Are we there yet?

With school holidays coming to a close, I bet there are plenty of kids out there counting down to the next ones already.

My memories of family holidays involved squishing always one too many siblings in the back seat of our unairconditioned (dark maroon) Datsun Sunny. Sunny...funny. Not. No, not at all, when the trip seemed to last always long enough for my sister to vomit, my brother to fart way too often as a comic device and my parents to come up with excuses as to why we weren't, yet again, flying first class to Disneyland rather than bucket carseat class to Lakes Entrance, or Bugara, or Bacchus Marsh.

To be fair, I did love our family holidays, if for nothing but the simple promise of more fish and chips than was humanly combustible. And anything was better than school, even if the vinyl was sticky, the chips were soggy and I'd always end up getting my period.

So here's to holidays! And to the time honoured wonder that is reverse psychology.


A Holiday Bargain


Please can we stay in a tent, Mum?
For once can we stay in a tent?

No way!

With the poles and the pegs and the sleeping bags,
go on Mum, let us stay in a tent!

You cannot stay in a tent, son.
There are flies when you stay in a tent.

But Mum!
I’ll swat them real good and I’ll zip up the door.
Go on Mum, let us stay in a tent!

No!

Well then, can we stay in a campervan?
It’s not like a tent at all.
It’s got real thick walls and real beds for us all.
Go on Mum, can we campervan please?!

We cannot all fit in a campervan.
They’re hot and, well, what if it rains?

Then I’ll do a rain dance; it won’t rain, not a chance,
Go on Mum, please for once?

No, No, NO!

Then Mum, can we stay in a caravan?
It has a real fridge, stove and sink.
And the rain won’t get in, and with air conditioning
you’ll be cool all day long with your tonic and gin.
Oh Mum, let us stay in a van.

Too crowded, my boy, not a chance, love
and, my, who needs stoves anyway?
We’ll go out to dinner each evening of course
and without the dishes I’ll feel no remorse.

But you always say, Mum, I eat like a horse.
A van would be cheaper I say.

Look son, it’s a NO to the caravan.

Well, what about renting a shack?
All my friends stay in shacks, in their old tracky dacks,
with beaches outside and old walls full of cracks,
with fans on the ceiling and little knick knacks
and stinky fish piled up high, stacks upon stacks…

WE ARE NOT GOING TO STAY IN A SHACK!

Ok Mum, looks like a resort hey?
A boring old, dumb old resort.
With a pool and a spa and a stupid old bar
and all restaurant food and a fancy hire car
and all you can eat and room service, blah, blah
and a room of my own with a view of the sea.
Well, big deal, ho hum, all that stuff there for me,
like movies all night on LCD TV,
with Arnie and Jean Claude on cable for free,
I’ll be just so bored I will go round my tree.

Do we have to stay in a resort?

Yes son, we do.

…Wickerrrd!

Elise Batchelor July 2010

Crying over spilt satay

Despite the profundity of our Australian leadership spill a couple of weeks back, I dare say a hearty chunk of the population is still more perterbed by the elimination of Marion in MasterChef this week. Unlike KRudd, Marion possessed an array of qualities befitting the post of supreme being in her field: Articulate and without spin, loved by all in the house and, ultimately, cookin' with gas, all the way home. Marion was the best in fact. Probably even, if you took away the nerves and pressures of assumption, the best at satay sauce.

But we'll probably forget her too. Shed a tear. Take a deep breath.

And drink in the amnesia.

Because life moves on to other dramas quicker than you can post a Facebook status or text 140 characters on @Twitter.

And so, to the topic of my poem. We have a new leader at our helm. She can't cook for shit but she's fierce and on fire - at least until the next elimination round when Ms Gillard faces the Australian public once and for all.

My tip? Marion from for PM!


Fair shake o' the sauce bottle

At lunch there was a murmur.
By afternoon some grunting.
By dinner the announcement
which had the punters punting.
The PM’s speech ensued that night
before we’d time to breathe.
A flood of news reports gushed in
we couldn’t quite believe.

Ask some who were watching on
the tele as Rudd spoke
whether they thought this was simply
just a poor timed joke.
After all, the nerve of it,
to cut in to, oh no!
Not just any viewing,
but on MasterChef! No go!

(Meanwhile, in Morocco,
quite insulated there
a quite bemused, a bit confused
Pete Garrett scratched his…hair.
Our Peter, he was whaling
or trying hard to stop
and had no clue about Australia’s
head up for the chop.)

The cauldrons they were burning -
someone had lit a match.
The Redhead type (I know, a pun,
let’s not labour it, Batch).
And whilst we all slept in our beds
our lives as safe as houses,
a dim thought might have sat there quiet
on what Gillard espouses.

By dawn, Rudd pulled the pin on it.
By brekky, new PM!
By lunch the great post mortem.
By dinner, Rudd? Who? What? When?
By evening social networking
was all about her hair.
Oh my Lord, get over it!
(But really, to be fair

if I say it once more now
and then no more forever,
Ms Gillard’s got a wicked stylist,
perfect coiffed endeavour.
He gets up early, 5am
and makes her breakfast too.
Handy when your partner is
a fine hairdresser, phew!)

