A Melbourne beaches walk from afternoon into the evening
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missed
I missed the last train
but in the moment I saw it as an opportunity
to walk the midnight kilometres home
I bravely left the yellow lit platform
lonely island full of light
and its twin ribbons of steel
fading into the night
i crossed the darkened city instead
stepping from one street lit pool to another
where roads were stark the highways bare
for all my looking there was nobody there
I found my way footsore and weary
across a city where there was not a soul who cared
but I was glad I had dared
The last dune
These dunes go on forever and never in my life have I felt so tired
the marching crests go on and on toward the same relentless sun I once admired
every step is weighted by troughs of sand negating the energy left to put one foot ahead of the other
but as I stagger wearily the last dune appears blearily after which I begin to think of rest and cover
I crawl the final distance against flowing sand resistance until over the last rise I will at last be
where my resolve finally breaks when viewing from the last dune I see queueing only more dunes
before a desolate beach and an endless sea
choose your own future
It is with regret that I realise my prophecy will not be believed
it is with sadness that I see a world of unwanted hurt cannot be relieved
into the apocalypse will fall one and all for want of not heeding my call
it is not for a lack of frequency that my message remains unreceived
it is not for a deficit of clarity my warning languishes ill perceived
for none can learn from the evidence when there are none who wish to hear
who from convenient comfort will attend to tales of turbulent doom as it draws near?
who has the power to break the apathy of masses when the masses will not act on their fear?
and who will take the time to reflect after the dismal impact, who will shed a tear?
The lighthouse of ghosts
The Cape Schanck lighthouse is still full of ghosts
of keepers passengers and sailors who died on this coast
as white as the thick walls through which they keen
they swirl through the tower only glimpsed never seen
forever unsettled by tragedy at the mercy of storms
restless air is chilled by their cold empty forms
even when the wind is warm and the wide strait is calm
they struggle with their violent cruel death and its legacy of harm
remembering loved ones left behind who grieved at the cost
ghosts grieve for futures never had to the sea that were lost
today's lively visitors to the lighthouse one and all
never leave without hearing a whisper or a ghostly call
when they climb the spiral steps to look at the view
they hold loved ones closer against a chill as if they knew
each of the ghost stories from each deep watery grave
all stop a sad shivered moment with the souls never saved
then they return to their homes families and friends
departing a ghastly lighthouse dance that never ends
My response to The Skeptic’s Kaddish W3 prompt. Make sure you read Dennis Johnstone’s and Nancy Richy’s two wonderful poems included.
Democracy, where for art thou?
"Democracy is our most precious institution, you must respect that!" he said pounding his right fist into his open left hand.
"Not when all the operating principles are misrepresented and undermined," I replied emphatically.
"Where is our right to a meaningful vote as valued as the next person's? Government no longer supports equality of education or opportunity. Freedom of speech is a shouting match dominated by the loudest. Equitable access to public resources and social infrastructure is largely pork barrelled. The distribution of wealth is dominated by manipulative profiteering cliques."
"The term democracy has been misappropriated, Political leadership is in the hands of the powerful or power mad."
"Our people want to participate, to share the benefits with each other, but our system isn't democratic, it all belies our existence; we wait, and are still denied."
The dVerse prosery prompt to which I have responded comes from Merrill. It seemed to demand a political statement to me. See below:
The crossing
He crossed the bar sails puffed full as his chest
proud to be crashing the swells and foaming waves
escaping the line upon line of graves
his father his brothers his family destroyed
only his youth denied vengeance for he had been but a boy
but now he was strong free to charge into the fight
to wreak havoc and injury to his morbid delight
the one goal remaining in his grief filled life
only one task to satisfy his dissatisfied plight
in the land of his enemy he had something to prove
to show the dark master he had nothing to lose
what he could do where his father and brothers had failed
onto the place of their betrayal he now speedily sailed
to vanquish that brutal regime on its very own soil
after years of study planning training and toil
he stepped onto the land an army at his back
and he cried the war cry, "Attack men, Attack!"
