Love Ghosts & Facial Hair

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  CONTENTS

  my family

  1 My name

  2 My family (the dream one)

  3 My family (the real one)

  4 My family (the truth)

  5 Sex, sport, & nose hair

  6 Desiree on sex

  7 Another poem on sex, sport, & nose hair

  8 A writer

  9 The great poem

  10 Love is like a gobstopper

  11 Desiree on facial hair

  12 Violence in the family

  there’s a ghost in our house

  13 Cancer

  14 Don’t believe

  15 The photo

  16 The family holiday

  17 There’s a ghost in our house

  18 Shoes, socks, the lock on the bathroom door

  19 Coooeee

  20 Dad writes poetry

  21 The family team

  22 The cubbyhouse

  23 Wine

  24 Signature

  25 Katoomba

  26 The new teacher

  27 Shiver

  the wild orchard

  28 Valentine’s day

  29 Annabel on Jack

  30 I kiss Annabel’s photo

  31 There’s more to life than Annabel

  32 First date

  33 Annabel writes poetry!

  34 Annabel

  35 Annabel and the ghost

  36 The ghost is away

  37 The fireplace

  38 Ezra finds the hut

  39 Megalong creek hut

  40 Annabel and the wild orchard

  making a living

  41 The funeral

  42 Desiree

  43 Careers

  44 Selling up

  45 The wreck

  46 Dad didn’t come home last night

  47 Sunday lunch

  48 The earthquake

  49 What I do for a living

  50 All her brain cells

  51 Solo Desiree

  52 The ghost spoke to me last night

  53 Father of the year

  54 Annabel writes a poem for english

  55 Winter Annabel

  echoes

  56 My son is seeing a girl

  57 Sex, sport, and nose hair (according to Annabel)

  58 Blue mountains school

  59 Bloody rain

  60 Confessions

  61 The right reasons

  62 The bike ride

  63 Monday, the last before holidays

  64 Ms Curling

  65 Annabel kisses

  66 It’s easy

  67 37 lines

  68 Telling the ghost

  69 Echoes

  About Steven Herrick

  Dedicated to the backyard cricket pitch at Katoomba.

  My Family

  My name

  My name is Jack

  not Jackson

  or Jackie

  not Jack-in-the-box

  laughing like an echo

  not hit the road Jack

  not Jack the rat

  or Jack, go wash your face

  or Jack rabbit

  lifting my head to get shot

  or Jacqueline

  not Jack of all trades

  master of none

  or car Jack

  or Jack Frost

  not Jackpot

  the name of a loser

  or Jackboot

  or Jacktar

  or Jackknife

  or Jacket

  something to wrap yourself in

  not just Jack

  or Jack of hearts

  but

  JACK

  OK?

  My family (the dream one)

  There’s my Dad

  dressed in his best blue suit

  counting his money ($10,000, $11,000, $12,000 . . .)

  My Mum

  she’ll be home soon

  she’s starring in another movie

  so she’s acting late.

  And my sister? she’s away.

  She’s a Nun, helping the poor in Africa

  they had her on 60 Minutes last week

  Saint Sister they call her.

  My brother?

  he’s outside polishing his Porsche.

  And me

  I’m just starting my maths homework.

  I love maths.

  My family (the real one)

  There’s my Dad

  snoring in his chair, still in his work clothes

  sleeping without a shower for the third day running.

  My Mum

  she’s wearing those pink curlers in her hair

  looks like a Space Cadet to me.

  And my sister’s in the bathroom

  she’s dyeing her hair orange

  I think it’ll suit her.

  My brother?

  he’s in jail, we expect him home next year.

  And I’m here writing this, watching the footy on TV

  and doing everything possible to avoid

  homework.

  My family (the truth)

  Actually, truth be known

  they’re both wrong.

  I live with my Dad

  and my sister.

  My Dad works at a newspaper

  he says he tells “edited lies” all day

  he’s a journalist

  which means I never see him.

  He leaves home at 7am

  and returns at night

  smelling of cigarette smoke and defeat.

  He walks in

  reheats the dinner

  and asks me if I’ve done my homework.

  He’s OK though.

  He talks to me on the weekends

  and that’s enough for a parent.