That is it. My commentary.
And so, back to the soccer.
A woman’s in the top job now;
the stir has been a shocker.
But @Twitter told us yonks ago
and Facebook soon got bored.
With our attentions, oh so short,
we’re only briefly floored.

And then we all get hungry
for something else to #hash.
Another drama, more suspense
on which our teeth can gnash.
Our passions heat like microwaves,
then cool like jellied sweat,
but fair shake o' the sauce bottle,
hope history don’t forget.

© Elise Batchelor June 2010

Rains (n. Plural)

Rains in the Pilbara is always an auspicious occasion. Not only cause for celebration, but reason to modify the English dictionary. Such is the rarity of these about-time-happy-tears-from-heaven, that when one drop falls we call it rain, but when there are plural, they become, necessarily, 'rains'.

When rains come, we also run into our front yards and dance. Jiggy jig, jive and rhumba. And we just hope they will stay for more than a few minutes, during which time we can hopefully absorb enough by osmosis to keep our souls hydrated for the next...year...or two.

And when they leave...which they always do...there is that little moment of melancholy before the dreaming begins again.

No way does one ever want to miss rains in the desert. And there's not much we wouldn't do to seize the moment and get wet. Something like yesterday when it rained. Something like this...


Storm in a Teacup

Each morning as she wakes she wishes
once upon the starfish
on her doona quilt of bright red
on her soft and squishy queen bed

and she asks the painted starfish
and its friends who dot the doona
if the rain might come but sooner
if it might just change its tune, huh?

And she closes tight her eyes and then
peers up towards the window
where the blind and curtains hang low
all so dark with but a faint glow

and she hopes with all her guts and gizzards
that the blind will flick up
and reveal a morning wake up
with a weather pattern mucked up

where the sky will be all black and purple
bruised, like when her sister
threw that tape recorder at her
aged just ten, did that cause one stir!

And her leg had looked a storm all swirly dark
and eggplant mushy
oh, she was so not a sissy,
well, maybe a little prissy,

but the blind, today she’d wished from bed
would zip up quick, surprise her,
rain would thwack and rumbling thunder
would chase painted starfish under

neath the doona with its polyester centre,
dry not soggy,
and she’d bound, a little groggy
to the window pane all foggy

and she’d write the words through window mist
up to the darkened sky where birdies
all too wet to fly
had gone to Melbourne for some dry

simply, THANK YOU, to the gods of rain
and lightning, hail and snow,
You’ve really given it a go;
it must be really hard I know

but what a looney tuney glee it brings
to wake up hearing frogs
going berserko on their logs
and jumping in and out of bogs.

Imagine them, gone psycho yelling
ribbit, ribbit, boing!
Sploshing puddle, path and lawn,
whacko frogs, with baby spawn

and what a rip roaring delight there is
in running from the sill.
Get outside now, my girl, you dill,
all nickey noo and feel the chill.

     It’s the blue moon sunshine RDO,
     the day of all your wishes
     when it pishes and it pishes
     and it fills the cracks and fissures
     fills the sink and does the dishes
     rains for me and you and fishes
     and it smells divine…ahhh…delicious.

She bounds out to the hall all starkers
running through the kitchen -
no point getting rain then bitchin’
that you missed the chance to stand in

dirt which smells of sweet release and lawn
which turns green just like that,
a purging sky which pours flat chat
and you know this is where it’s at…

As she dashes past the sink she grabs a
teacup from the drainer thinking
this will make me saner
knowing I have a container

into which I’ll let the storm c
                                       a
                                        s
                                     c
                                      a
                                       d
                                      e
and keep it then as proof
that I’ve felt rain on my roof,
that I’m not a total goof

and she hurtles out the front door with her
teacup tight in hand
feeling blissful, whacko, grand
to gather raindrops as she’s planned

and she races to the centre of the front yard
on this morning
in a barefoot dance of yearning
with her cup and belly tingling

and it stops – the sky.
It ceases.
To let rain fall from its creases
and she’s out there, oh bejeesus,
with her cup - her bits - her pieces,

nothing more or less this morning
with the sunshine peeping through
and she knows not what to do
but just stand and wail boo hoo

and she sobs her heart out there and then,
not drenched but much forlorn
on this sneaky Pilbara dawn
feeling woe and no more storm

and her tears fill up the teacup quickly
lapping to its rim
telling her things aren’t so grim
at least these tears she could swim in

‘til she holds her head up finally
and just pauses then in thought…
she saw rain and she just ought
to be mature, as she’d been taught

so she turns on heel with dignity and
walks back to her door,
bottom wobbling, eyelids sore,
knows she should not ask for more

and she climbs beneath her doona
and she makes one final wish
to her starry doona fish
with her teacup on a dish

that in all the dawn commotion with the
rainfall hard and quick
no one saw a tall blonde chick
standing out there in the nick…

and she hopes oh my that if they did
her teacup covered something
with her bits and pieces bumping
and her heartbeat raw and thumping.

