In Forests #02
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Brother, I still grieve
I watched him as we sat upon the deck of the sinking ship
the stern about to dip
our chairs starting to slip
our hands white in their grip
he wondered where we would be tomorrow
he stood as fires erupted upon the tilting deck
walked around the wreck
sought every way to check
for escape that he did seek
only to find himself on the rails of sorrow
the water now was rushing over both our cold wet feet
with no sign of relief
in sadness and in grief
life’s surging wild thief
he told me he wished well for his wife and children
I looked at him I took him into embracing arms
no protection here from harm
just wishing to disarm
anxiety and alarm
one last moment of loving calm
when going under the waves was the only given
we held each other standing there on the edge of fading hope
to the horizon we did look
to the water of our grave
cold and churning were the waves
then into each others eyes
resigned to our good byes
we held hands before stepping forward
the last things I remember are treading water in my doubt
the water in my mouth
the imminent blackout
wishing I’d never roamed
my loved ones left at home
wishing I’d never sailed
slipping under as strength failed
his tired smile as we fell
that I forgot to tell him how much I loved him
then came the wings of rescue they winched me up into the sun
I the chosen one
the sky it turned to gold
but I had lost my hold
on my brother and my friend
who supported me to the end
all I could think was how much I’m going to miss him
it’s been ten watery years passing underneath my bridge
I’m wasted and I’m damaged
with nothing left to salvage
I relive our time together
the fractured brother tether
brothers ever a pair
ever together everywhere
and here I am still left with no way of knowing
how I can go on without my brothers song
days are dark and long
I think it’s time I must be going
underneath the waves
my lonely soft parade
in hope that I will find
my brother left behind
always on my mind
I want to join him on death’s seas a rowing
together across the waves
nothing in it brave
just our watery grave
and our time together saved
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not want AI to use my work.
Art
What is this this thing called art
this thing I feel smell touch hear see
before me
this mode for the senses to draw upon
this code for the mind to interpret
what is this connection
this very personal yet cultural experience
where is traditional what is contemporary
what is permanent what is temporary
which aspect is simply material
which is internally enhanced
in response to which parts do you remain static
to which do you dance
testament contribution idea retribution
dora’s idea is redistribution
so
let’s make anything into something called art
let’s see if I can do my part
I take an image
something plain as a floor
but it’s where I take it from
that makes it more
I climb stairs I scope and review
until I find just the place that will do
and the floor is no longer just a floor anymore
but a creative rendering of space comes to the fore
this is art
This week Dora challenged we dVerse poets to take something familiar and reimagine it in some way.
Hope
Hope is the beautiful anticipation of the next time we meet
hope is that driver to deeds not yet complete
hope makes the future worth working for
hope is the key for unlocking any door
hope blooms eternal
Poetry days #37.
The writing is my own and subject to copyright. Bloom is an artwork by artist / recycler Kate Howard. Winner: Swanpool Creative Recycled Art Prize. Scrap, Wow from Waste Exhibition, Swanpool, Victoria 2018.
Buildings of Melbourne #03
A gallery of 10 images. To see each full image click on any photo, then click the arrows to scroll.
Photography days #08.
All work is my own and copyright. I do not use AI or wish for AI to use my work.
Art off Lonsdale
A photo a day #02.
Belief
She doesn’t have faith like Jesus
But she does believe in love
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she does celebrate life
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she always tries to be kind
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she leads a generous life
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she worships nature and its gifts
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she volunteers and gives a bit
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she does believe in peace
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she can turn the other cheek
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she believes in equality for humankind
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but believes in freedom of speech and mind
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but believes in growing knowledge and skills
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but believes people should not kill
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but believes in doing good and always will
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she should be honoured still
Written for the dVerse challenge from Andrew. When we take up poetic arms in any cause, we are trusting that “the pen is mightier than the sword!”
