one eye
casts its gaze

a venetian rises
to halfway

this boulevard
is under surveillance

a shutter
on the other side
opens it’s eye
to watch the lawns
and sidewalk

up the road
on a corner block
two paths meet
at a crossing

unblinking glass
watches both of them

roll up blinds
wind and release
their coded calls
communicate all is well
just here

is there disturbance
near the numbers
upon your street?

ah well
ah well
you never know
might be watching

© Frank Prem, 2017

Poem #06: hot one

just finishing up now

the sheet is painted
the detail drawn

the house
where she grew up
mama at the roses
papa out the back
planting veg

the shady tree
with the marking
of birch swept rooms
all around it
a tiny cup in the space
for a fine serving
of little girl tea

the fence
she leant against
to receive a first
can you see the outline
of her sweetheart beau

in a mirror
there he is again
just after she said goodbye
young sadness
in that frame

and in the middle
large at the start
then fading
is the path that she trod
the road she took
when she went away
for good

she’s really
quite here

do you see
that’s the easel
and there
the paints

the brush seems still wet
and heavy
from the last scene
that she is finishing up
just now

© Frank Prem, 2016

Poem #23: an accusation boogie

jungle rescue

I can show you
a photograph
of the path
dirt worn
and barely wide enough
for one

kept clear
only by the application
of a machete slash
and perhaps the poking
of a purely defensive
pointy stick

it’s a trail that runs
by winding route
from the entry hall
through what was once
a formal lounge room

the boxes
rise high
in this feral residential
jungle land

no one alive can know
what they might have held
maybe that one there
was a pizza
supreme I think

a pair of size eleven sandshoes
resided before the mice
in that one

and here
was something wet
that ate right through
a cardboard corner
and then the carpet

it might have been
a floral

supporting sundry wildlife
from a cornice
and from the lightbulb

drooping grey
and swung
by a fortuitous
upper stratospheric breeze
they have joined confections
piled high
in all points but one
forearm cleared and clean stripe-smeared
managed space
at a corner
of the kitchen table

sized right for one
if he is small enough

a rodent
is beating his tom-toms well
very well
to sound a warning
from his lookout post
on the peaks of mountains

Mount Pan-higher

Mount Dish-more

the rat
has seen me
in occasional glimpses
of filtered light
as I move between the refuse
and the discards
and shopping-bags of dirty plastic
and the swamp traps
poorly camouflaged by tricks
played out in shadows

armed only with my powerful disgust
and a sword
I have named Most Reluctant

we are coming in to rescue
and retrieve
a poor
mountain climbing
residential jungle dwelling

who calls this midden
his home

© Frank Prem, 2016

Poem #17: ruffling the skin