Walking Dip Lane, Sheans Creek
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Author Archives: seanatbogie
Shipwreck
Despite the many brave
She was taken by the waves
To a watery grave
No one was saved
Hole
of the hole in the wall
Mere
This is the spot I like to sit
and watch the bees at work
this mere is the spot I take my rest
reflect on the mysteries of life’s cirque
to see the flowers pollinated
to see the caterpillar form and eat
to watch the chrysalis deliver
the pretty butterfly to floral seat
to watch the autumn turn green cloaking
to dusky yellow, reds and browns
before stripping bare and thus exposing
woody boughs for next years round
and in spring I observe the flourishing
of vivid sprouts and blooms from sleep
when they give energy nourishing
to new growth it fills me, replete
in knowing summer will again warm me
in this spot at nature's feet
Ink
As I write
I’m in between
the space of work
and home yet seen
I fill my time
in this nowhere land
writing poetry
without a brand
brandless poetry
there’s a thought
cos without a brand
it comes to nought
do I care?
not really no
I do it for pleasure
not for the show
but if I’m honest
I’d like it seen
by some of the public
ah, that’s just a dream
I sit on the train
I write in between
I write and think
what does it mean
this purposeless ink?
Thanks to Dora. This week’s dVerse poetics challenge was to use the concept of liminal in a work. I found myself writing in exactly that space, as I often do. Sorry, I missed the Mr Linky cut though!
Evening
At evening when the sunsets vary
when the birds settle in roosts far and wide
when the lowing cattle lie down to cud
I reflect on days toil and try to decide
will I stay on here with Mary
will we try another place far away
will it change anything really?
or is it just another run and hide
no loss can transport you to such misery
no grief can claim you so deep inside
like the death of the most precious to you
the loss of a loved first born child
Golden
Ah, the light of the golden hour
the yellow wash of dawn’s breaking sun
such pleasure in the early morn
omen for a another day of wonder
beautifully begun
Tableland Talk June 2024
This month’s edition of the small local newsletter I edit.
Luxury
The luxury of poetry
the images created there
the pleasantries of high art
the challenges laid bare
the thoughts on truth and beauty
the ugly brutal truth
the clearly written words
the affected words forsooth
the scibblings of a madman
the writing of a scribe
the wounds of the wounded
the dying and dead imbibed
the love of many lovers
the truth and pain of love
the anxiety of living
the wonder of it hereof
the unitary or divisive delivery
of hell or heaven above
Lake Colac Pelicans: the break up and the make up
Autumn
Ah, this last of exquisite autumn days
the slant of light of breaking rays
through fractured clouds to which some might say
how disappointing this grey sky day
but the rays of light delighted me
the yellow bands proportionately
dominate the view, you can’t but see
the illumination of everything touched by these
and in that light the detail found
from sun's surface waves inbound
everything on earth reflects colour and pleasure
if you look hard enough for work or leisure
an architect's masterpiece of blossoming features
or a beautiful flower of imperfect creases
see the light touch your skin
examine the surface you find yourself in
think of yourself as embodied light
the light within grants power of sight
and if you think deeper you just might
fully appreciate autumn's dying light
Butterflies
Egg, caterpillar, chrysalis and butterfly
a fascinating life cycle my oh my
then at the end away they fly
all love to watch them flying by
those butterflies, an erratic sight
one that engages non linear flight.
on colourful platform will alight,
when the season is just right
pollinating from flower to flower
ideally protected by leafy bower
delight to watch them hour on hour
on floral carpet or growing tower
five flaps per second, a butterfly flits
up then down in lifts and dips
with dramatic wings nature equips
tasting food with feet, strange butterfly grips
each of four wings are made of scales
as bright and light as gossamer sails
ragged wings are when flight fails
end of days on hills and dales
oh how I love the butterflies
that brush the earth and fill the skies
becoming endangered, my heart cries
only stillness and emptiness when every butterfly dies
Cherub
Rest easy little cherub
now day’s busy work is done
and weary tiredness overtakes you
at time of setting sun
when angelic peace comes at last
to your adored and relaxed face
your long soft lashes upon your cheeks
a picture of beauty of grace
as your breathing calms and settles
to the rhythmic patterns of sleep
your flickering eyes and twitching hands
tell of happy dreams so deep
what is it you dream of?
repeating the days play?
of parents love, of sister?
