Wayne Scheggia



Walking Through Mud


youíre walking through mud

knee deep in the sludge of mid-life

if you go under

you wont come back up



like an ant in tree sap

engulfed by the slow moving tide


of inevitability


of reality


of forty-something



anchored with lifeís burdens

manacled to your ankles

vacuumed to the spot

misery sucks


but youíre not alone

weíve all got mud on our shoes



Melbourne Weather

Iím on my guard

in case todayís another day

of rotating seasons

she shifts and changes

quicker than the Melbourne weather


Spring in the morning

hot Summer lunchtime

like the St.Kilda Road Elms in Autumn

rationality falls away

Winter gathers on the afternoon horizon


It moves across her

like a massing storm over Port Phillip Bay

from bright blue

menacing deep green

to the darkest of violent black moods


This is how itís been

for weeks into months

a Luna Park rollercoaster

riding through our lives

on the outside rail


I donít think I can hang on anymore.



Please Take Away My Mobile Phone

there is a liar attached to my ear

Itís like a lethal weapon in my hand

it gets me into trouble Ė more than itís worth


it calls my friends of its own volition

pretends that Iím intoxicated to the limit

by some plentiful drug of choice


it articulates words that I donít recall

confesses my likes, loves and not

it gives away my secrets


it does this in the early hours

when Iím not around to supervise

when Iím not quite there at all


please take away my mobile phone




So Lucky

standing in front of the mirror

dripping wet from the shower

a body beautiful

like a long slender river

she flowed


exploring her own perfection

imperfection surfaced


a blemish

a lump

a growth


for Godís sake call it by its name




early detection is crucial

they said

youíre lucky weíve got it so quickly

they said


oh so lucky

we echoed


so lucky, they cut off her chest

so lucky, they burned her with radiation

so lucky, they poisoned her with chemo


so lucky


she doesnít stand in front of the mirror any more


Where Will It End ?


So theyíve lined up all the aces,

An unbeatable hand,

These kings of the world,

Not a wise man among them,

Playing for high stakes.


Time to cut out the cancer,

And remove the irritation,

Itís a sick kind of medicine,

That creates the disease,

To justify the cure.


Itís often been said,

That we despise in others,

What we see in ourselves,

And like a flash from Hiroshima,

The view from Baghdad is blinding.


We stand on the brink,

They are calling our bluff,

Thereís talk of only one option,

Donít you see the irony,

In a war to end war ?


Ghosts of Vietnam,

The dominoes are falling,

North Korea has shaken off the fleece,

And I wonder where it will all end,

As I tuck my children tightly into bed.


Wayne Scheggia

February, 2003