Noel Jeffs

Tired is My Face

Hello, tired is my face

The dome of countenance, after the creation of disarray and I have completed the work beyond upset an liminality

God is sometimes speed and I am slow and sometimes confused, beyond the trials of others,

As they reframe my work,

Will I geta newspaper today, do I trust or

Speculate is there a password for every document and a pin number

A lot is untended and the afternoon sorbet was nice,

Darling we have time

Pantry Moths

Noel Jeffs

The blight of pantry moths —

as I sit in this darkness

on a hot day,

a jacaranda outside,

and I search for help

with my desktop work.

They infest my life.

Some are bright,

others have been at work a lot.

My carer took out the vacuum cleaner

this morning,

sucked them down —

and still they persist.

They hide in strange places,

emerge from clothes,

and haunt my television

in heat and light.

It is a full-time occupation

for a man with sore feet.

There are angel faces

and lacewings —

but these are black

and spot the ceiling.

They are not dragonflies,

but they breed.

I have sent him to Bunnings

for the traps.

We do well —

yet still

they persist.

☾ ☾ ☾

Swipe

Noel Jeffs

Swipe, he said.

Another whispered, *take a screenshot* —

and I felt afraid,

my manual dexterity trembling

in its probationary life.

A streak, a stage

in my eclectic passage —

mistakes and imperfections

plighting me.

A long-time waiting,

and still I pray for more:

to play, to remain.

Outside, the rainbow lorikeets

are noisy with their colour.

Again, it is my decimalisation,

and I stand in a world

leaning toward aspiration.

I see hope and future —

a lifetime of joy,

and perhaps salvation.

And sometimes

the night grows colder.

☾ ☾ ☾