven On A Plate
The rain
pounding the basil plants
is enough to release
memories of childhood summers
tomato and basil salads
seasoned by a touch of salt
sprinkled liberally with olive oil
the dish made in heaven.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Port Melbourne
All those monolithic
monstrosities
posing as apartments
must have scared away
the seagulls
thinking back
I can't remember even one
though there was heaps
of edible rubbish
lapping the concrete shore.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Ned Kelly
Better of dead
than being Ned
manacled
and shackled
to this dog collar
my death sentence read
sit me on my horse
and lead me
to the rope
hanging
from the stringybark
and I'll take the jump
into history.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Life Is
The sky is
a pale blue backdrop
to the setting sun
a rich golden globe
folding
into the sea
of emerald green
for the Master Chef
to work these ingredients
into the cream
and feed the world
with his dream.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Sweet Water
In the Garden of Gethsemane
was Jesus on the cross
hanging from the olive tree
when the cross was cut down
it drove so deep into the desert sand
the spring of life
was released from the ground
and God found.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Christmas Down Under
Mistletoe on gum trees
jacarandas
bathed in blue
young hearts in love
kissing blithely below
wombats clearing tree tops
towing Santa
in his sleigh
showering presents
on young lovers
kissing blithely below.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Dying With Grace
Her eyes
uranium painted buttons
glowing in the dark
happily chirping
beloved Italian memories
her mind never falters
can't will the body
to beat the asbestos dust
as she quietly lays dying
with courage and grace.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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That's Cool
I once spelt
van Gogh
van Goth
tres embarrassment
now everyone thinks me
uncouth
a lout
who drinks his tea
with his little finger
sticking in the air
suspecting
I tip the tea
to the saucer
to cool
before
slurping.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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