It is the weight of the heat that I struggle to bear
a relentless oppressiveness that burns my skin
I am surrounded by its stillness its density
dehydration works from the outside in
my surface is sweaty gritty debris
constant exposure is to wither
and shade is no relief
at 48 degrees the sun
robs me of my water
a remorseless thief
I went down to see the majority in action gathering in the square
the surging crowd the chanting voice of many people was there
yet I missed the deferring whisper of others from the crowd
the minority of a democracy was absent / quiet as a shroud
and wither was their point of view drowned in slogans and revile
the future of inclusiveness dominated by slurs that defile
I looked for the different colours here the different sounds and where
I found such difference I did recoil at its oppressed nature there
then cans were rattled the songs were long about victory and strength
but for those lost and weak who did not belong there was to be no defence
as push came to shove and drama spilled onto this public stage
the large protest became a test of where the power is really laid
how it would be used to push a point of view not clear to absolutely everyone
unless to power they were already connected or held the butt of a gun
there is apparently no place for everyone under our glowing democratic sun
for those left out it was time to think and maybe time to run
Wu comprises the ethereal properties every astute observer and collector seeks to discover and contemplate in a work of art. Through soul deep application of mind to work, the true artist unconsciously transfers the elements of wu into each piece. Wu is found in the place where heart, spirit, creativity and labour merge to engender an aesthetic completeness that can make an observer’s personal appreciation a deep and pleasurable experience.
As such, the wu in any work of art reflects the embodiment of each creator proportionate to their skill and ways of knowing and communicating the intent of their work. Through ingrained wu the observer can in turn identify, absorb and emotionally connect with the very personal elements thereby embedded.
Deliberate reflection and attendance to the presence of wu precipitates the flow of emotion, peaceful or turbulent, and intrinsic understanding that is the purpose of all art. Only through wu can the observer hope to be truly moved by the artist’s creation, its existence, its presence in the now.
Note: this is my development of the concept of “wu”, an idea referred to by Philip K. Dick in his masterpiece of science fiction ‘The Man in the High Castle‘.
We recently had to evacuate three generations of our family from three households across northern and central Victoria. Due to multiple and extensive bushfires, we watched with anxiety as they flared and ebbed and flared again towards our various homes. Fortunately, we all returned to intact houses. Many were not so lucky.
As the climate situation gets worse, with every New Summer we feel the new fear rise again.
All work is my own and you can share it as much as you like.
I meet her every Sunday morning
we have two cups of tea
I haven’t been sure why I go
but she seems to like to see me
I guess it’s because she’s lonely
and I’m the only one left around
with any sort of connection to her
for her it’s a pretty empty town
she always puts a face on
and she has two types of tea
would I prefer black or green?
a nice gesture
but it’s all the same to me
maybe a couple of biscuits?
shortbreads or Chocolate Royals
artfully presented on a floral plate
immediately after the kettle has boiled
we start with a chat about the weather
during the previous week
we could talk about it forever
but actually that’s not why we meet
she was ninety last December
you wouldn’t know it though
all her friends and rellies dead and gone
I guess that makes my visits a special sort of show
me, her brother’s son’s son
I didn’t even know we were related
until she called me on the phone
she said she had something to give me
since her nephew was now also gone
I was hesitant, but I went around
choosing right from wrong
and we seemed to settle into a pattern
after great great grandad’s medals she passed on
it’s interesting I guess hearing about her life
and she asks about mine too
I think she wants to check
I’m not in any strife
she was in a war too you know
New Guinea
at the bottom of the Kokoda Trail
a young nurse waiting for injured soldiers
she has lots of horror stories to tell
and many that make me smile
one day she let on one of those soldiers was her dear oldest brother
he didn’t make it to the hospital tent
she told me he was dead by the time they got him down
she says the world lost a rascal and a gent
he’d been stabbed in the stomach and hit by a round
the Japanese bayonet wound went septic
they gave her a morning off to grieve and to see his body sent
she became a union activist after the war was over
the women had been doing the “men’s” work
but when the men returned working women were just seen as a bother
she saw her job as helping women stand up for what was right
she really was a pioneer, one with great foresight
however, she was largely a teacup without a storm
still she spoke out and fronted for the fight
even though inequality again became the norm
she says the women had proved their worth
yet society again reverted to the patriarchal curse
nonetheless she says she has never been bitter
just encouraged to try harder for more jobs and equal pay
sad she says though
that equal pay for women is still not a reality today
she has outlived her husband and three children now
sometimes she talks about them sadly
then she always perks up when she asks
if she can recount their quirks and talents
so I learn ever more about them quite gladly
my parents are divorced and always hostile and angry
consequently I don’t want to see them much
however I do sometimes wonder if they ever talk about me
with such a loving parental touch?
