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?
The very local Newsletter I edit each month.
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
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.
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!
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
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
The local community newsletter I publish each month is back once again.
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
Every building a cave
Every room a nave
Every threshold I cross
comes with a sense of loss
the entry here is a portal
to all that is mortal
a refuge and a threat
more of the latter I met
every uncertain floor
stable footing unsure
firm or soft intent
I proceed with discontent
I engage with each room
amid the dust and gloom
of this abandoned house
where I had no choice
this slaughterhouse
to a mouse
I remember the fear
I remember the tears
to isolation being sent
the trauma and lament
my sister and my brothers
my long suffering mother
all gone from our house
no squeaks from their mouths
I reach my old bedroom
the one in which soon
salvation fell on this house
the roaring of a mouse
I stood right on this spot
hand and hammer aloft
he broke in through the door
I hit more and more
I was ten years old
withdrawn and quiet I’m told
well, I wasn’t that night
I turned on the light
that drunken bleeding
snivelling mess
that gurgling throat of distress
to my father
I confess
I would have killed you
I so wanted too
but it was something a small malnourished boy
wasn’t strong enough to do
my father
who art now in heaven
you weakened me
I hated you
you made me strong
I still hate you
The dVerse prompt for we poets today was from Kim, to write about buildings. Did I write about buildings?
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
God it hurts
to see you like this
weak and in pain
in so much distress
god it hurts
to feel you so thin
to feel your bones
where there should be fat skin
god it hurts
to wipe your pale face
to touch your cold hands
to massage your aches
god it hurts
to feed you my love
to nurse and relieve you
in plastic gloves
god it hurts
to bathe you each day
to wash your soiled body
no, I won’t go away
god it hurts
to roll you over
your strength is gone
you, my past lover
god it hurts
to see you waste
your senses fading
losing smell and taste
god it hurts
to sit by your bed
as this sickness progresses
it fills me with dread
god it hurts
to hear what you said
in your delerium
it hurts so bad
god it hurts
when you get pressure sores
you no longer move
can you take anymore?
god it hurts
when the pain relief fails
when you grimace and seize
wracked frame so frail
god it hurts
but not how it hurts you
I wish I could do more
to help you get through
god it hurts
when you don’t talk back
your eyes are dull
your jaw is slack
god it hurts
to watch your last breaths
to see your life leave us
replaced by death
god it hurts
holding you dead
your skeletal frame
with me alone on the bed
god it hurts
to kiss you good bye
on your dry cracked blue lips
last kiss, last cry?
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.
The creek is dry
sandy bed bleached instead
the creek is low
paddle depth for a toddler to enjoy
the creek is frothing
splashing cascades for bum jumping
the creek is running free
smooth water turns and swirls
the creek is high
turbulence and turbid as
the creek is full of
deep dark fast water
the creek broke its banks
shallow eddies in the paddock
pools rapids in the gullies
the creek is awash
scouring the walking track
eroding the embankments
undercutting the trees
the creek is in flood
rushing water rips at posts
waves break the surface
vegetation speeds by
logs twist and turn
the creek threatens the town
roads are awash
sandbags are filled
roads disappear
cars float
stock are isolated on islands
or washed away
the creek becomes a lake
houses are inundated
some become mobile then collapse
businesses go under
boats take to the rapid water for rescue and supply
the creek abates
there are mud piles and debris carcasses and wire
the clean up begins
the creek will do it again
such a small creek
Homer Mallow or “Marshy” to his friends
was a very accomplished poet
his preferred topics were politics and sport
although on reading him you wouldn’t know it
"Marshy" loved a dig at the pollies
as much as he loved a pokie or a flutter
he liked to dig deep into the issues of the day
in a recent interview his mum said,
“It could have been his bread and butter!”
His political commentary definitely had merit
this one was a favourite
how could you ignore his most sophisticated poem
called “What Scott?”for which he was best known
when Morrison was PM
Marshy characterised the man as an incompetent dog
he followed with a pearler of a rhyme
saying the PM was as useful as a hopless frog
I’m sure you dear reader can spot the clever double meaning
Unfortunately, Marshy will never be recorded amongst the great Australian poets
it’s enough to make you weep
much of the exercise book he kept his writing in was used
(in the backyard dunny)
while he was away from home for the first time crotching sheep
However, looking back through a rediscovered school text book scrawling
certainly reveals a lost talent
a heart of poetic gold and an ear for a great hook
found at the local Salvos Opp Shop
many written on the hop
hidden gems were revealed in the pages of these books, such as
“Beatrice Kennedy has a nice arse
any day now I’ll make a pass”
to set the record straight
the Beatrice Kennedy in question of the twelfth grade
denies any pass was ever made.
We will never know exactly what Marshy could have accomplished
he died in an explosion in that very same dunny
while visiting his parents between crotches.
The Coroner’s findings indicate this was caused
by ignition of an unexplained build up of gas.
Not one known for straining at his jobs,
Marshy was known to light up the odd ciggie
while waiting for things to happen.
RIP Marshy, may you get to continue
writing on that great dunny in the sky.
With deference to the once marvellous Fred Dagg (aka John Clarke)
There is no bargain with death I see
where death when ready can claim me
there is no contract to which I agree
no time of death's choosing do I concede
my sovereign rights death violates
my free will death does mitigate
under what authority does death reign supreme
when to live forever is my dream?
I’ll wave my sovereign rights in death's face
my personal waiver and reaper's disgrace
when his grim coming calls me away
"No claim have you!" this citizen will say
when death withdraws as he surely will
I’ll have demonstrated my right to live still
all others beholden to the laws of nature
will look in awe at my individual power
more sovereign citizens across the land
will march to their own tune sing to their own band
we will refuse death with our rightful demands
poetography.ink 