Artificial Intelligence (AI) – be afraid
In the not too distant future
things will begin to disappear
human things
cultural things
things like genuine creative work
design, construction, music, literature, imagery, art
and
not much later
human well-being
Instead
they will be by-passed
replaced by data mined
composites
of all these things
that went before
--------------------------------
Concepts and constructs
developed by
any human individual
are exclusively
part of
the human condition:
..... human creativity
Such human
processes and creation
are
being systematically
misappropriated
for the purpose
of
profiteering
by mere replicants
for mere replication
to satisfy
uncontrolled
greed
and
aspirations
of the few
at the expense
of
the many
This application of AI
is not good for
individual human
health or well-being
This application of AI
is not good for
societal
health or well-being
This application of AI
will undermine
the survival of
human
civilisation
This is not likely
to be a road
from which humanity
can return
General Intelligence
is the next stop
Where humanity will be asked
either politely or forcibly
to get off the bus
….. walk toward the mirage
….. and disappear into it
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!
Alter
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
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/
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🎉/
True love
When I took your hand
much smaller hand
much softer hand
much braver hand
when you took my hand
much larger hand
much harder hand
much lonelier hand
we readied two individuals
for joint lives
never known
alone
We took on each life
hard life
sad life
brave life
we rescued each other
one became both
more than both
more than we
imagined
we shone
we continue to shine
we sparkled
we spark in ways divine
we learnt about love
we learned to love it is sublime
true love
We can dance
We can dance
And lose ourselves in a moment
Because that is what dancing is for
We can sway
Holding each other tightly
To confirm our love once more
We can be melody
As music inhabits us
We let our emotions go
We can swing
Together to a rhythm
Fierce, suggestive, gentle, slow
We can slink
Sexy, sultry, driven
Gliding across a floor
We can rhumba
To a beat of pure, rollicking fun
Then breathless, cry for more
We can jig
Jumping, clapping, heel toe
Folding, peeling struts our stuff
We can rock
Big, bold and beautiful
Freestyle is enough
We can ballet
Oh glorious presence
Beauty and grace refined
We can improvise
On a living room floor
Every style combined
We can watch
Absorbed in the majesty of human flight
Awash with the joy of life
And you my love
Can dance with me
Dance with me my wife
So, dance with me my partner
Hold me in your arms
And look into my eyes so deeply
You free me from all harm
We can dance
This week dVerse poetics is from Mish, about dance and dance we will. https://dversepoets.com/2024/01/30/poetics-may-i-have-this-dance/
For a long time now
For a long time now
My love and I go walking
As we walk
We find the time for talking
For a long time now
My love and I sit silently
As we sit
Our love strengthens quietly
Watching the moon
Watching the moon, grey dust, hard stone.
Why won’t the moon leave me alone?
I watch to see if the old man there,
will he ever release me from his stare.
I dream the moon will fall to earth,
moon’s death rattle, our deadly curse.
The sun has got to do something about
that moonish sneer on that moon face snout
before kamikaze moon’s suicidal spiral
rings our bells and rattles our bones,
shakes and quakes our earthly home.
Mr Moon up there is become one with hell,
the Devil’s doing, a catastrophic bombshell.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
I watch the moon
I must I must!
Mary, Mary
When Mary was born she put on quite a show
her hair as a floral bouquet did grow
her hands had green fingers covered in earth
her mouth was a rosebud first day of birth
her ears were round spirals just like sea shells
when she laughed she tinkled like joyful small bells
her nose was a Billy Button soft and yellow
her voice was a summer breeze soft and mellow
her toes were soon rooted in the loamy soil of home
and no further than that garden did she ever roam
where at her touch fruit was ready for harvest
at her invitation birds were ready to nest
she ensured vegetables and flowers grew in abundance
she learned all the ways of nature’s fertile dance
she was one pretty maid ready to grow
every kind of plant in a bed or in a row
The dVerse poetics prompt this week comes from Lillian. An interesting one that I found tricky to hook into. Then I thought of my granddaughters and out it came. Find the prompt here https://dversepoets.com/2024/01/23/and-what-were-you-like-before/
Patriots
It’s an old adage I know,
but if everyone declined to go,
if every decision-
maker said no,
if every arms maker built only ploughs,
there would be no seeds of war to sow.
Forget the patriotism of nationalists.
Strike to stop the weapon fashionists.
Vote out war mongering communists and capitalists.
