This is a fantastic day walk in the Victoria High County near Mansfield. Autumn laid on a delightful smorgasbord of wildflowers and clear skies. For the full map, photos and description see my online publication here: https://walkingmaps.com.au/walk/5822
Man
built over grassland
built into sky
built atop mountains
to nature defy
built into forest
built under water
built in the desert
built bricks and mortar
built with cut wood
built with the earth
never understood
non stop building is death
every built patch a carnage
every built patch an ending
every built patch a destruction of what nature would have seen
every built patch an obliteration of what nature could have been
In the not too distant future
things will begin to disappear
human things
cultural things
things like genuine creative work
design, construction, music, literature, imagery, art
and
not much later
human well-being
Instead
they will be by-passed
replaced by data mined
composites
of all these things
that went before
--------------------------------
Concepts and constructs
developed by
any human individual
are exclusively
part of
the human condition:
..... human creativity
Such human
processes and creation
are
being systematically
misappropriated
for the purpose
of
profiteering
by mere replicants
for mere replication
to satisfy
uncontrolled
greed
and
aspirations
of the few
at the expense
of
the many
This application of AI
is not good for
individual human
health or well-being
This application of AI
is not good for
societal
health or well-being
This application of AI
will undermine
the survival of
human
civilisation
This is not likely
to be a road
from which humanity
can return
General Intelligence
is the next stop
Where humanity will be asked
either politely or forcibly
to get off the bus
….. walk toward the mirage
….. and disappear into it
This crumbling old bridge was once an entrance to the town
but these days another road goes another way around
and the old bridge isn't even a walking bridge today
as its rotten frame collapses in an advanced state of decay
I'd like to see we walkers reclaim this historic bridge and road
reimagined and rebuilt it would easily take that load
we would walk both sides of the water accessed by its span
travel both embankments knowing we safely can
return by the old bridge to where we began to roam
enjoying nature's reclaimed beauty right here by our town
Sydney Harbour is a beautiful place
The water, the bridge, the ferries, the space
To love Sydney and Melbourne is no disgrace
Both cities are really to everyone's taste
True forest paths are not seen
but felt
it is fair to say
the engineered tracks
of man are just a gash
of impudent human display
observe the busy insects
fly passages through the air
they’ll not prop
at copse or rock
they will find their own way there
and the animals
patter many trails
with a purpose we often guess not ken
they wend their way
over hill and dale
then back home again
with nary a blight
touch the landscape so light
could we aspire to accomplish
this when
our heavy footprint
leaves such a dent
on hillside, plain and fen
such a blight
such an intrusive pity
the forest is sliced
as with so many knives
the forest is cut up as a city
Flights of fantasy
flights for death
flights for transport
take away your breath
At the crack of thunder a handsome young colt took flight
down the alpine spine
he dashed and crashed through alpine scrub
until he had arrived
in the sheltered valley amongst his mob
that gave him comfort and respite
from the raging storm that crowned the mountain
turning day into night
his tremor settled as he sidled up to his grazing mother
the elder mare
she turned her head to see the sweat on his flanks
the rolling eyes of fear
she nuzzled licked and settled him
with a maternal stare
curious young Brumbies wander alone all to often
with reckless care
and all to often intelligently they navigate and interrogate
the delicate high country
strong and predator free they browse moss fields and trees
leaving only debris
as well the large wild Brumby mobs roam freely about as if
the place were theirs to own
they churn the creeks and chop the wafer thin soil
to its rocky bones
the wild horses of the Australian bush are part
of history myth and legend
but their introduced arrival on colonial fleets
often goes unmentioned
noble creatures of the northern hemisphere they cast
dark highborn shadows
across native southern habitats their hard hooves and heavy weights
disrupt natural indigenous flows
Today Dora asked we poets to write to a general prompt about horses. She included several remarkable sample poems you might like to read here https://dversepoets.com/2024/07/23/poetics-running-with-horses/ I chose to write about our local Australian wild horses, Brumbies. As an introduced species, Brumbies are controversial, both celebrated and appreciated. I hope to have developed the reasons why in my poem.
The river of love that runs through my heart
is a river that flows straight to you sweetheart
and when it comes time for me to depart
my spirits will be high as I impart
my gladness at receiving love’s joyful dart
from you
to pierce my once armoured heart
During the fires even the soil burnt hot
Many places recover some do not
New forests grow green under dead wood thick
Skeleton forests are bone white and ground is black
Melbourne has a rich architectural heritage. Sadly, much was lost to development in the 1970s. However, an innovative present is some consolation. I love to walk around the city taking photographs of the preserved buildings/facades of yesterday and the creative designs of today. I hope you, my reader, enjoy the view too.