flowers
make more colour
my little flowers
for the world
is becoming bleaker
its complexion darker
we must not
let the darkness win
how can I help you
put more colour
back into the world
my little flowers?
upside city view
As I travel around the city
I contemplate something true
people are all doing something
seeing myriad projects through
every choice they make a decision
to copy or find something new
in working separately or together
they are constantly stirring
the city’s creative brew
Landscapes
It is the rugged mountain landscape that reflects my heart
from great heights I watch over every part
the pinnacles are the summit of my aspiration
valleys are where I pause for consideration and revelation
water scoured gullies have carved their scars onto my soul
but the long deep range sustains and heals my whole
open rolling plains broad flat and wide
are where the scope of my vision emerges from inside
where I can see from horizon to horizon
nothing impedes my hopes here my future can be spun
from each creature or blade each single tree or forest
I absorb the beauty of each day each morning and evening sun
watching and observing for new opportunities to enlist
along waterways I explore the wilder places I adore
where raging tempest or placid calm invoke irrepressible desires for more
like the fluid medium within me water of my life
clean water fills all empty spaces with relief
and ocean depths teem with the origins of my genes
where all futures were created as a multiverse of dreams
This week the dVerse poetics prompt from Dora was to incorporate a landscape or cityscape into your poetry that either mirrors or amplifies your interior landscape (or lack thereof).
Hey na vro po
When I’m looking for a place to go
I say to myself “hey na vro po”
cos sometimes I just wanna go slow you know
so I clear my head with hey na vro po
it works like a dream every time
I let off steam I really unwind
to small animals and children I become very kind
after hey na vro po that’s what I find
it’s sort of like floating in your mind
you levitate and leave reality behind
looking down around you you look for signs
of where you’ve been or are going
it’s not defined
I sometimes follow myself walking down the street
my mind is vacant I’m walking a slow beat
I’m heading for a park to take a seat
and visiting the park feels really neat
so I sit gently down I put up my feet
I lean my head back to look up at the sky
it’s empty as my brain except a bird flies by
the bird is blue but it has a happy cry
hey na vro po everything is right with the sky
it’s so nice in a space where the world is green
where everything is cool a scene to be seen
I stretch out my arms along the seat in a dream
I then stretch out my legs and watch motes in a sunbeam
there are couples walking and families at play
there’s some kangaroos looking at me as if to say
so you’ve treated yourself to a hey na vro po day
well don't let us get in your way
good for you you deserve it mate
to take your empty self out and about is great
it's kind of like a one person date
hope you find the sweet spot in your mindless state
you can learn a thing or two from a kangaroo
when they look into your eyes just look back too
you’ll find a blankness you should aspire to too
for they are excellent role models for you
high quality lounging is what they like to do
so you lounge on the grass to watch life pass
you soak up sun as you stretch out and bask
you discover that lying on the grass is no task
you allow yourself to doze without being asked
and it doesn't matter one bit how long it lasts
twilight arrives as the sun starts to go down
time to go home walk back through the town
hey na vro po waylays any frown
you're so relaxed you don't mind downtown brown
still you weave some colourful flowers into a crown
another hey na vro po day you sought and you found
so you walk back with your feet just above the ground
Autumn Haiku #01 (revisited)
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The heat
It is the weight of the heat that I struggle to bear
a relentless oppressiveness that burns my skin
I am surrounded by its stillness its density
dehydration works from the outside in
my surface is sweaty gritty debris
constant exposure is to wither
and shade is no relief
at 48 degrees the sun
robs me of my water
a remorseless thief
Cnr Elizabeth & Flinders
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Majority rule
I went down to see the majority in action gathering in the square
the surging crowd the chanting voice of many people was there
yet I missed the referring whisper of others from the crowd
the minority of a democracy was absent / quiet as a shroud
and whither was their point of view drowned by slogans and revile
the future of inclusiveness dominated by slurs that defile
I looked for the different colours here the different sounds and where
I found such difference I did recoil at its oppressed nature there
then cans were rattled the songs were long about victory and strength
but for those lost and weak who did not belong there was to be no defence
as push came to shove and drama spilled onto this public stage
the large protest became a test of where the power is really laid
how it would be used to push a point of view not clear to absolutely everyone
unless to power they were already connected or held the butt of a gun
there is apparently no place for everyone under our glowing democratic sun
for those left out it was time to think and maybe time to run
Creative dumping
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Wu
Wu comprises the ethereal properties every astute observer and collector seeks to discover and contemplate in a work of art. Through soul deep application of mind to work, the true artist unconsciously transfers the elements of wu into each piece. Wu is found in the place where heart, spirit, creativity and labour merge to engender an aesthetic completeness that can make an observer’s personal appreciation a deep and pleasurable experience.
