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
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.
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
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?
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
This was my cat “Panther”. I had her from when I was 12 years old until she was 21 years old (and I 33). She used to walk down to the shops with me. She was a delightful domestic cat. However, after working in the bush I now see the terrible toll cats take on our native species. Domestic cats should never be allowed to leave a controlled and enclosed space to roam free.
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
As the first photo. indicates, I was a cat lover once. No longer. I chose “What Shall we do with the feathers?” by Lois Wain. I think the artist meant it to be a cute picture. The collars suggest domestic cats. They have just had a bit of fun together killing a bird despite the fact that they are fed daily by a human. However, to me it represents catastrophe because domestic cats and their feral offspring in Australia today are responsible for countless uncontrolled deaths. A plague of feral cats is decimating our native wildlife.
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.
A poem for my daughter. I wish her love to last a lifetime.
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
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!
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
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
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.
Whither the waste on every street civil detritus at my feet yet I walk on ignoring implications of daily deposits and ruination the industry iceberg from households deflects convenience trumps, responsibility defects as blithely we step our way into history dumping waste our greatest legacy and each new generation cries why me? as they fill the land with more misery
The next train will be the wrong one it won’t take you where you want to go no matter where you think you are going this train will not take you there
the following train is sure to take you somewhere else if you want to go somewhere else please consider the following train however, also consider that somewhere else is always somewhere else it is never where you think it is please only board this train if you want to go somewhere else
please stand behind the yellow line for your own safety we can’t guarantee your well-being if you fall in front of the train we can’t guarantee your well-being anyway or anywhere you might want to be for that matter trains are not well-being services please go to platform 4 if you need well-being services the train there will stop at Brighton Station where you will find the highest concentration of psychiatrists, psychologists, mental health nurses, clairvoyants and shysters in the city of Melbourne Brighton might be the stop to help you get sorted we hope you enjoy your stop in Brighton
please consider other passengers on the train during peak periods move along the aisles to the centre of the carriage this reduces entry obstruction in the centre find your centre look closely at everyone around you find yourself in the same can of sardines ask yourself what this means?
the next train to run express runs from Parliament Station to Union Station this train is a contradiction in terms lines have been drawn there is no crossing these lines please be aware this train may be delayed by stationary action at Union normal services may not resume until Parliament legislates so scabs can break the line pace the platform and make frustrated calls to lovers, family and friends (in that order) afterward this train may be a rough ride we advise passengers on this line to avoid windows please keep your head down we cannot guarantee the safety of your head in the event of projectile deployment helmets may be recommended but are not mandatory when riding this train
I’ll ride the river to your door strong and silent I will come to you I’ll wind my way from where I was lost the river will deliver and save me too and when becalmed by your charms once again after all this time I’ll float leisurely then outstrectch my arms to again touch the flows that sooth me I’ll let the gentle eddies turn me around my turbulence washed away I’ll settle on the sandy riverbank with you forever and a day
No one looks out the window anymore everyone is always eyes down no one sees the natural light only the glow of the phone and the things that pass them by the nature and design there’s so much to see away from the phone interesting and refined
The gully is the belly of the forest the soft wet green place where digestive juices change things one form to another
the gully is the heart of the forest where nutrient rich fluids are pumped vital organs synchronise their functions to the vital goal of common survival
the gully is the womb of the forest where meetings become intimate couplings fertilisers are spread daily by fauna or flora fertilisation is automatic according to the season
the gully is the incubator of the forest where diverse growth prospers and dormant growth awaits just the right time where seeds and spores are stored for better weather when better weather is not come
the gully is a place to take your body to appreciate and learn what life can be
The people are raining in bits and blobs the rain is red bled tears and sobs the people are flying up through the sky arcing like rag dolls to heights very high the thunder is frightening the lightning is death the people are dying taking last breaths fleshy lumps are dropping back to their berth with fractured bones falling to rattle the earth the children are worst as their bodies burst with each new detonation another curse as the soldiers wade through the carnage they create claiming it’s orders no difference can they make instructions come from those sitting above but the executioners fit in with them hand in glove while mothers cry and fathers weep some bodies may heal but other scars run deep and the harm ensures an eye for an eye more and more people will rain from the sky
Melissa’s dVerse prompt for we poets today references the surrealism of Rene Magritte. I chose the painting Golconda (1953) of raining men to address the terrible wars around the globe and our repeated failure to learn the lessons of history.
Now is the time to lay it down to accept the role I should have owned to be responsible after all these years for the grief and suffering pain and tears in my ignoble name I make this vow to be better, stronger and to show I am of moral fibre, ethical, of worth who has earned this precious time on earth who can turn his demons into strengths who will do the right thing by any length what does it matter some might say? it matters nought at end of day to which I reply, gracious and emphatically it might not matter to you, it matters to me there is no pleasure in a life blind, accursed and unfair while there can be joy in a life of seeing, kindness and care
I see the human condition as a comedy in which all of us take our part. We project or suppress our characters, we deliver our lines, we wish to entertain, we endeavour to engage with our audiences as we perceive they want us to, we offer intrigue by often thinking other than we act. We consider our individual lifelong performances to be important and then we die. The joke is really on us.
poetography.ink 