She peers from ‘neath the doona cover
through the panes of glass - forgetting
‘bout her wobbly arse
and spies the last cloud quickly pass…
and lets the sun
                     shine
                             in.



© Elise Batchelor June 2010

Waxing Lyrical

When my favourite waxer to the stars, Rosa the Russian Beautician, descended upon the rugged Pilbara terrains this week, I was dribbling with excitement. I have not seen Rosa and her lycra leopardy body since 2000, when her voice echoed through the Melbourne's Botanicals Gardens at my wedding. Indeed, the wedding was cut short (according to Rosa's way) as her vocal chords were so powerful they blasted a hole in this green grassy patch, enough to turn it into an open cut mine.  

Sticky hairs are Rosa's business. She's done the Donald Trump (who tried to comb it over in the downstairs!), Susan Boyle with her virgin thickets and the Princess Mary...but we better not go there. Old growth forest is a matter of fearful trepidation when you are honouring your bikini!

So, a dedication to my favourite beautician to the stars and her creator, Marney McQueen. Here is another type of waxing. A type we might all be forced to use were it not for the plucking and preening skills of such a goddess of the privates.

Lick, Spit and Dribble

Mr Bradley Brady, he was
not a happy chappy with his
ears upon the ladies, right
behind him rather chatty, at the
rural royal show and its great
whiff of cows and poo and all those
rides and floss, you know, yes all those
showy things you do.

But now he was not blushing he was
simply mortified, something had
all the blood now rushing to his
most deflated pride, for as they
sat these women two doing as
ladies quite enjoy, that gossip
thing, yes, as you do, oh how their

words they stung our boy…

‘He’s really rather hairy,’ as they

whispered ‘hind his back, under the

sun, that spotlight glaring, Bradley

too stunned to attack.

‘Indeed, how does she cope with Bradley’s

fur and fuzz and fluff? It makes him

look a real dope, I bet she’s

really had enough.’

‘Mmm…’ they mused, then silence as they

wandered off together and he

didn’t threaten violence

but he really wondered whether they were

right with all his hair and he should

sort his body out, I mean, this

body, to be fair was taut and

ripped with sexy clout.

Shave it? Pluck it? Rip it out? He

wasn’t quite sure how and as he

pondered this out walking came the

sign - a mooing cow - with a

bit of spit and dribble and a

lick right up his back, he thought,

‘That’s it!’ no time to quibble, ‘I must

go on the attack.’

No one fancies back hair and the

ladies had now said it so with

inspiration out there was not

time now to regret it.

And no man likes his pride to be

remarked upon in public

so with purpose in his stride our Bradley

thought…hairless republic!

With no idea of how to do it

Bradley wandered round until he

came upon a stall, ‘I knew it -

remedy now found!’

He bought up every item from the

stall and raced right home so he might

soon remove the blight, but would it
stick or burn or foam?

Oh well, Bradley thought as he did
melt the items then all boil and
bubble, rather hot until the
mixture looked quite zen.
Silky smooth and bub-bl-ing, a
spatula he found, the appli-
cation might be trou-b-ling but
Brad, he stood his ground.

‘Twas only minutes later when the
scream ripped through the air with Bradley
running, scorched potato, burning
back from here to there.
And in that very moment came his
wife through their front door holding a
coffee and a magazine
‘What is it?!!!’ she implored.

Bradley’s brain did grapple, sobbing,
screaming, ‘Ohhh! The pain!’ Dripping
blood red toffee apple,
‘down his back and bum in vain.
Anne, his dearest wife was off the
Richter scale with terror and just
screamed, ‘What is this strife!’ as if to
quick negate his error.

After, in the bedroom, as Brad
lay upon his tummy bandaged
here until forever, started
then to think it funny…as his
wife took him to hospital
with plastered toffee burning and he
told her of his back hair plight which
got his guts all churning.

‘That was me,’ she’d told him as he
blushed, a sorry twit, ‘…with my
girlfriend and my magazine
discussing Bradley Pitt and that
beard of his, absurd… but not

quite as much as you. Oh my

darling, p’raps you’ve learned that toffee

burns and sticks like glue.

Our Bradley full recovered and his

wife loved him the more and with his

back hair left unbothered she’d

remind him, Je t’adore.

So hurrah for back hair gentlemen!

Hurrah for beards and fluff, but if the

hot wax comes a’rendering -
be bold, be brave, be buff.

© Elise Batchelor June 2010

Rosa the Russian Beautician and the Michael Caton

    Rosa and the John Brumby

Whale Tales

  Australia has a new Prime Minister.
Her name is Julia Gillard.
  She is a woman.
This is a first.
  She didn't like the direction things were going.
So she changed them.
  This is a great thing for some.
This is a fabulous thing for many women.
  This is also an upset which has divided the country and ripped a hole in some hearts.
And now it's a new day and we shall see...

