The local community newsletter I publish each month is back once again.
Tableland Talk April 2024
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Window
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
Slaughterhouse
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withdrawn and quiet I’m told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?
gully
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
Hurt
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?
Rain
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.
Ownership
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
Comedy
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.
Creek
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
Mallow
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)
My sovereign right
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
Heart
My friend stabbed herself in the heart today
the blood ran down her chest and across her belly
it formed a self authoring suicide note
almost black and sort of treacly in a spidery scrawl
probably nanotech of some sort
amazing what they can do these days
she chose arachnoid stylised helvetica size 14 bold no underlines
why? it is beyond me
I always thought she was a calibri kind of girl
but I guess that says something about me doesn’t it?
not knowing
“I was feeling heartless,” the words said.
at this point I wanted to puke
(sic) because she was the most full of heart person I knew
I don’t know anyone like that anymore
“I needed to know if there was anything in there.
The cuts on the arms and legs just weren’t doing it.
I decided I’d have a stab in the dark.
At least there would be a some sort of real outcome,
at least I would find out one way or another.
If you are reading this it means I am dead -
and I had a heart afterall!”
Lover’s leap
L is for love’s early phase, all hot and bothered
all fractious, disruptive restless, in doubt
E is for eliciting confirmation from others
who tell you it’s real, dubious or not
A is for arrow straight through the heart
the pain of the piercing love’s peculiar stress
P is for pain-free when new love departs
established and certain is when love is best
This week Lisa appropriately asked we dVerse poets to use the leap year as a prompt. https://dversepoets.com/2024/02/27/dverse-poetics-tuesday-2024-poets-leaping/
Tableland Talk March 2024
A small newsletter I edit for our community.
Motivation
Let memento morte inspire you to a life of health.
Let carpe diem motivate you to enjoy life’s wealth.
Bullet
if a bullet were a feather
susceptible to the weather
denied its trajectory and death wish
lost its velocity lost its hiss
only then would it always miss
its appointment with death's kiss
Angel
Angel carry your heavy payload
until god asks for it one day
Angel bitter, discard your halo
throw it worlds away
Angel fly to heaven above
dive to hell below
Angel receive peace from a dove
or scavenge it from a crow
Angel weep soul deep
until your very last breath
Angel sleep the long sleep
pray yourself to death
Angel just Angel lust Angel thrust
Angel sing Angel cling Angel wring
Angel must Angel bust Angel dust
Angel wing left wing right wing broken wing
Angel nothing
The dVerse prompts from Melissa today were inspired by Kurt Cobain’s birthday. I chose to take one line from a Nirvana song and reflect on the feelings that might drive a suicide. It was a harrowing exercise and I am sorry if it causes hurt. https://dversepoets.com/2024/02/20/happy-birthday-kurt🎉/
Tales of calm and beauty #1
Beauty is in the moment
Sitting by a window
Sun streaming in
From directly across the way
Low in the pale blue winter sky
But strong enough to warm the room
Through tall floor to ceiling glass
Strong black lines
The shadows of the woodwork
Stretch long, deep and straight
Across shiny slate
Framing the scene
Defining the space
Giving shape to enveloping comfort
Warming the calm
Enclosing peacefulness
As I now heavy lidded
Look out on gold rimmed trees
Vivid green grass
Foraging birds
And hear the cascading water of the creek
Beauty is in this moment
Life as a vacuum
Within my mind within my soul
There lies an ever expanding hole
When I try to grasp its meaning
Elusive thoughts distract my gleaning
Where I see a thing to do
There I lose it to something new
When I return to get more done
I find I achieved exactly none
I often don’t quite know who I am
Retired, a child or a working man
I sometimes see the past and future
It’s the present I struggle to nurture
I hear the talk around me go
When I talk I don’t always know
What I am saying to others there
I feel anxious as they look and stare
I lose things now so easily
I dismiss the losses breezily
With timid laughter I brush them off
Truth is I cannot understand the loss
I get confused and in a muddle
I no longer accomplish what was a doddle
Faces of loved ones I’m unsure of now
To answer a question I fail at how
I’m sure I should be I’m not quite here
There is this woman but who is “my dear”
I live with remembering uncertain fear
I forget to remember anything I hear
I want to go somewhere but the way is unclear
Why I should go there I have no idea
Is this life or farce it is certainly queer
I’m turned inside out my front is rear
No reason for existence yet death’s not near
No insight no knowledge yet I still shed a tear
Life is a vacuum into which I can’t peer
Woollybutt
An excellent walk in the towering Woollybutt Alpine Ash forest of Mt Stirling. Find my map and description here https://walkingmaps.com.au/walk/5836
Death is to be my keeper
Mistake not my fondness for breathing,
to have blood coursing through my veins.
The sadness at my leaving
is in being separated from life’s gains.
Now death is to be my keeper.
Acceptance is my stance.
As I face the tireless grim reaper,
I doubt another chance.
The mariner
I navigate life as a mariner
sailing unpredictable seas
Respectful yet wary
of what they might bring to me
the sea is my natural element
alternating tranquility with power
for me there is no better firmament
to anchor each ticking hour
the waves provide each peak and trough
of life’s brief and epic journeys
that for me is always enough
with the pleasure and pain they have earned me
afloat I bob between the layers of over and undersea
in my boat my capsule of life I bob most jauntily
when l’m aloft the view ahead is a matter of degree
when down below the view is fine,not seen murkily
time will come I’ll be called down deep by Davy Jones
my time of clear air or storms on water will be done
I’ll find a sandy bed to rest and place my ageing bones
afar from the binding land, eyes dead to the blinding sun
My insouciant self
I cherish my insouciant self
The one who never worries me
I treat this careless one as health
whose world is anxiety free
without this one where would l be?
walking around with a frown
but my insouciant self helps me see
how to turn that frown upside down
The truck
Down upon him the big rogue truck bore
Last thoughts were of those he adored
of her and those eyes so deep and brown
he fell in love with those eyes one night on the town
of the lithe girl in the backyard playing with cars
of the teenage boy inside playing his guitars
of the home he loved for its warmth and welcome
whenever he arrived back from long hauls and then some
there was the dog with tail wagging
as she greeted him excitedly
and the chooks out the back he greeted politely
what would become of his family and home
how could he leave them to fend on their own?
then the truck veered wildly missed by an inch
so close, so close no time to flinch
he shook with shock he shook with fear
he looked at his life and all he held dear
he knew what to do right away
the way ahead was clear
The original idea
Aside
Once upon a time there was an original idea. A creature somewhere on earth had a thought. Even more significant that thought was acted upon and something new happened. Are there still original ideas? Maybe every thought is original because its origin is always within a new person, at a new point in time and space.
poetography.ink 