Author Archives: seanatbogie

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About seanatbogie

Life has value when you choose to be interested and active. Content is subject to copyright.

If only …..

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If only you had stayed, I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones with you. Why wouldn’t you? We could have learnt together. Such contrasts are about opportunities, about understanding different perspectives, about understanding each other and how to live and love together. All sorts of days come and go. All types of moods. There are enough days for everything we could imagine sharing - good days and bad. If only you’d waited to see how bright the future could be. If only you had taken the time to see through the clouds to the clear air beyond, to project us into that space of hope and optimism. Instead you allowed us to falter at the first hurdle without even thinking to explore how we could make the dark days bright again. You succumbed to the transient storm as if it would last forever.

This week Kim’s dVerse Prosery Prompt comes from Walcott’s Dark August , “I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones with you.” The task was to write up to 144 words of prose incorporating this line. I chose to write a flash fiction about the disappointment of a short love affair quickly lost to stormy weather – in 144 words.

Tableland Talk, July 2025

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The very local newsletter I edit each month.

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Tableland Talk June 2025

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Waiting for the 2.42

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Flinders St Station Platform 10
Waiting for the 2.42
nothing much else to do
so we cuddle and kiss
oblivious
to the sensibilities of the other pair
sitting there

Room

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There is a room in a house on a hill without doors
nobody knows what it was put there for
because nobody knows that it has no doors

the room in the house is alone and forlorn
trapped by its emptiness without any doors
never able to hope for better or more
ne’er an open door through which to explore

Ariel is submarine

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Ariel was submarine once seen
where aquatic fossils scraped the sky
submarine is like a dream
of eternal meanderings passing by

like a book written within
like records of the past deep
until revealed or awoken
they have lain millennia asleep

Run river red run dry run dead

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Shean’s Creek floodplain River Reds.
In the Valley there are few trees now
since white settlement the river gums have bled
steadily back into ever depleting soil
the dehydrating sap bleeding red

some majestic sentinels remain 
on final watch across the floodplain
of gritty dust and cropped introduced grasses
as the parade of indigenous extinction passes
withdrawing from the flats 
retreating across the hills 
ascending to heaven after suffering grave ills

and the broken remnains of centuries of trees
stand skeletal or lie shattered on the ground 
as if awaiting a last chance for redemption 
after each falling whoosh and final thump of sound
in atonement for overseeing the loss of forest
they crave to protect their young who escape the cut
of plough or chainsaw or grazing teeth they

enfold survivors in fractured parental branches
fostering the roots beneath 
attempting nurture of trunk and leaf
but they have nothing left to bequeath
to young individuals left standing exposed 
to sadly age in grief
witness to a parasitic human occupation
a relentless quest by the future’s thief

Waterhole

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Water water
in that hole
I see water in that hole
been so dry a heavy toll
now I see water in a hole

drinking drinking 
drinking up
I keep drinking hands a cupped
all that water it’s going down
I keep drinking though it’s brown

walking staggering 
just how far
to another waterhole reservoir
the door of hope is now ajar
waterholes be my repertoire

heat and sun
pounding down
no further waterhole to be found
in the lee of boulders I go to ground
to die in shade without a sound


Going nuclear

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The idea of Australia going nuclear galls me
Mr Dutton with a finger on any nuclear button appals me
This land of sunshine vast spaces and mineral wealth
locked into a future of power hazardous to health
with effective contribution to the grid decades away
when we can scale up renewables here today

I am in a state of dismay
at nuclear plants throughout the land
of nuclear waste dumps / come contraband
of huge ongoing costs already astronomical
compared with falling costs efficient and economical

of obsolete technology by the time it is in place
when an ever improving tech is already here
its a disgrace
it’s sensible to consider it and review the outcomes
but not to legitimise it without proper data and sums
this is not a neutral decision and should not be
it is populist electoral baiting for a fait accompli

The nuclear legacy window is closing ready to be dismantled

Not whimsically enthroned and politically handled

Tableland Talk May edition

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Summer’s end

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Knight’s Road view, Strathbogie Tableland, Victoria.

Buildings of Melbourne

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Exhibition Street cityscape, Melbourne, Victoria.

Winton swamplands

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Autumn swamplands landscape, Winton, Victoria.

Blaze

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All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not permit AI to use my work.

Love signs

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Each kiss a little longer
hands running through my hair
a massage of my shoulder
a whisper in my ear 

hugs are that much tighter
gifts come with thoughtful care
the lifts are so much higher
the intimate things we share

welcome touches when we lie
lingering snuggles tight in bed
brushing tears when we cry
loving words never left unsaid

closing off the world around us
the opening of our own
full of love and trust
a permanent inner glow

holding hands whenever walking
some teasing and much fun
lost in each others eyes when talking
there’s no doubt about true love signs none

Scared of the new summer

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It makes pleasurable sense to live in the country
but I am apprehensive about what it means
when the blistering sun and a searing north wind 
are set to scorch the earth when they rise again

I am scared of the new summer on days like these 
marked for worsening catastrophes
where shimmering heat on the horizon it seems
prefaces the burning of landscapes by fire destined
to scour every countryside rise and glen
I feel the new summer fear rise again

I am scared of the new summer as you should be
when severe climate change dictates choice and activity

Of lovers and madness

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windshield art i30 heart Mt Wombat forest canopy
Love is oft mad
at least it is common
for those who are in love
to behave madly most often

whether love at first sight
or as an earned right
love’s haze can refuse 
the darkest of midnights
to acknowledge or confuse
bright beauteous light

thus driving one to action
bound later for redaction



for as Shakespeare said
in lines wise writ and read
“Things bad and vile, holding no quantity
love can transpose to form and dignity.” 