  My sister I like!

  yeah I know

  you’re not supposed to like your sister

  but Desiree’s great.

  She left school last year

  went right out and got a job.

  She’s Assistant Manager of a bookshop.

  She says they’ll stock my first book

  when it’s published.

  She’s nineteen.

  Tall, dark eyes, long black hair,

  and

  this faint trace of soft light hair on her top lip!

  that’s what I like about her

  she’s upfront

  other girls might wax it

  but not Des

  I tell her it looks sexy

  and I think it does (for my sister!)

  so Des & me

  get on fine

  she even talks to me

  about Ms Curling

  and Annabel Browning.

  Sex, sport, & nose hair

  I’m a normal guy.

  An average sixteen-year-old.

  I think about sex, sport, & nose hair.

  Sex mostly.

  How to do it

  how to get someone to do it with me

  who I should ask for advice.

  My friends are useless

  they know nothing.

  We sit, at lunchtime,

  trying to make sense of that

  impenetrable mystery called girls.

  I’ve thought of asking Ms Curling

  she’s the type who’d look me in the eye

  and talk straight

&n
bsp; but I could never hold her stare

  I’d start dribbling, or blushing, or coughing

  or worse

  I’d get an erection!

  they happen at the worst times.

  In the bus

  In Science class

  I spent all Friday night thinking I must be

  perverted to get excited during Science!

  so, I can’t ask my teachers, or friends,

  Dad?

  it’s so long since he had sex

  he’d have trouble remembering.

  I’d be better asking him

  about nose hair!

  Desiree!

  She’ll tell me . . .

  Desiree on sex

  “Des, I want to know about sex.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how, why, when, & who with.”

  “How is simple. Hands, lips

  kissing, touching.

  Why? Because it feels good

  and costs nothing, except

  for the condom.

  When? When Dad’s not home.

  Or on the weekend, somewhere nice,

  like the hut near Megalong Creek.

  Who with? Can’t help you, sorry.

  Why not ask Annabel Browning on a date?

  You keep talking about her . . .”

  Trust Desiree to answer

  everything about sex in about fifty words

  and bring up Annabel Browning.

  Another poem on sex, sport, & nose hair

  Sex is late-night games on the computer

  thinking “there must be better things to do”.

  Sex is the morning newspaper crimes

  with my Dad shaking his head

  saying “what a world, what a world”.

  Sex is with a condom

  or so the school counsellor says.

  Sex is the beach in summer

  the smell of suntan oil

  the long train ride home, alone,

  reading a book.

  Sex is acne, greasy hair, and shopping

  for the Hollywood gloss of magazines

  and movies.

  Sport is as much energy as sex

  yet half the fun, I imagine.

  Sport is the only time

  you’d get me wrapping my arms

  around Peter Blake’s legs!

  Sport is the way we decide who should

  be the School Captain.

  Sport is money, broken noses, & played

  by guys with thick necks!

  Nose hair is my destiny.

  Nose hair will prevent me from having sex

  until I’m too old to care.

  Nose hair is the first thing I check in the morning.

  Nose hair bristles in the afternoon wind.

  Nose hair keeps my mind off girls, maths,

  and the adventure of sleeping.

  A writer

  I’m going to be a writer

  I decided yesterday

  while Ms Curling, my Art teacher,

  had my head cradled in her arms,

  wiping my brow

  with a warm towel.

  We were surrounded by

  twenty-one fellow students, all in football gear,

  and two less-concerned teachers.

  It seems my face and someone’s elbow

  had a close encounter.

  the result, Ms Curling’s Chanel #5

  wafting through

  my newly-broken nose.

  Maybe it was this,

  and her concerned caress,

  or the thought

  of another fifteen games

  left in the season

  that decided it . . .

  yes

  I’m going to be a writer

  beat the typewriter

  not my mates

  no more change-room jokes on muscles

  or competitions for the smelliest socks.

  I’m retiring

  joining the guys on the outer.

  I’m going to wear dark clothes

  and an intense expression.

  If nothing else

  I hope it will attract the girls.

  The great poem

  I have just written a great poem.

  A Classic.

  One that’s so good

  University Professors will read it, badly,

  in front of hundreds of students

  twenty years

  after I die

  to prove to the world

  what a jewel

  what a gift

  what a gem

  I gave

  what a poet I was.