These are all recent, stunning facts in the last 24 hours of Aussie politics. Two nights ago, the night the decision of a challenge to Kevin Rudd, now 'former' Prime Minister, we were glued to our tv, absorbing details by osmosis with the fervour of parched camels. But one of the funniest reports of the night was an interview between a prominent Australian journalist on a serious late night news program to our Environment Minister, Peter Garrett. You know 'Midnight Oil'? Well, that's Peter Garrett. In this interview, the presenter began hounding Peter Garrett on his allegiance to and opinions about this sudden political #spill (as @Twitterphiles would know it). And for the life of him, Peter Garrett was unable to come up with a response to satiate the desire of the presenter. Why? Because it was the first he'd heard of the troubles at the top. Yet the reporter kept at Mr Garrett. Every which way, every angle, up every orifice. Peter Garrett started getting tetchy. As you would. Kept trying to sway the conversation towards the point of the interview...

Whales.

You see, Peter Garrett was in Morocco, on the other side of the planet to the rumblings here in Oz. He had been in serious meetings about Australia's role in stopping whale slaughter by Japan. His phone had been off. And, my oh my, he had no Facebook or Twitter to truly keep him informed! He literally knew nothing of this usurping-in-progress and was baffled by the perseverence of the presenter. Finally, boldly, he got his message out. It was a heartfelt message on the whales. And it was an awful shame of the night that, love the whales as we do, no one cared.

This was the most fascinating interview I saw throughout the leadership challenge, spill and change which has occurred. The country's up in arms as the leaders are tussling over their leaders and one dude's out there actually doing shit! You go man!!

With the happy coincidence that my most recent poem was a celebration of the glorious whales which journey our waters, this poem is for Peter Garrett and for the whales.

Learning to Fly

A Whale of a Tale

I’ve gathered you together to stick it to ‘em good,

for now’s the speccy weather in this north west neighbourhood.

I mean, you lot are perfect - you’ve been around the traps.

You know how much it’s worth it, my keen aquatic chaps

and chaplets, oops, I’m sorry dear, Miss what’s your story Dory,

I know your brain’s a sieve, I fear, but don’t want your guts all gory.

I’m writing them a letter, how I fancy myself whole.

Not whole and fried for dinner from at fish markets sold.

So, got you on webcam tonight in this Carnarvon caf’.

We’ve all got to be literate, right, and not pen something naff.

And thus, the conference call began with links hither to thither

as Humpback Harry, no steak Dianne, refused at all to dither.

‘Moby, mate, in your opinion, what should we all write?’

Moby, blushed, red onion. Quite odd, for a whale so white.

‘Well, first I must say thanks for asking me to share.

Don’t fancy us in tanks our gizzards here and there.

So me, I would just tell them what beauty holds our song

that is, except for Dory when her singing drones along.

Dory raised an eyebrow then promptly…ah…forgot

and feeling less than highbrow asked Harry, ‘Harry, what…

whatever are we here for?’ And all went splosh and splish

and titter, chortle, wherefore, memory like goldfish.

‘Don’t you worry Dory, gal,’ spoke Harry Humpback whale

How about, my Nemo pal, this rambling you curtail.

‘I would say, you write to them some funny jokes, I think.

Show them you’re intelligent and only when...gutted, stink.

‘Ahem, well, thank you Nemo, my orange stripy clown.

Always count on you, you know to stop us feeling down.

‘Jonah, down there, yup, that’s you, old man of the sea,

any thoughts to share, please do?’

                ‘Get me out of here’s my plea!’

That’s all Jonah offered and probably expected

all that krill from being swallowed got his nouse infected.

Then up piped an aged Free Willy, the Second, and a talker,

‘I’d tell ‘em they are silly and sign it, “Super Orca!”’

Ok, our Harry sighed aloud, I’ve taken down ideas

and really, well, can’t be too proud. You’re heightening my fears.’

‘How about, now let me see, let’s start it just like this:

     Dear fellows sailing in the sea, please just give us a miss.

     We practise hard our breaching to make you like us more          

     We sing our songs, no screeching, and swim from deep to shore.

     We don’t hurt you, so don’t hurt us…

            Sound good so far?’ nods, ‘Fine’.

Please leave us be, don’t cause a fuss, we’re having a whale of a time’.

The gang on webcam groaned a lot, then simply laughed out loud.

Bad pun Harry! Lame, you twit, won’t stand out from the crowd.

But Harry took the letter and printed it with pride

and posted it, go getter, then swam right back outside

And off into the waters of the Indian, his home,

right up the coast, new daughters, then back down south to roam.

Well...

They got it! Harry’s missive, and read it patiently.

(It’s hard to be dismissive of a letter from the sea.)

And suddenly, the whaling ceased! Our Harry was astounded.

Forever whales then lived in peace and whaling ships were grounded.