These black shoes made prominent display
in their window on a cold, wet day
the sole remainders of a winter sale
thrust forward beyond blue veil
walk in my shoes for the rest of the tale
Where is the rain that fell on me
six months now the heavens have sweated dry
where is the rain that fell between
the earth and a cloud filled sky
it isn’t only that it remains unseen
but unfelt as the red dirt cracks and dries
the grasses wither to browned off greens
spelling disaster as this hot summer fries
I remember rain, it’s cold wet drops
splashing, a nuisance, a bother
rain washing down canopies and from rooftops
falling as spits or sheets, one on top of another
I knew of its coming as thunder heads piled
as heavy wet clouds gathered and unfurled
awaiting the deluge all the while
or misting blankets that obliterated the world
as mirrored droplets clung to trees
sound was absorbed as water swirled
spiderwebs glistened in the wet breeze
the only sound was water hurled
I miss the damp of the atmosphere
now a thimble lost is a terrible waste
who would have thought rain so dear
how lovely to feel it, wet upon my face
Where the water is the sky
and sky blue is water too
I sit and with my eye
nature's perfection do I spy
Clusters of pink
bundles of green
frosty treat
winter morning
I lost myself amongst the scarlet sage
in the peaks and valleys of the Dancing Range
where the red earth is cracked with heat and age
where the hills themselves whirl in fiery rage
where my love bewitched by a tyrant mage
was broken, his desire to assuage
I hunted them daily in this moving maze
of shifting hills and surface crazed
every dawn the landscape rearranged
to bewilder the hunter until deranged
to trap me in this rolling cage
of shifting hills and surface crazed
of endless paths endlessly paved
reaching only the ends of this mage depraved
I searched shapeless valleys I scoured the peaks
climbing and descending weeks and weeks
his lair it seemed I could not find
until I had a change of mind
was this real where hills could rise
where valleys could twist before my eyes?
was I confused by spell or malign charm
was it my brain doing much of the harm
could I separate my thoughts from my pain
logically concentrate to search again?
I sat a day to plan my way
to find a new route to my prey
a map I would make to display
a grid of my searching every day
the shifting landscape I would ignore
only compass and distance would I score
disoriented I would be no more
I would come upon mage's door
for three days I laboured under blazing sun
everything turned but I was not spun
I found what I wanted I knew I had won
a door in a hillside that must be the one
I steeled my nerves and I drew my sword
I gritted my teeth and charged the door
it shattered as inside I bore
shocking the mage to his very core
taking full advantage of his acute surprise
I smote him between his evil eyes
and so the tyrant mage fell and died
as behind him the love of my life I spied
we fell into each others arms
the death of the mage broke the wicked charm
on my tears of relief she was free from harm
shifting hills and valleys were at once becalmed
Melissa introduced we poets to artist Alma Thomas for this week’s dVerse prompt. We were charged with choosing one of her paintings and writing what the work evoked for each of us.
Mountains stand above valley and plain
ranging over extensive stage
mountains never look the same
mountains turn many a page
cloaked white in winter's fog and snow
clad in the green shades of spring
baked by summer’s hot yellow sun
in autumn’s many colours seen
softened by forest leaf en masse
capped with crags of hardened stone
eternally surveying woodland and grass
water and desert from lofty throne
Bear me brother
Bear me well
Bear me from this churning, bloody hell
carry me brother across your broad back
to escape the carnage of bullet, chemical and flack
your boots are heavy, clotted with mud
your uniform rain sodden, stained with blood
your rifle I can no longer see
across your shoulders you trudge with me
my head flops flaccidly I wake and sleep
or is it unconsciousness that takes me deep
away from pain and brutal surrounds
the crashing violence of artillery rounds
the moans of others gashed, crushed and burned
the landscape blackened the ground turned
my noble saviour
my hero of a man
my rescuer of honour
one who does what he can
as you bear me to safety out of harms way
will you release me to live again
or fight another day?
I collect recoded music. I have it in every form other than bakerlite cylinders and 78s: LP, tape, CD, MD, device stored and streamed. Literally, thousands of recordings. Sometimes, I feel like an imposter. How dare I appreciate music when the best musician I could ever be described is a very poor dabbler?
However, there is a redeeming feature to my passion (obsession) for everything musical – awe. I am in awe of musicians, their talents and the beauty they create.
When I listen to many pieces of music I find myself in a transcendent state. The power of music to stimulate or change my emotions is profound, is magical, is spiritual. Play me Pink Floyd’s “Dark side of the moon”, Miles Davis’ “Blue” or Bach’s “Brandenburg Concertos” and lose me to repeated epiphany – human artistry is awesome. I learn this over and over again. Take me to a local pub or concert hall to see a live performance and I will often be in my very own version of heaven.
It doesn’t matter where or when, music makes me whole again. Over and over. I thank the musicians who complete me. I wish I could tell each one personally the gratitude I feel for their creativity, their talent, their application, their consequence of putting so much musical awe in my and many other people’s lives.
poetography.ink 