From the Vaults: Solo Flight

If you throw the frisbee by yourself,
it will not come back.

The sun might be shining in the most exquisite way,
If you throw the frisbee by yourself,
it will not come back.

You might have just won tattslotto,
scoring yourself a cool million,
If you throw the frisbee by yourself,
it will not come back.

You might have the sexiest thighs in the world,
If you throw the frisbee by yourself,
it will not come back.

Flowers might be blooming in the park.
Children might be running around in innocent bliss.
Dogs might be sniffing other dogs’ arses.
A complete stranger might come up to you
and tell you that she loves you,
If you throw the frisbee by yourself,
it will not come back.

If you throw the frisbee by yourself,
it will


Poet. Author. Beard. Husband. Dad. Four chickens. Dog. Cat. I can sometimes fix my lawnmower.

Tagged with: , , ,
Posted in From the vaults, Not Quite the Man for the Job, Published work
6 comments on “From the Vaults: Solo Flight
  1. themoralhighground says:

    Unless you are super-powered and it travels all the way around the earth. And hits you in the back of the head. Mwa

  2. themoralhighground says:

    Get a room!

  3. JW says:

    Get a boomerang!

  4. opoetoo says:

    But when the temps are mild
    And the air taste wild

    And the goose is flying high

    I’m gonna be where the winds not slack
    And all MY Frisbees come right back

    When the goose is flying high

    My apologies to the evil villain of the sand in “The Little Drummer Boy”

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Quelle Grammage!
only a fan of 2/3s of the folk in this pic but mesmerised by the story @angustrumble relates below it. . . . I watched last evening’s general election coverage (ABC, natch) in the company of a high Commonwealth official, among others in an undisclosed location, whose name, it soon emerged, may not appear on the electoral roll for reasons of national security. I confess that gave me a bit of a thrill. Canberra: Bless! However, it was also fascinating, extraordinary, in due course to witness that person’s several mobile phones evidently going bonkers, and the measured plans, contingencies, forecasts, blue books of an entire federal bureaucracy duly (one presumed) shredded, turned upside down, just like that. Nothing at all was said, I should emphasise. One simply observed the body language, which was moderately graphic. Whichever way you look at it, this has been an astounding personal victory for Prime Minister Scott Morrison. He believes in miracles, the sexy thing. Pre-polling methodologies in this country, meanwhile, have quite obviously met with serial unforced error on a colossal, epic scale. Who would ever pay them good money again? On my way home, I collided with the (ex-)campaign manager of one of the independent ACT Senate candidates who was alone, drunk and in despair. The campaign manager, that is, not the candidate. This was at about half past eleven on the corner of Jardine and Eyre Streets in Kingston, right next to the rubbish tin, you know, the rectangular green one. He told me he wanted to burn everything down, which was worrying enough, but then he suddenly hurled his mobile phone into the gutter—smashed it to bits—and staggered off into the night. I found myself wondering: Who would touch politics with a barge pole? I should add that this frightening encounter left me, literally, picking up his bits and bobs, then dutifully popping them in the bin. Responsible, me. Back home, I had a cuppa and played patience. I’m not kidding. . . . #Repost @angustrumble with @make_repost
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Thursday morning tableau
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