So now our Harry Humpback, he’s got himself an agent,

selling joke books, quite a stack, his wit a strong reagent.

For if a whale of a bad, bad pun can change things in bad weather

then Harry, whale…he was the one, to Save the Whales! Forever.

© Elise Batchelor June 2010
Photo: © Rob Whitehead 2003, 'Learning to Fly', Augusta, Western Australia

Who would you invite to dinner?

Cate Blanchett and I go way back. In fact, our lives bear so many parallels it's beyond the beyond to believe. First, she went to high school in Melbourne, as did I. It so happened we attended the same bottle green clad girls' school, albeit, at different campuses and in different years. We both did drama, although she was Drama Captain and I was just full of drama. Or full of it in general. I'm sure you'll also appreciate the confluence of my first and her middle name. She has a sister - I have a sister. We are both non-natural blondes of the thin and frustrating Australian variety and I'd go to her stylist if I could afford it. Cate too, like me, contemplated performing on 'Red Faces' for Hey Hey it's Saturday during uni. The only difference there was that she did appear in an act on 'Red Faces' and I didn't. Finally, I love her work. And I'm sure she worships mine. Who doesn't love a poet whose pen leaks with odes to failure and stuff ups and who lives in a desert mining town in the remote and forgotten (yet financially fricking freaky) north west of Australia?

Should I go on? Oh...I already have.

Suffice to say, were I to select a select selection of much admired thespians and humbly invite them to a party, Cate would be among them. Funny I should mention this idea. For, in fact, I did do this recently, in honour of Johnny Depp's birthday. Some came, most were happy to remain for the duration, all left in one piece and no one died. Or so I believe.

Who would you invite to a celebrity dinner?

Here's my take on a night with some favourite stars. So, pull out your maracas and your Happy Boy harmonicas (just as Andrew Collins and Rachel Fountain did as we performed this on air at the ABC) and sing it loud, ok!

Guess who's coming to dinner?

Didn’t we have a lovely time

the night they came to di-nner

sitting a-round my table grand

and all because they agreed, you know that

as we sat, I pondered that

I’m surprised they came at a-all -

little old me at a dinner par-tee as they

had their feed.

There he sat in his party hat,

a patch upon his e-eye.

Nothing was wrong, he was jollied along

because he liked the look, you know his

makeup too my ba-a-lance threw

but such is the way with thes-pians.

Tried not to blush or talk in a rush as we

had our feed.

Mu-ust now mention he spoke French and

none of us had a clue-hoo.

It was his night and to my delight

it didn’t matter whatever his patter so

we chatted on, and smiled along,

pretending we understood-ood, he

ate like a sparrow but sucked out the ma-rrow

of his feed.

Cate to my left was beautifully dressed

in a little bit of lame.

She, you see‘d gone to school with me

(or not exactly but down the road).

Beside me she sat, I told her that

we had a lot in co-mmon.

She winced a tad but oh I was glad as she

had her feed.

After the goose, before the moose,

I asked if Hugh might si-ing.

Maybe a dance, or shirtless prance

beside my ‘lectric keyboard and he

stuttered a bit, called me a twit ‘n

I smiled and sipped my cham-pers,

wishing I’d had maracas to share as he

had his feed.

GaGa was there, enjoying her fare,

dressed up as choc dipped duck-ling.

Into the mood, her look matched her food

and though she wasn’t invited I had

little choice but to hear her voice

when Hugh declined to si-ing.

Banging on with some mo-nster song when she’d

had her feed.

Clive to my right, was quite a delight,

all rugged British ac-cent.

So not behavin’, a little un-shaven,

winking at me constantly,

until he grabbed a hanky, dabbed his

eye a little swo-llen:

an allergy to my goosey ragout when he’d

had his feed.

But I didn’t mind, he’d found the time

to come and that was lo-vely.

If and when I’d poi-soned him,

I checked my medicine box in case and

offered him anti-hystamine

and found him rather grateful,

cursing away at my dinner par-tay as we

had our feed.

Then as we dined, was candles time

and out I turned the li-ights.

Brought out a cake, make no mistake,

a pirate ship with treasure on it.

Cla-apped and banged, to Jo-o-hnny sang and he

blew the candles fierce-ly,

blu-ushed and laughed, curling up his moustache and we

had our feed.

The night as you’d guess, a fine success,

a birthday party per-fect

and when I unchained them,

unre-strained them from their chairs,

‘twas all forgiven.

Possibly, maybe, looks a bit shady,

taking off their handcuffs,

but wow, and phew, they’d

loved my stew and farewelled

their feed.

Cate trotted out, a goddess with clout,

followed by the o-thers.

Mr O-owen’s eye was growing.

Off to the doc, but you know that my

Johnny, sweet chap, with his party hat,

sailed off holding his trea-sure:

lo-o-lly bag to add to his swag,

au revoir indeed.

Didn’t we have a lovely time when we

had…our…feed!