As such, the wu in any work of art reflects the embodiment of each creator proportionate to their skill and ways of knowing and communicating the intent of their work. Through ingrained wu the observer can in turn identify, absorb and emotionally connect with the very personal elements thereby embedded.
Deliberate reflection and attendance to the presence of wu precipitates the flow of emotion, peaceful or turbulent, and intrinsic understanding that is the purpose of all art. Only through wu can the observer hope to be truly moved by the artist’s creation, its existence, its presence in the now.
Note: this is my development of the concept of “wu”, an idea referred to by Philip K. Dick in his masterpiece of science fiction ‘The Man in the High Castle‘.
The New Summer
We recently had to evacuate three generations of our family from three households across northern and central Victoria. Due to multiple and extensive bushfires, we watched with anxiety as they flared and ebbed and flared again towards our various homes. Fortunately, we all returned to intact houses. Many were not so lucky.
As the climate situation gets worse, with every New Summer we feel the new fear rise again.
All work is my own and you can share it as much as you like.
the last kiss
The last time I saw my mother she sent me a kiss across the void. Two fingers touched her puckered lips, then cast into the air was a kiss at the mercy of the stiff breeze blowing everyone’s hats away. Was I meant to catch it? I have never really been sure. One reason was it appeared to be barely cast in my direction, the other was that she was in fact looking at her new husband as her hand regally flicked yet another token on another impossible journey of placation. She, number three plus stupid yappy little dog were on a boat to somewhere. Ten year old me? I was left standing on the dock unaware somewhere meant this was our last almost acknowledgement of each other. One thing I learnt that day to believe forever is lips forget what they have kissed.
For today’s dVerse 144 word prosery challenge, Mish chose the following line from Toni Morrison’s evocative poem, “Eve Remembering”. “Lips forget what they have kissed.” Besides writing eleven novels, five children’s books, two plays and an opera, Toni was the author of “Five Poems“, first published in 2002. You can read them here (well worth a read). I chose to respond to the challenge with a work of flash fiction that hits the 144 word sweet spot precisely.
All work is my own. I do not use AI.
A morning full of parrots
The morning was full of parrots
They clambered over chairs
many perched amongst the maples
and through the windows they did stare
their incessant voices calling
their colours deep and and bright
I wondered how long they had been there?
had they been out there all night?
it was bedlam on the verandah
it was getting messy on the deck
all so they could have a gander
the new occupants they came to check
would we feed them like they were used to?
or leave them to their own means?
were they welcome to visit regularly?
or was that just a parrot dream?
Echidna
I met a hungry echidna
with spiky spines all over I’m not kiddin’ ya
it flicked its tongue from its beak
for the ants it did seek
you thought I was kiddin ya, didn’t ya?
Top of Swanston
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Logged in
There is a cut elm log
in the shade of a large ash tree
on which I like to sit out of the sun
from which I like to look out
or in at me
who am l? I ask
most reverently
then discussion ensues
determinedly
I pause to think
on the answers I hear
I pause and reflect
on what comes to bear
with my elbows placed
gently
upon my knees
I balance my chin
while I shoot the breeze
in memory I keep
a record of my thoughts
from under the tree
where ideas are caught
my log from a log
stores in signs and degrees
while I sit in the shade
shooting the breeze
The Risk
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In Forests #02
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