good things only I dare say
sleep calm and in comfort
your next best day yet to come
your time at rest is precious
my small and lovely one
it’s the same for mum and dad
the quiet of the night
is also the time for peacefulness
and short time of respite
before another day of fun begins
of looking, touch, smell and taste
of learning from tears and joy
no exploration gone to waste
so wake up at days dawning
brighten up the skies
play away the morning
give more pleasure to our lives
River #04
this river rolls alluringly
deep and slow
so full and powerful I cry
take me
take me river before I should die
take me dear river to wherever you go
I’ll ride you there fast I’ll ride you there slow
and river my river I’ll love you always
I’ll drift on and caress you the rest of my days
I’ll wind through your meanders
and sing with your songs
we’ll seed fertile plains and fill billabongs
river my lover take me I’m yours
through all seasons we'll wander
I’ll never ship oars
Lisa prompted we poets with pilgrimage, wandering or walkabout for the dVerse challenge this week. I have recently been wandering, on walkabout, writing about rivers, and so came to #04.
Obstreperous
I wish I was obstreperous
Enjoying life without restraint
I’d bounce around the place
Doing things thought quaint
I’d manage to be boisterous
In every sort of setting
Demanding attention having fun
Without being annoying or letting
Friends and family get tired of me
I’d remind them of my flair
I’d wear colourful clothes
Say colourful things
And coif outrageous hair
Vehicle
who are you a vehicle for
who is it you pick up and return to their door
who asks you to do things then asks the score
who takes but never gives more
who do you wait on while you self deplore
what is it you are waiting for?
Tableland Talk, May 2024
The very local Newsletter I edit each month.
Susurration
As we walk darkening late afternoon brown and empty park laneways
before the real cold of winter sets in
I hear the quiet susurration of fallen autumn leaves
as they are gently brushed by a murmuring breeze
the soft attentive voices of an anticipatory audience lining our path
sharing the intimate whisperings of love between you and me
Predator
Stealthy predator of malign intent
brought to a new country
evil sent
with no defences natives fall
like dominoes before claw and paw
colonising new territory by the day
nothing effective stands in the way
a death count of billions by today
an introduced plague that makes death play
indigenous species fall by the way
to arrest this devastation we catch and kill
but the feline mind eludes us still
and hand on heart
heart on sleeve
we witness endangerment extinction
and grieve
The dVerse prompt for we poets this week came from Melissa, to choose a Louis Wain artwork based on cats, and write a poem inspired by the artwork. One catch– we may not use the word cat. Other feline terminology is acceptable.
Kiss
That fist kiss
I dallied on your lips
I felt my head spin
a light and dreamy
state i was in
your breath was sweet
your tongue sweet too
your lips smooth and soft
like the rest of you
your hair on my cheeks
the sensation tantalising
your hands in my hair
encouraging and inviting
that first kiss told me everything
hearts really can sing
chemo
In my hands the grip on life is weakening
incessant tremor shakes my tenuous hold
in my voice the words are thickening
no longer resilient assertive or bold
in my falling hair no flowers will bloom
there is no lustre richness or growth
in my head there is no room
for pleasant thoughts or more to know
in my eyes the irises are black
darkened by illness, depletion and pain
they can’t look forward only back
to where I’ve been and will be again
in my nose the smells are fetid
ripe with the stench of sickness and rot
in my mouth the taste is wretched
appreciate what you have?
I think not!
mud
I walked the roads on my feet of clay
clods of mud trailing in my wake
thick and sticky gluey and grippy
wet and heavy from the rain
I thought to put down roots again
I sought out my home lost long ago
but when I found it and I stood still
I discovered my roots would no longer grow
Alter
Does it alter every morning when the light strikes the land
when sunlight ever bright or through grey skies hits the strand
do the shapes and forms move
under photon pressure waver
only photographer or artist heeds every little quaver
when dark crevices are lit
by yellow shimmer or dull purple patches
when mountains high or plains below
are patched with coloured swatches
when treed slopes or waving fields
bask in brilliant splendour
it is time to remember nothing is static
take time to appreciate and consider
Locket
I live in that locket
with you I’ll always be
a flower in that metal pocket
so you can always see
your lover at your breast
that lover always me
you wear upon your chest
your flower my honey bee
my image and lock of hair
to be there for evermore
so you my love take care
to continue to adore
Box
Behind the jackets
amongst the socks
between the T shirts
there sits a box
bagged in plastic
in cardboard bound
secured by elastic
without sound
the box of letters
still unopened by me
emotional fetters
too strong to see
This week’s prompt for we poets comes from Kim. We have been asked to write an autobiographical poem of three stanzas about a box. I have written on this before - my mother’s letters remain unread. Interestingly, I got very close to opening them just this week. The prompt was timely. Maybe next time I will have a different story to tell about the box. See the prompt here: dVerse.
poetography.ink 