Elise Batchelor June 2010

Photo: Katharine Whitehead

Chookedy chookedy chook chook poo

Green is one of my favourite colours. Actually, I tell a lie. I hate green. I grew up in it. Well, the bottle green variety of it, that is: thick woven, girls' school blazer and bottle green striped tie and always with matching undies. How I detested those matching undies. Just don't get me started on the stockings. Urgh.

I only said green is one of my favourite colours in case Al Gore were listening. Or my lawnmower. Or the planet. Indeed, having just celebrated World Environment Day in early June, I took care to think about our precious Earth and my green aspirations. And what I thought of was just how many times I've tried to go green and got it all wrong. Not necessarily major international corporation oil slick in the ocean wrong. We best not go there. But other wrongs. So, I'm sorry planet Earth. I shall continue to try and love you by atoning for my sins of misplaced recycling endeavour and hope I get it right somewhere along the way.

Fortunately, my angst is assuaged a little knowing that I am not alone. Oh how I am so not alone. So now, let us turn to some kindred spirits, heady with love in their acts of mucked up planet appreciation. We have Sarah, Courtney, Robert, Max, Jake and, last and smelliest, Yvette...


Chook poo love song to the planet


Scooping up the chicken poo
left on dirt as chickens do,
Yvette she knew, yes, through and through,
Earth would love this stinky brew.

Piffed it out into the sky
upon the garden just nearby.
Heart so full, Yvette near cried,
I love you planet, watch me try!

Down the road I heard her sing,
‘twas Sarah, earthy goddess thing,
at her best recycling
all the cards and Chrissie bling.

Tossing them into the fire,
heart uplifted, higher, higher,
thinking of her great desire
not to...catch the house on fire.

The two of them were full of mirth,
saving their dear planet Earth
and tidying, for what it’s worth,
the junk and poop, like spring rebirth.

Max he was a kindred chap:
loving the planet, he’d got the knack
of filling up his shopping sack
to take his plastic bags all back.

That’s right, to the supermarket.
Do his bit before he carked it
and to his wife he had remarked
with groceries bought, he’d multi-tasked it.

Robert rather loved bright flowers.
Took deep whiffs and smelt for hours
and with his great greeny powers
gave them to his love in showers.

Offered them with loving flair.
He’d hit a soft spot with her there.
Roses garlanded her hair
and strewn about most everywhere.

Courtney, wow, she’d upped the stakes
to make mosaics from old plates -
plenty of room to make mistakes
and better than those plastic fakes.

Jake he gardened for a living and
whippersnipped into oblivion,
out in winter in his skivvy’n
loving the earth it made ‘im giddy ‘n

everyone knew what it meant:
Do their best ‘til they were spent.
Just like paying planet rent,
mending the environment.

Hearts all full, they tended it.
Dusted, patched and rendered it.
Pruned and preened, made splendid it
and there it sat, pretended it

had not been tragically put out
with all the ways they’d shown their clout
in proving love, without a doubt,
but sadly, no, had come to nout…

For Jake had whippersnipped, good grief,
lawns and gardens beyond belief,
‘til every flower, plant and leaf
were flattened mulch, yes, gravel in chief.

Courntey had been unaware
her fine mosaics brought a heady glare
from her dear mother standing there
now set to launch a kitchen chair

upon her daughter grimacing
because, oh dear, now here’s the thing,
the family fine boned china…ding!
Courtney, artiste, had smashed, ka-ching.

Oops, winced Courtney, too late now
and there was Robert with a heavy brow,
busted by his wife and how
he’d had to promise, make a vow

that never would he steal again
flowers plucked from down the lane
from all the neighbours’ homes, what shame.
Should have asked, but he wasn’t game.

And to our Max with logic elastic
returned his bags, not quite fantastic,
for as he shopped enthusiastic
simply bought up brand new plastic:

Snap lock bags and rolls for the bin,

orange ones to put the green stuff in,

took him a while ‘til the truth went ding!

Hardly a beacon of re-cy-c-ling.

Back at Sarah’s place meanwhile

burning cards, how versatile,

smoke filled air a thousand miles.

Mucked it all up and did it in style.

Loving the earth with fire in the heart.

How to get it wrong, oh, where to start?

Greenie mishaps off the chart,

served with aplomb, quite a la carte.    

As for Yvette…What can you do?

Tossing chook droppings, suddenly knew

as back she stepped - you saw it too?
Splodge! Splat! Yup. Into…dog poo.

Hoe. Hoe...Hoe.

This is Sarah. This is Sarah before her Christmas a la carte went up in smoke up la chimney - tinsel, wrapping, leftover pudding, Tupperware rice mould, Santa earrings, cards and all!


©Elise Batchelor 2010

In your car and follow that star!

