Geoff Page: Two Poems

Vegan

One day, beyond

the eyes of cattle,

the sad suburban

quietness of the ewes,

the vegetables themselves

prove sentient.

She hears the carrots

give a sigh

when ripped too rudely

from the soil;

she sees potatoes

neatly sliced

shrinking from the pan;

the lettuce, like a

pale-green brain

is cowering from the knife.

Even the wheat she

eats for breakfast

should still be waving

in the west.

She hesitates to

steam the rice.

In dreams, she’s on a

board of nylon,

waiting to be

sliced and diced.

          Geoff Page

A Short History of Haplessness

Maybe it started with the Greeks.

Did Oedipus run out of “hap”?

The gods, no doubt, had plans for him—

they’re disinclined to take much crap.

True haplessness is smaller beer

and well down from the tragic hero—

and, no, it’s not just misadventure

that has them dialling triple zero.

The hapless seem, well, pre-determined—

akin, let’s say, to God’s elect

but in reverse and much more prone

to gurus or a dodgy sect.

“Poor” is not the same as hapless

though both, we’re told, are here to stay.

The truly hapless wish for what

eludes them more and more each day.

They fail, for instance, at romance,

disabled by a naive streak—

wedding invites out on Monday,

cancellations sent next week.

The hapless all desire a shop.

Eventually, as retirees,

they do their super and their house

on boutiques which they’re sure will please

the punters who, in glassy malls,

will look once, fondle, then pass on.

As landlord, bank and metaphysics

indifferently converge upon

the mandatory “Exit Sale”,

the “Shop-for-Lease” sign reappears.

Their nation speaks an ancient tongue

which has no word for “doubt” or “tears”.

          Geoff Page