Ref: A Midsummer Night’s Dream II 232-233

The interrobang

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My version of the interrobang.
I introduce the 60 year old interrobang
the question mark as an exclamation cue
the bang originated as printer’s slang 
a punctuation mark infrequently used

query and emphasis are from whence it came
for the enhancement of modern writing
gives use of an interrobang strong claim 
a sting in the tail for subjects disquieting

Australian Raven / Crow

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I hear the rasping caw of the mortuary bird
alone at the top of a single skeletal tree
black feathered reaper scavenger and restorer
observer for signs of frailty failure and futility

calling to others announcing death as imminent
there at the carrion end of the cycle of life
crow presence at death's arrival is prescient 
beak and claw ready to tear and cut like a knife 

the murderous flock train beady eyes on their prey
awaiting the moment they can safely descend
they utter hexes for stillness at the meat of the day
aware their role is to share in marking the end

Tableland Talk April 2025

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Welcome

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From Southbank

enter Melbourne on a bright yellow footbridge 
under which the slow brown river flows

cross the river pass Flinders St station 
walk your way to the parliamentary ridge

you will pass the most diverse of nations
every ethnicity, every colour and language

and generally we live harmoniously 
although some would have it otherwise 
I swear they would have us live in catastrophe
but I refuse to cooperate with their lies

15 minutes at the tram stop

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The tram it is late the line it is clear
except for the gig riders in their weatherproof gear
the pedestrians dodge each other prop and weave
the boy on the kerb wipes his nose on his sleeve
the pigeons peck at spilt food on the street
lovers embrace and kiss when they meet
a young couple argue about where they should go
an old couple look sadly at the carnival show
that washes before them like the waves at high tide
where the truth is the water but the water lied 
and the city is a victim in the coils of a snake
the people are uncertain is this dream or awake
the man on the seat nearby smells of alcohol and sweat
his hair is matted his shoes are wet
and seagulls circle looking for something to steal
from trailing children with chip bags they conceal
there’s a dashing young man dressed up to kill
and a dazzling young woman sexualised to the hilt
a girl sitting on the path is blackened to the core
blackened teeth blackened eyes blackened soul blackened jaw
the sky it is ruby splattered with pearls
of sun setting starlets in blonde locks and curls
it’s a festival of side shows coloured and brash
 where faux credit has all but replaced cash
where art is artificial made by machines
where the grifters come to realise their schemes
a homeless woman drags herself past unstable and slow
and I’m ready so ready to go go go

The other side of the mountain

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The mountain ahead was a really big deal
with trees on its flanks but few flat green fields
up on the ridges were sharp flinty stones
this was the path I must travel alone
all through my young life I believed what they said
crossing the mountain was folly many ended up up dead

I dreamed of the mountain most every night
in my dreams of the mountain I looked up and took flight
over the mountain I did range I did soar
over the mountain I sought release from remorse
I scoured the slopes and I scoured the crown
but I saw little and little I found 
my dreams fell shattered and broke on the ground
I determined I must climb by foot from the town

I wandered for days on flat lands for a time
before reaching the base of the mountainous climb
the gentle foot hills were covered with flowers
the meadows were rich I crossed them in hours
the mountain itself was immediately steep
the forest was thick the scree cut my feet
I had to use switchbacks many miles for a few
only meters in altitude gained daily as I drew 
toward the top of the mountain’s ragged sharp peak
in crisp snow and cold air were answers I did seek 

I reached the summit with its razor sharp edge
I looked on the other side from a dizzying ledge
and what did I find on this remote outlook
enough for a page enough for a book
I found enough to shake me and to realise
that my thinking was blinkered by my very own lies

my remorse was false a craven escape
from fear of the truth in me now awake
I had thought it would be different on the other side
but all I discovered was another brutal slide 
and that I did not need to climb to be true
I needed to scramble all the way back down to you
to say I am sorry for the harm that I did
to understand the hurt that occurred when I fled
I am sorry for the struggle the wounds that I gave
I beg for forgiveness if there is any to be saved

Frank Poems

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(For Rain)

Written as a tribute to 1960s New York poet, Frank O'Hara. 
On February 26 
in the year of 2025
Rain brought Frank O’Hara to The Motley
for a short while he was reborn
in another place 
in another time
where the words of other worlds and other times 
are allowed to be reborn 
and encouraged to live on

I had forgotten the name Frank O’Hara
until Rain reminded me of the small orange and blue 1964 book I had recently been dipping into 
and here he was again
speaking again
speaking through Rain
being spoken of

the book is called “Lunch Poems”
I had come to think of him as a street poet
an observation recorder
but he is also a nonsense,  a blender, a masher of words
a poet whose name I hadn’t quite yet fully retained 
but I had sort of retained what he was doing at the time

Rain suggested I go and visit him on YouTube 
I found some short and grainy black and white film recordings of him reciting and explaining his work
we take such things for granted
but it felt miraculous to be in the room with him in those moments
I wished I could talk with him
still I absorbed what he read and said and I dare to paraphrase here

Poems
poems
are made of words
the words don’t have to mean anything 
poems are the vehicles
for words 
to create a feeling 
you can mix up words 
in any way
as long as the feeling comes out 
and stays

Growth from bones

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Dedicated to Codi and her dog

I’m all alone
in the cemetery lot
I need growth from bones
so I’ll take a plot 
beside the friends I dig

I’ll form a skeletal assembly line 
something cadaverous and big
to build a ghostly host refined

I’ll nurture them with fellowship
we’ll dance to death metal music 
arisen from this macabre landfill tip
atop our graveyard homes
we’ll shake and rattle 
them fresh grown bones