When the International Space Station recently emerged as a speeding star over the dawn horizon of the North West Aussie Pilbara region, my family and I jumped up and down like looneys (as far as my post baby bladder allows these days). We beamed our

Helloooooo!s

into the atmosphere and we were loud. So loud, we're sure they heard us. The ISS was being pursued at the time by the Space Shuttle Atlantis on the last days of what may well have been its final mission. Our view was awesome: rather gritty, a bit crusty, waves lapping behind us, tent thankfully sandfly proof. We were camping at our Indian Ocean secret spot along 40 Mile Beach near Karratha. And admiring its speedy passage across the sky smacked my gob harder than a flying sandcastle.

Meanwhile, I'm led to believe, down the road were a couple of grey nomads (and for those of you reading from the far reaches of the globe, this is a term of ...endearment? for wandering Australian retirees travelling about the country in their vans, campers, tents and other weird, wonderful getups.) They were having a few issues with their vehicle of choice whose brand shall remain nameless (and don't worry runaway 4wd types, it's not you!) They spent the night on a large station, surrounded by plenty of space and a few international travellers. Hmmm...an international space station of its own, one might say. So it's to these folks we turn: Geoff, Shirl and their not so trusty four wheel drive, Apollo. They have their own astronomical story to tell...and it's pretty, uh, far out...

Apollo and the ISS

Geoff had the radio turned up loud,
tapping on the steering wheel, royally proud
of his shiny sublimy four wheel drive,
‘Apollo’* took them travelling, fully alive.

Shirl felt it first and moaned out loud
Didn’t sound right even under the shroud
of blasting beats from the stere-e-ere-oh
and caravan wheels back there on tow.

But loy-a-lly she faced the music,
‘Geoff!’ she called, should he choose to hear it.
‘Geoff!’ again, ‘Can you HEAR THAT SOUND!’

But thumping his beat, didn’t turn around.’

This time Shirl cried out, ‘My dear!
Houston? GEOFF!! Got a problem here!’
Around spun Geoff, nose tapping the beat,
Shirl now squiggling in her seat.

She flicked off the music, speaking clear,
‘I said, just listen, to the engine dear.’

His face then blanched. Coconut white.

A rattle and thump, his wife was right!

So here they were two nomads bold
travelling the earth to lands untold,
through the dust and rickety gravel,
never did they think it would unravel.

Su-dden-ly, the plans had changed.
Something in the engine was deranged.
and caught on a road ‘twixt nowhere near,
landscape burnt, they felt the fear.

Then…just like a dream a sign emerged
beside the road both on the verge
of pondering, wondering about their fate,
sun now setting, getting late.

A station it was, with plenty of space
and dusk now coming was a race
to find a spot with Apollo intact
before a diff or engine cracked.

Soon found a paddock by the sea,
wide and vast as this land can be,
a scattering of vans spread far apart
by folks whose travels were an art:

A German couple in a battered van,
a family from France in a hired tin can
and way over there were a bunch of Swiss,
blonde and yodelling, hard to miss.

Vast amounts of space to camp
on which to muse beside their lamp.
‘Oh dear Geoff, maybe in the morning
someone can help us on sun’s dawning.’

‘Better still,’ mused Geoff-er-y,
‘the first night star’s above the sea.
Let’s make a wish from this vast station
for ve-hicular inspiration.’

They wished the star might ease their plight
and all too soon the dawn brought light.
Geoff woke first and mustered Shirl,
‘Look outside! Check it out my girl.’

Everyone else in the paddock near,
everyone was up and up they peered as a-
cross the sky a bright star moved,
followed by another one along its groove.

Curve balls over the daybreak light.
What an anomaly, a bit of all right!
And off the light headed north northwest
‘It’s a sign, it’s a sign!’ burst forth our Geoff.

They jumped in Apollo, perilous car,

‘Follow, follow, FOLLOW THAT STAR!’
Away from the station scattered with races
all peering up with glowing faces.

Out down the gravel to the nor’ nor’west

off to Karratha (just my guess).

If only they had known when they awoke

‘twas no bright star but full of folk -

astronauts not on vacation

but hurtling past on a fast space station,

speeding round out in the dark,

thinking life is quite a lark.

So, as a p.s. to this tale of Apollo,

the four wheel drive drove ‘til tomorrow

and up they went, not into town

and sailing into space you could see Geoff frown.

The ISS it took them far,

into orbit with their car

and with just a little less gravity

and wicked views, the world to see,

the four wheel drive was simply fine
and Geoff and Shirl had a whirl of a time.
Talk about nomads flying free
around the world dexterity.

So if you see a funny shape
up in space, it’s the 'Great Escape’,
for Geoff and Shirl can still be found
following the space station round and round
          and round and…round and
                                     …round…
                                             and round...
                                                      and...round...

© Elise Batchelor ABC North West 26th May 2010
© Rob Whitehead 2010 - photo of the ISS and Atlantis
    in the predawn Pilbara sky
* Apollo: not the car's real name

JLo, Brangelina, SuBo TomKat and introducing...P.Po.

I was in the chemist the other day and noted a perfume on the counter going for a tres hefty price. Then I thought to myself, do I really want to smell like Sarah Jessica Parker? ...and bought the little pack of jellybeans instead.