  Here in my Blue Mountains garret

  I light another imaginary cigarette

  to celebrate

  death and the poem.

  I’m sending it to every publisher in the land

  I want them to fight for it

  I’m sitting at my desk trying to choose the pen

  I’ll use to sign the contracts

  to sign the Movie Rights

  I’m sorry it’s night, or I’d ring the Chat Shows

  to arrange to read it live to the Nation!

  Ms Curling, my Dad, Desiree

  will shake their heads in disbelief.

  A great poem from “what’s his name” . . .

  Love is like a gobstopper

  Love is like a gobstopper

  it’s true

  you spend all your childhood

  wanting that perfect round life-giving

  never-ending ball of sweetness

  you look through the shop window

  your mouth waters

  legs shake

  eyes go in and out of focus

  until that desired gobstopper is yours.

  You hold it

  cherish it

  kiss it

  dream about it

  sleep with it under your pillow

  wake up sticky

  and hope you’ll never be alone

  but like all lovers

  you want more

  so one tempting night

  you close your eyes

  push it all the way into your mouth

  and taste its wonder

  then you swallow it

  choke

  and die!

  Love is like a gobstopper.

  Desiree on facial hair

  It’s Jack who’s to blame

  his obsession with facial hair

  has got me looking at my moustache

  God! he’s even got me calling it that

  when it’s only light lip hair

  and now I can’t look at anyone

  without noticing the shadow above their mouth.

  Three weeks of research has proven

  that every woman I know has facial hair.

  The only people without it seem to be

  models and movie stars

  and we all know about their grip on reality!

  so I’m keeping mine

  despite my hairdresser

  mentioning it every time I see her.

  Waxing, electrolysis, dyeing —

  give me a break.

  And besides, I’m beginning to like it

  maybe Jack is right

  maybe it is sexy

  let’s face it

  it’s certainly more attractive than nose hair.

  Violence in the Family

  Today I’m going to watch my Dad

  hit a white ball with a big silver stick

  when he’s hit the ball

  he’s going to walk after it

  carrying a whole bag of big sticks

  when he finds the ball, hiding, grass-stained

  he’s going to hit it again

  until it does what it’s told

  and falls in the hole.

  Sometimes it refuses

  and he bashes the big stick

  on the ground in threat

  occasionally he drowns the ball in a lake

 
and walks silently away

  once he stamped his petulant feet

  quickly looked around

  alone, and ashamed

  and gave the little ball an almighty smack.

  After doing this for a few hours

  he’ll put the ball and sticks in the car

  drive home

  and boast about his game to me and Des.

  One day he asked Desiree to join him

  but she smiled no

  as she took a knife from the drawer

  went to the fridge

  dragged an onion out

  and slowly, deliberately

  cut its head off.

  There’s a Ghost in Our House

  Cancer

  They said it was a harmless lump

  it wasn’t

  they said the signs were good

  they weren’t

  they said she needed tests

  we all did

  they said they found it too late

  no, too early

  they said she had six months

  she didn’t

  they said the pills eased the pain

  they only gave them to Mum

  they said Dad was being strong

  he wasn’t

  they said Desiree and I didn’t understand

  we did

  they said it was hereditary

  now Dad calls the doctor if I get a headache

  they said the hospital room smelt fresh

  it smelt of death

  they said the funeral was stirring

  we came home alone.

  Don’t believe

  Don’t believe in leaders

  don’t believe anyone who calls you mate

  twice in one sentence

  don’t believe in people who always do what’s right

  don’t believe in people with religious placards

  who stop you in the street and say

  “this will only take five minutes of your time”

  don’t believe in tax cuts

  don’t believe anyone who parts their hair in the middle

  don’t believe what you read, unless I wrote it

  don’t believe stallholders at community markets

  who say “yes, of course it’s handcrafted”

  don’t believe school counsellors

  who say they can help you

  don’t believe in money, unless you’ve got some

  don’t believe in pop stars with runny noses

  don’t believe pop stars anyway

  don’t believe teachers

  they really want to dress like that

  don’t believe anyone who votes Liberal

  don’t believe anyone who votes National