I tell her about my partner and my favourite things in life
she listens intently to my prattling and often offers up good advice
come to think of it I kind of like it
this tea for two with my great aunt
in fact I can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday morning
if I’m honest I really can’t.
All work is my own unless otherwise stated. I do not use AI.
dancing in the living room
to The Beatles Twist and Shout
shaking off all the gloom
working it all out
will I dance tomorrow?
you better believe it mate
because there’s always something to look forward to tomorrow
and free dancing feels great
I do a little bit of a twist
a bit of rock around the clock
I like to give it my best
a bit of pop and lock
if anyone wants to join me
rock, techno, blues or pop
there's no aggro or shaming
just celebrating music until you drop
I wake at 4 in the morning
in the small hours
when small things matter
and ideas can repeat in your brain
taking on more significance than they deserve
eroding your ability to unwind
like a tap dripping in the next room
but not this morning
this morning it is soft rain I hear
gently tinkling on the metal
of the carport roof outside
it is warm under the covers
I feel secure
as your soft regular breathing resumes
after you roll onto your side next to me
was it an interrupted dream?
I like not knowing everything that goes on in your head
after all these years you can still surprise me
I snuggle up to your back
and rest my forehead between your shoulder blades
as I contemplate what it is to be us
your heels settle into the angle of my ankles
your calves align with my shins
your thighs mold to mine
and your backside schmoozes deliciously into my groin
I raise my head to create more space
so I can wrap my arms around you
pulling your upper body into mine
as my arms embrace your warmth
I soak up your textures
I draw in your smell
with my eyes closed
I sense every point at which we touch
I feel our body rhythms synchronise
as my muscles relax
and my mind smiles
with the intimate pleasure
of as much body contact as we can muster
I savour the moment
as peaceful sleep reclaims me
For today’s dVerse Poetics, Sanaa asked we poets to write a poem about love as something quietly sacred — not just roses and hearts, but the small, unseen ways. A confession upfront, I wrote this poem for my wife years ago. It remains one of my favourites and I thought it fitted the prompt so well I just had to repost it. FYI, this poem still speaks the truth. My darling, I love you.
The last time I saw my mother she sent me a kiss across the void. Two fingers touched her puckered lips, then cast into the air was a kiss at the mercy of the stiff breeze blowing everyone’s hats away. Was I meant to catch it? I have never really been sure. One reason was it appeared to be barely cast in my direction, the other was that she was in fact looking at her new husband as her hand regally flicked yet another token on another impossible journey of placation. She, number three plus stupid yappy little dog were on a boat to somewhere. Ten year old me? I was left standing on the dock unaware somewhere meant this was our last almost acknowledgement of each other. One thing I learnt that day to believe forever is lips forget what they have kissed.
For today’s dVerse 144 word prosery challenge, Mish chose the following line from Toni Morrison’s evocative poem, “Eve Remembering”. “Lips forget what they have kissed.” Besides writing eleven novels, five children’s books, two plays and an opera, Toni was the author of “Five Poems“, first published in 2002. You can read them here (well worth a read). I chose to respond to the challenge with a work of flash fiction that hits the 144 word sweet spot precisely.
All work is my own. I do not use AI.
The morning was full of parrots
They clambered over chairs
many perched amongst the maples
and through the windows they did stare
their incessant voices calling
their colours deep and and bright
I wondered how long they had been there?
had they been out there all night?
it was bedlam on the verandah
it was getting messy on the deck
all so they could have a gander
the new occupants they came to check
would we feed them like they were used to?
or leave them to their own means?
were they welcome to visit regularly?
or was that just a parrot dream?
I met a hungry echidna
with spiky spines all over I’m not kiddin’ ya
it flicked its tongue from its beak
for the ants it did seek
you thought I was kiddin ya, didn’t ya?
There is a cut elm log
in the shade of a large ash tree
on which I like to sit out of the sun
from which I like to look out
or in at me
who am l? I ask
most reverently
then discussion ensues
determinedly
I pause to think
on the answers I hear
I pause and reflect
on what comes to bear
with my elbows placed
gently
upon my knees
I balance my chin
while I shoot the breeze
in memory I keep
a record of my thoughts
from under the tree
where ideas are caught
my log from a log
stores in signs and degrees
while I sit in the shade
shooting the breeze
The first of a new year of TT and the happenings amongst the small community on the Tableland. I know I said I would resume poetry posts at the end of last year and I have been writing, but somehow posting time seems to have eluded me. 2025 was a tough year in several ways and this year isn’t off to a great start. Still more poetry on https://poetograhy.ink is very much on my mind. I have also treated myself to a new camera which I am looking forward to applying my skills too. So dear reader, don’t give up on me yet!
poetography.ink 