In Shakespeare's time, to be a performer, artist, writer or public figure involved dealing with petulant crowds, rotten cabbages and a dictionary with the disclaimer 'Spelling? As you like it.' These days, everyone wants to live the dream of fame, fortune and...god, what's the third thing? Oh yes, that's right, artistic integrity. All it takes is uploading a video, finding a funky acronym for your name, auditioning for MasterSurvivorIdolChef or...ah...writing a blog...and you are the star.

So, if becoming the next Lady Gaga, the next beacon of masculine perfection, or the next chick in the tabloids sans undies, sans anything, is your thing, here's some advice from an elderly lady who's trod the boards, tripped the light fantastic, and bought the occasional house, orphan and country.

All the best, P.Po.

Life is a stage...and most of us are going through it.

My Great Gran, has penned a book,

she’s gonna make a mill’.
She reckons it’s the stuff of legend
and my Great Gran’s no dill.

She’s seen about a billion things
and wants to shine a light
on stuff knows a bit about -
it's scandalous all right!

She reckons that her book’s about
the bestest guide you’ll find
to making yourself famous, yep,
no brains at all required.

‘Cause, “Now-a-days,” she notes, “that thing called
talent’s just an option,”
and she sits me down and tells me all,
“Let’s start,” she says, “with adoption.”

Fame’s about adoption -
a kid or maybe seven.
And skip the queue as bright stars do
and you’ll still go to heaven.

If that is not appealing
and kids are not your thing,
then buy a little toy dog
for your handbag, decked in bling.

Of course, though, with your little one
or massive kiddy tribe,
you’ll need to buy a plane
to cram the whole shebang inside.

Better still, a pilot’s licence,
that would show some nouse
and if you’re even wiser still,
you’ll park it at your house.

And speaking of great wisdom,
it’s best to join a cult
like one with mystic thingies
or an alien revolt.

And if that doesn’t suit you
and stardom’s what you need,
make up your own religion,
great fame is guaranteed!

Find yourself a toyboy.
Or buy yourself a brand:
TomKat, Brangelina,
and fame comes hand in hand.

Then when, as is quite certain,
arrives the mournful day
when you break up, it’s simple -
turf the whole lot on ebay.

And with it all the merchandise,
like single strands of hair,
or kidneys, or those orphans
and of course there’s bottled air,

the stuff which you have breathed upon
before the love did end
and when they’re piffed, then sell your poor
imaginary friend.

Then it’s time to PARTY HARD
and try to look the part.
There are so many rules with this
so, let’s just make a start:

Deny a drinking habit.
Deny eating disorders.
Deny the need for undies.
Deny the old court order.

Deny you ever drove unlicensed,
flaunting thus your fame.
Deny you checked out early from your
rehab stint …again.

And make the whole lot up
because the headlines are what count.
Then, after that - you go see Oprah!
Sort the whole lot out.

And just in case you get the sense that
no one knows you’re there,
here are some tips to surely guarantee
the starstruck stare.

Things which, if you’re feeling little,
make you look quite big.
For instance, you can shave your head
and buy a matted wig.

Or buy a pair of sunnies that are
wider than your dog,
designer plastic donuts, yep,
and all will be agog.

And always, always, every day
it’s vital to be seen
with a large-size-brand-name-decaf-soy-skim-chai-latte…
- with cream.

And strut about the streets with these
unless you hail from Beckham,
for calories are banned in this strange
universe I reckon.

In this case, if you do aspire
to mirror such a star
just visualize the pencil’s life
and this will take you far.

Get yourself a berry phone
(or whatever fruit is in)
and text all day and night
and text with tonic and with gin

and text your way through dinners
and text whilst on the loo
and text and text whilst kissing
and with the…other too.

When you find the perfect mate
(to last for, let’s say, months)
you must, you must take all these steps
to fame, don’t be a dunce:

Marry ‘em on camera
and probably while you’re there,
get divorced just minutes later.
Save some hassles, yeah?

Whack it all on YouTube
and watch it all upload,
then sit back, put your heels up
and note the world explode.

And better, better, even more
with marriage and divorce
stand side by side, but text your vows
(or dumpsville speech) of course!

And finally, grins Great Grannie, when your
bright star shines no more,
do not give up your ball gowns
or your sty-i-list what’s more.

Just find the fabbest newspaper
and practise shedding tears
and not just dainty ones but ones where
snot flings past your ears.

And pick the best photographer
to shoot you at your worst
and suck your thumb, chew bubblegum
and have your wild outburst

and make sure every bit of it
does make the leading page
and with the quote, ‘LEAVE ME ALONE’
‘twill get you centre stage.

My Great Gran, she could make buck
with this, I’m pretty sure.

She knows the stuff of history

and how fame open doors.

And maybe she’ll be praised for it,

not treated looney-tuney;

I’m so proud of Great Grandma Jolie-Pitt-Cruise-Beckham-Clooney.

© P.Po. (The chick formerly known as Elise Batchelor) 2010