Talk to me about the sea of sand drift and sea breeze murmurings of tidal sliding and wavelets gliding onto a peaceful shore
of curling surf and whale songs of towering waves and sailor’s graves of a blow driven chop hard to cross and the constant desire for more
of rock pool eddies of a wind unsteady of sudden squalls and risking all of unpredictable storms defying norms of salty landless freedom
of reflected moonlight and sunsets bright of dolphins playing and albatross staying of cutting the water and catching fish of life in Neptune’s kingdom
of thunderheads piled high or a cloudless sky of seabirds arriving splashing and diving of phosphorescent wake so easy to take of distant horizons all around
tell me tales about the briny sea how to travel a weather filled journey crossing oceans wide upon the tide and I’ll take you where I’m bound
Hooting to acknowledge others hunting there camouflaging plumage prey beware soundless flight beak and claws to tear night vision adept anywhere
hooting acknowledges others hunting there dancing with abandon a nightclub lair drinking jugs of alcohol teeth are bared faux charm awooing without care
De Jackson from dVerse asked we poets to post a Quadrille (44 word poem) using any form of the word “hoot”.
A mysterious bar in a secret location taken on a journey never to be disclosed.
The chairs were blue and black the floor was speckled grey the squat square tables were printed wood grain with aqua painted rays
most of what was said at the tables was untrue
the rendezvous of lovers straight or gay affairs were clandestine betrayals nothing here was fair
the wilful and the wicked the ribald and those plain dumb came together here for more pain or simple fun
few considered the consequences of their lies
there was a girl slender a blonde slash across her her chest a long ponytail from her shoulder hung between her breasts
her sharp pencilled brown eyebrows contradicted her eyes which were as ill defined as concrete slurry skies
dull grey as shattered shale they certainly lacked registration of the interest of the boy opposite of his panting or condition
she was as forgiving as she was a true blonde
her date was a smallish young man with waves of cascading auburn hair framing a long straight nose above a jutting jawline where
underneath his struggling beard his tongue would have been hanging out if it wasn’t for his jutting jaw of that there is no doubt
he tried to be interested in her words but a lusting body made him waver he talked in a desperate way with a flushed look and a quaver
there was nothing honest about the words he had to say
the family with the teenage daughter amused she wanted gin insisted she drink water but the barman slipped it in
after a few more gins were taken he met her later outside her innocence was lost as he took her for a ride
ashamed at her naivety ever after she denied
the chefs wore haircuts chiselled short back and sides engraved by the cutter with glyphs that meant nothing but misguided pride
everyone of them had a goatee of one length or another growing wiry out of cratered skin and a top knot tied with leather
these bound them all as brothers but this was no family they were in they fried, they tossed and flipped like cooking still food was a sin
most of that was kitchen trickery it was only for the show to impress all the customers who didn't care or want to know
the "Only the freshest ingredients" sign was blemished and rotting
the waitress was run off her feet she had black skin and a black tank top she looked trim naked and neat and nothing could make her stop
her apron was black it was stiff as a card her cheekbones were ebony razors high and hard
her gold plastic glasses amplified deep black eyes that reflected artificial moons from the fake silvery sky
skimming the muddy boards a note pad for orders clear she attended to demand pencilling a multi ear-ringed ear
everything she told customers was fiction
the ceiling was low the ceiling was false the abundant cupboards were bare the cash drawer opened with a jolt the counterfeit was there
behind a dado of artificial pine casual bar staff were busy mixing the bar top a deep black lacquered shine liquid with glasses spilling and clinking
the spirit shelves held coloured water the air was synthetic scented air the alcohol was inferior elixir the bar tenders challenged with a stare
every stare they glared was full of contempt and deceit
everyone in the room was scared scared of honesty scared of respect scared of integrity, dignity and truth scared because they were there to be looked at scared to look scared of the culture that required they all pretend
RL 21.500 is a line in the sand between two opposing camps which one will make the first move? it is going to happen AAM (At Any Moment) don't look away or you might miss it
Dusk at the drop off, Mt Wombat, Strathbogie Tableland, Victoria.
I was loitering on the corner after friends had dropped me there I didn’t go nowhere because I was scared I felt it coming a fright and a fear as if it was my last year
and when it finally fell upon me the anticipated dread I wished I had stayed at home in my warm and cosy bed the devil in his black coat to me he came and said I’m gonna frame you
I looked around but I couldn’t see anything of a crime I waited there longer I waited some extra time there was nothing to give me a clue no flashing sign that my whole world was a turning
when she pulled up in her long bright shiny yellow hearse I avoided her stare as if it was a curse but eventually she prevailed with a promise to reimburse me for my trouble
we drove to the mountain right to the very top when we got there she made the hearse come to a stop right at the edge by a long steep drop I exclaimed I was scared of heights
she got out of the car came round and opened my door I didn’t see her coming cos I was looking at the floor she pulled me out with the strength of two or three or four and dumped me on the dirt by the barriers
I struggled as she prepared to throw me into the abyss but then she bent to give me my first Judas kiss I knew what was coming so I ducked and she missed I pushed her in the chest and she swayed backwards
little did I know that she would unbalance then I watched her teetering on the edge until when she fell to her death just as god sent me a message
he said to get out of there because things weren't looking pretty I didn’t need no message I as tore across the city my mind was in turmoil full of self pity I found a little hideaway a little dirty a little gritty and laid low until things blew over
ever since that day I’ve been creeping around the town all nervous and alone again I’ve been going round worried the cops would do me over and when I would be found but my life became fortunate and stable
the lord moves in mysterious ways around my little hangout but in my mind there really is no skerrick of a doubt he saved me twice from death and the devil without my ever understanding anyways how or about I ever got to be in so much trouble
When trouble comes an immediate aggressive reaction such as an emotionally driven attack often appears to be a satisfyingly vengeful, moral or honourable response.
