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
Shoes
Reply
Drought & Rain
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
Wetlands
Where the water is the sky
and sky blue is water too
I sit and with my eye
nature's perfection do I spy
Colour frosted
Clusters of pink
bundles of green
frosty treat
winter morning
Shifting hills and surface crazed
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
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
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?
Melbourne Buildings Gallery No. 1
Good Things Only #18
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.
Tableland Talk July 2024
Here it is a again, the small, very local community newsletter I edit.
Sleep
Sleep baby sleep
my tears of joy come
watching over you I weep
my precious dependent one
and when you’re older
I will seek
to be your friend
when independence distances you
from the parent who will love you
til the end
sleep baby sleep
I know we will part
but this part of me
will always be
your piece of my heart
Mist
The silver mists of Golden Mountain
obscure the ranging view
but create a tableau different and good
of ghosts, and flitting wood nymphs too?
when wallabies thump their way through the wood
it sounds like tree fellers of the past
they appear in swirls of misty pearls
then disappear just as fast
the deep forest loses depth
the towering forest loses height
and still the height and depth of it
is perceived as majesty and might
spectre trees and bracken fern
emerge and fade as shades
the mid story of denser shrubs
thickens, then lightens as glades
above in the lofts of the tree tops
lost in a murky crown
the creak of Gang Gangs evokes a haunted house
as the mist keeps coming down
heavy with moisture grey as lead
the weight of water settles
it drips from every frond and leaf
and jewels the risen nettles
muffled by its soft grey cloak
hushed by its thick grey mantle
awaiting the sun
is forest
under fractal lintel
the chill of it penetrates
every thermal hat, scarf and glove
the pleasure of it permeates
souls
with the nature we love
here in the forest, the misty forest
be one lost and found
take the time to appreciate
the mystery of mistery found all around
War
We are sitting in the basement
fifteen of us and a few cats and dogs
the battery powered light
flickering endlessly
giving this dark windowless
space an unsettling strobe
effect
we are powerless to
correct
anything
there’s constant noise down here
the wet wood in the furnace
gathered in life risking scrambled forays
sizzles spits and pops
like everything above ground
the thermal fan under it turns on
ever grinding stripped cogs
whir, grrr, whir, grrr
such a refuge
such refugees
the six month old baby grizzles
persistently as her mother rocks in place
mother elicits an endless suppressed
yet ever audible keening cry
over the child
eeee, oh, eeee, ooh, ooooh
our elderly neighbour in the corner
incessantly mutters unintelligibly and fossicks
in his rucksack for something
he never seems to find
rustle, bustle, rustle
the small boys of the street wrestle
spar for an activity to do until
someone inevitably gets hurt
accusations fly accompanied by
pleading cries and whimpers for concern
but there is little room for that
sook sook sook
oh the irony of such violence
here and now in play
and then the recriminations begin
all over again
or it's back to the board games
already fought over and
played dozens of times
or back to exhausted, restless sleep
the horror that has thrown us together
it has lasted five days now
with no end in sight
I mean how would we know
we have no radio
if there was
if there is
any end in sight?
add the horror of literally dashing
and splashing
to relieve yourself topside
before something or someone
gets you in one way or another
the horror of what you see while
you are out there
exposed and defenceless
amongst the snipers
the stray ordinance
the wreckage
the carnage, the bodies and body parts
the smoke and the smell
you can't get rid of any of it
the imagery burnt into your retinas
the stench of burnt everything
embedded in your nostrils
the burns on your skin
your very own smouldering soul
two young girls push toy cars and trucks
around the room
filling them with anything they can
that will support a story
of some sort to overcome their fear
you never know how it will manifest next as they
fret, fidget, fuss, fume or fuse
we all stare at the floor most of the time
except for the brief apprehensive looks
heavenward, to the ceiling
with every new global shudder of
our tiny enclosed world
we know where we are yet we are lost
we are buried
I wonder will we be buried here?
in our own reality show
live tombing
what will that be like?
CRUMP!
is it that noise that bothers most?
or is it the ripping and tearing of metal and wood
like live cardboard screaming
until it also is finally dead and still
all movement defeated
all creaks silenced
all purpose gone with the wind
the exploding windows
the thumps and whumps of trees and structures
unknown
falling to the earth
the wild crackling and detonation
arcing earthing power lines writhing
like electrocuted psychotic snakes
the searing howling jet stream that is
simply the roar of wind
generated by wildfire and wild fire
the small arms fire rippling
like saucepan popping corn
the convulsive impacts of
guided bombs
drones
missiles
random artillery
or
the moments of deathly silence when it all stops
when the next set of questions begin
do we venture out with hope?
or do we continue to wait
to still sit still in
this basement of dread
our will to endure fading
fading deeper into despair
our fading resilience
a fading of body and mind
we can see in our minds eye
the fading of our ink
from every record
of us there ever was
as we fade from presence
and the present and from
remaining data banks
we fade from existence
as surely as every other
ordinary person is knowingly
or carelessly erased by war
Water
I searched for the river to slake desperate thirst I thought it was somewhere around here I thought I smelled water but I remained cursed every turn brought simply more tears I toiled through the scrub on my knees as a first I soon began to smell fear the dry of my throat and my eyes were the worst but I still felt there was water around here my effort was flagging my heart fit to burst lost I scrambled and crawled for life dear then I heard a tinkle with cracked lips pursed I stopped to listen and peer was I tricked, in illusion immersed? no, there a gleam through the woods did appear and I rose and I ran and the wild things dispersed as I charged and leapt logs like a deer all the pain and the doubt that I had nursed vanished like fog from a weir disappeared in that moment I felt myself blessed I found water deep, cool and clear and I dived right in, water up to my chin I drank and rejoiced in the swim and I swore in that water that life giving elixir no wrong would I e’er do again
Walking Dip Lane, Sheans Creek
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
poetography.ink 