Wayne Scheggia
Walking Through Mud
exhausted
you’re walking through mud
knee deep in the sludge of mid-life
if you go under
you wont come back up
stuck
like an ant in tree sap
engulfed by the slow moving tide
of inevitability
of reality
of forty-something
heavy
anchored with life’s burdens
manacled to your ankles
vacuumed to the spot
misery sucks
but you’re not alone
we’ve all got mud on our shoes
Melbourne Weather
I’m on my guard
in case today’s another day
of rotating seasons
she shifts and changes
quicker than the Melbourne weather
Spring in the morning
hot Summer lunchtime
like the St.Kilda Road Elms in Autumn
rationality falls away
Winter gathers on the afternoon horizon
It moves across her
like a massing storm over Port Phillip Bay
from bright blue
menacing deep green
to the darkest of violent black moods
This is how it’s been
for weeks into months
a Luna Park rollercoaster
riding through our lives
on the outside rail
I don’t think I can hang on anymore.
Please Take Away My Mobile Phone
there is a liar attached to my ear
It’s like a lethal weapon in my hand
it gets me into trouble – more than it’s worth
it calls my friends of its own volition
pretends that I’m intoxicated to the limit
by some plentiful drug of choice
it articulates words that I don’t recall
confesses my likes, loves and not
it gives away my secrets
it does this in the early hours
when I’m not around to supervise
when I’m not quite there at all
please take away my mobile phone
So Lucky
standing in front of the mirror
dripping wet from the shower
a body beautiful
like a long slender river
she flowed
exploring her own perfection
imperfection surfaced
a blemish
a lump
a growth
for God’s sake call it by its name
cancer
early detection is crucial
they said
you’re lucky we’ve got it so quickly
they said
oh so lucky
we echoed
so lucky, they cut off her chest
so lucky, they burned her with radiation
so lucky, they poisoned her with chemo
so lucky
she doesn’t stand in front of the mirror any more
Where Will It End ?
So they’ve lined up all the aces,
An unbeatable hand,
These kings of the world,
Not a wise man among them,
Playing for high stakes.
Time to cut out the cancer,
And remove the irritation,
It’s a sick kind of medicine,
That creates the disease,
To justify the cure.
It’s often been said,
That we despise in others,
What we see in ourselves,
And like a flash from Hiroshima,
The view from Baghdad is blinding.
We stand on the brink,
They are calling our bluff,
There’s talk of only one option,
Don’t you see the irony,
In a war to end war ?
Ghosts of Vietnam,
The dominoes are falling,
North Korea has shaken off the fleece,
And I wonder where it will all end,
As I tuck my children tightly into bed.
Wayne Scheggia
February, 2003