1 July 2022
A birthday poem for our Aunty
An old-fashioned television
all black and grey
on wooden legs
in my parents’
dim lounge room
face as grey as today
James Dibble’s serious face
raised television out of
an ocean of radio
His voice rose out
an ocean of background noise
and was as slender
as a poppy stem
In the lounge room
Kennedy was shot
in black and white
the grey shuddering
motions ending a dream
Holt was drowned
the words were blind
and he didn’t come
out of the ocean
Peter Baster told us
Armstrong took
a single step
a giant leap
on behalf of us
in a stranger’s
crowded lounge room
Pockley and Royal
explaining it
Brian played
all the new music
then Brian told us
and we believed him
about it all
My aunty was young
and told me everything,
and taught me the Twist,
sang Moon River
when it was a pop song
My mother’s sister
got old and died
My Aunty turns 90
this year
and I still love her
Some people hated
and tried to starve her
but she’s tough
doing better now
as long as she gets
some proper care
A much younger
Aunty Jack turned from the grey
and gave us colour
just before midnight
on that special night
My old Aunty made us trust
a wise sister called Sarah,
a brother named Kerry,
introduced us to Antony
to predict election results,
and brought all sorts of other
neighbourhood characters
into our lounge rooms.
Happy birthday, Aunty,
and thanks for everything.