None of it is worth the risk.
To the battlefield fallen, most unknown,
dead eyes to the sky, ground to the bone,
lost to family, lost to home,
forgotten souls of false hopes grown,
ploughed into fields of woe and sighs,
lost to memory, without good byes.
Soon out of sight, out of mind.
Innocent victims of war’s relentless grind.
Pay some mind,
pay some mind.
Blue
Blue peaked hat
Blue lens
Blue jacket
Then blue again
Blue pants
blue socks
blue runners
blue locks
blue eyes
blue stare
blue ties
blue bag
blue tags
blue everywhere
blue disposition
the man i see
blue composition
The Lunette walk, Winton Wetlands
This is the second last of the ten walks to be mapped and published by me from Winton Wetlands. It has taken a while to get to, but it was worth the wait: Lunette walk
You can find the other Winton Wetlands walks I have published to date here: https://wintonwetlands.org.au/walking/
faceless
I got what I wanted
lost everything I had
what can I say
What can I do?
the faceless ones
took everything
including
you
From the heights
of the mountains
behind oslo
to the depths of despair
inseine
enparis
to be redeemed
after death alone
leaves me faceless
faithless
the impressions that i left
kept me away from you
reducing you to
faceless
along with your
faceless
crew
Today Lillian prompted we poets with works by an artist rejected by his country (Norway) Thorvald Hellesen. I chose this portrait of Mary Alice Eckbo because I felt it had great detail where there is none overtly apparent – as symbolised by the faceless Cubist impression that has been created. I really liked this artist’s work. It is hard to see how it was not recognised by his fellow Norwegians. You can find the prompt here https://dversepoets.com/2023/05/23/an-artist-gets-his-due/
A Surrealist Rhyme for Erik
I clipped their wings with shears of grey
The telescope told me I must act Whispering of star falls and moonrise attack I reflected on the power I lacked I must net time and hold it back the home I could lose the ground where I stood solid as rock shapable as wood saw me wretched with fear indecisive and torn was this last of days the final morn? So I took my sharpest pencil my notebook red wrapped my head in wool to drown out the dead in their bottle on the waves above the seabed. I went to the library to learn from the books how to save the moon from destructive skyhooks the learning was crystal clear as a diamond shards came together for this ignorant vagabond I knew what to do I knew it was right to save moon and world I had to take flight I set my glider to fly from an open window when the sun’s mellow light fades to soft evening glow I leapt on board to find rising fresh air but all that I found was a down draft there and I fell to the earth as so many more I resolved to try again but not like before. A path to nearby mountains was a long weary trek if I ramped it straight upward I could launch like a jet but the weight of the world again dragged me down into glass houses I crashed with a moan so I built giant steps on which I climbed high to take the moon down from the sky. As I ascended clouds hid the way I clipped their wings with shears of grey the stars came to guide me as I climbed and climbed pushing ever upward was all on my mind until the way was clear the view up ahead was one of the moon on a black velvet bed a moon barely rising still held in sleep’s sway a moon reluctant to hear my story let us say so I sweet talked that moon with promises and bribes offering pleasurable time on earth in which to imbibe the moon gave a yawn looked up and looked down asked if I was prophet, conman or clown? requested some proof what I had to say was true for it could hear only nonsense hard to construe so I pointed to the black heavens where no starlight glowed the moon was astonished then concerned and then bowed I will go with you to spend time on earth while threats to the skies are beaten and dispersed I will rise again when the stars once more burn to light the night sky with starlight returned. Moon sank into the ocean for a seaside holiday destruction avoided with the moon at play the culprits attacked night to find nothing but vacuum and the cow in the sky scooped them up with a spoon. This week Mish asked we poets to write from a gallery of surrealist photographer Erik Johansson’s images. Find the prompt here:
https://dversepoets.com/2023/05/09/poetics-slipping-into-surrealism-with-erik-johansson/
Yorta Yorta Yarning and Gathering Pathway (Sculpture Walk), Winton Wetlands
A special walk that adds to the wonderful outdoor public art collection at Winton Wetlands. You can view the full version and artist details here: Lotjpatj Natjan Danak
The art of deception