Alternatively, assessing risk and acting accordingly makes good sense, responding mindfully and proportionately. Maybe a change to your behaviour, a tweak of an existing plan. Maybe putting your head down for a while, keeping your nose clean, waiting for things to blow over before again checking the lie of the land.
So, try to take a breath, just a moment, weigh up the immediate consequences. We all have to survive to achieve anything.
The longer term strategic approach may not harm your perceived opponent in the moment, cover you in glory or restore your honour. However, it may well deliver the most satisfying and right outcome for the future accompanied by enduring benefits.
Mr Trump, how smart are you really? Making America Great Again appears to have been a smart and useful local catchcry for getting elected to power in the present. It will mean nothing if you don't choose to work with other global leaders to save the whole planet for the future!
For lovers, North Creek, Strathbogie Forest, Victoria.
In forests we go walking to find the time for talking to take us away from the city hustle ever stalking
I meet you on love’s wings at the perimeter of meadows and I love you all the more as we enter soft green forest shadows
we take the paths less trodden to open new forest doors we find our way to high places to meres and rugged moors
the ferns they point our way with glistening fronds a waving guiding us through the timeless forest we find ourselves a weaving hand in hand we travel each a lovestruck wandering Gypsy this time this place alone together precious magical and carefree
sun rays light the glades with golden shafts of wonder we look aloft, laugh and dance beneath the forest grandeur
we lie down on forest beds and let our fingers do some walking our hands our lips our tongue tips put a silence to the talking
again the language of forest love begins and with it our renewal I’ll always be your forest love you my cherished forest jewel
when the forest loving is done and we must find our way back home we’ll look forward to more forest talking and forest loving yet to come
Construction corner of Swanston and LaTrobe, Melbourne, Victoria.
white crane meets blue glass red coils and tram lines stop look can't pass compose image and refine photo taken general view enjoy the process and the shot too
I looked at you you looked at me I looked back again I sensed that you were asking if I was your friend? without Alpaca words to say so, I decided to move on I enjoyed our time together but there were other things to be done
On any given day the water might be blue or grey when it is grey my mood is somber the heavy clouds I watch and ponder but with breaking sunshine my spirits lift enchanting me such a precious gift changing my mood to a brighter hue while turning the water the sweetest blue
No one could say why they were there the brigades the battalions and some in neat formed lines in neat clean uniforms they had come they marched on the parade grounds and through the big cities they trained in the fields out front of towns they ran through the wires to get to their goals they fell to the mud all mown down and their neat uniforms were ragged and torn their clean faces running with blood the muck of the battlefield filled their boots and their minds their assault waves were a simple flood the pretending of training faded from view as their numbers fell to the few the bulllets and shrapnel stopped forward forays as they scrambled to avoid injury or death every day as they cried and they died under the sun until there were none
Australian Saint Mary McKillop. I expect she was a good person. Just not sure why that defines anyone as a heaven sent saint.
What do saints mean to me? a martyr regardless of victory an angel from heaven found on earth sent for secret religious work a pietist of this earth born alone in piety oft forlorn a glorified soul for reasons uncertain purpose obscured behind glorious curtain
or a loved one supporting home and hearth trusted reliable always steadfast a good person who generally tries hard from heaven no guarantee not to be barred
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
Vibrant skirts colourless skirts skirts that are static skirts that swish around skirts of various lengths from the ground skirts of pleats skirts flat and plain skirts to flatter or hide weight gain skirts attract skirts distract skirts that look different from front and back skirts with buttons skirts with zips skirts crisp and new skirts with fashionable rips skirts concealing skirts revealing skirts that are practical skirts adaptable skirts no name skirts expensive skirts that are cheap skirts destined for landfill or the rag bag heap skirts with patterns or random display skirts for work skirts for play for all the skirts in the world today I simply say hip hip hooray
I hope there isn’t anyone out there offended by this simple bit of new nonsense today. The way things are I guess there will be. Oh well.
Once I had one hundred pairs of shoes so many shoes I didn’t know what to do with them all How could I be fair to every pair?
I wore them in I wore them out I wore them everywhere and all about I put them on I took them off I cleaned them and I watched them scuff I kept them in the wardrobe I kept them on the floor I looked at new pairs in shoe shops always buying more I watched over them in case they walked out on me although that would be quite a shock to see
I wondered how to share the wear for so many shoes I’d bought with care I wore them in evens I wore the odds I racked them up and hung them from rods I couldn’t work out how to be fair to give each two an outing same as every other pair so I put them in a line and started at one end each day I would wear the next pair I did intend the days wore on the line grew around the house I walked in socks to each next pair quiet as a mouse
eventually I reached the very end at which point I must myself defend I came late to realising shoes have no brains or feelings so there were no gains from my actions bold and unreserved my treatment of them was undeserved
I thought I would try a nonsense poem for a change.
This river of mud it comes to no good when it spreads on the plains or surges through the woods when it rises in the towns or breaks dams where it would this river of mud is never any good
they throw the mud they make the mud stick weather whether there is mud to throw splattered thin or cement thick and I see the mud it makes me feel sick a vitriolic flood of slander and lies sinking reasonable opposition no due process applies
I write forwards you write back you tell me where we have been where we should be I write of where I’m going to be and you are not a character in that book
poetography.ink 