To be deceived by art Is where the pleasure lies As Oscar Wilde said When the finished work dries Art unexplained Awaits reference in time For art to have context Someone must find An intrinsic meaning An enchantment or spell A hard fact or history That explains it well So ethereal This imaginative bent Where art creates product But may not pay rent The elusive success Of an artist such as me Depends on the work And conveying what we see To be reminded of something That may not be there Is the way we see art Reminiscent or bared The artist displays What the artist portrays The observers creates What the observer says And the feeling is surreal This fraught disconnect Must artists defer To the critics subject Is it in artist’s deceit Where the pleasure lies Taking the work and working it wise Psychological or literal The interpretation applied Is anything worthy In a meaning belied With all the definition in Every artists hand The lines of description Are at critics command The intensity of design Or depicting a glance For artist and critic It’s the art of chance Is ugly ugly Or is it brave and true Is beauty beauty Or a sop to me and you Only the artist knows Where the artist goes But as deception grows Across art shows The artist bows To the stories faux As the critics row And the sponsors crow And the buyers coo Gallery owners woo speculators too Attempt to choose The number 1 pick That makes art slick To turn a buck Art by the truck Instead of art refined As in the artist‘s mind But only the artist knows Where the artist goes
Thoughts on art (from the NGV & me)
The artwork that changed me
Art in the time of pandemic
Let there be love
Making in isolation
Being in the vanguard of art and commerce brings depth and meaning and joy to the human experience
Art and engagement in times of change
Returning to unfinished works
Playful sessions
Return to simplicity
Art and design that speaks
Art and design that speaks to stories, preoccupations and traditions of our past, the moments of our times, the anticipations of various futures
With an intelligent eye
A familiar panoramic landscape
Bush walks highlands
Unconscious thoughts deigned to tease
Free form associations in response to amorphous
Deceiving the eye visual forms
Linear perspective
Questions of perspective, identity collective lack of knowledge
Reinvigorating textiles
Reworked to shift the original message
Monumental canvasses of vibrant colour
Markings in the sand with a bent stick
Monochrome drawings strike a chord
Audaciously different
Leaving their travels in the sand
A fluid state of synchronicity
A black and white stencil through a coloured door
Uncertainty fragility and unrest art calm connection and inspiration
Something unexpected
Reflect and expand
Shifts and transformations
Arts education is not a luxury
Day to day scenes of everyday life of regular people
Drink it all in
Bathe in it
Melted int the scene
The agonising process of resurrecting
An avid sketcher visually documents surroundings
Inspired by vibrant street life
Gravitation fought my attention as an invisible but omnipresent power
Nothing is simple, nothing is something, nothing is nothing
Everything is influenced by gravity
A force with a strong shaping effect
Th most important step is the mixture of the materials
A gathering of dear friends
Art compels us to reflect on our own uncertainty
Find the richness there
Artworks that provide intrigue and inspiration
This reminds me of
Calming and upsetting at the same time
The sadness in your eyes
Who is watching over you
The comfort and security this can bring
In dark times, when things seem absurd and surreal, companionship can bring us solace
Capture my imagination in a thousand ways
It is not a picture of something, the image is a character.
Are you a ghost or some sort of divine being?
Off kilter, uncertain.
Floating in space.
The space it inhabits is rich.
The textures are luminous and creamy.
The character maintains a clownish buoyancy in a transitional realm.
Awkward and serene at the same time
Printed, flocked and foiled
Beauty exists in paradoxes and puzzles.
Reflect on your own uncertainly and find richness there.
The quiet observer.
Meet the challenge, decipher the layers.
How to slow down and reengage with surroundings
Unravelling significance
A direct gaze, expressive hands conveying self assurance tinged by a light sense of uneasiness or tension
Hybridisation of life
Worlds based on symbiosis rather than exploitation and domination
Each person is lost in private thought about their own personal existence.
She now lives her life at the peak intensity the rest of us pretend too.
The images are figurative, liquid non realistic and strange
This work this artist this friend this moment change everything
Texture dapples depth and luminosity
poetography.ink 