Feeling jaded I walked around the block on one of those particularly clean and crisp Melbourne autumn mornings the type only Melbourne seems to have the sun was bright and immersively warm every time you emerged from cold dark shadows the sky was a spectacular sky blue blue blue all the way to the top everything was precisely defined like it had been edged with the blackest finest fine liner pen I found a banksia bud on the ground and picked it up for closer examination nature had loaded it with deep brown lidded eyes in a repeating pattern designed to go on forever lighter brown probosci with vivid tan tips emerged from between each eye and the nett result was glorious awe and wonder jaded faded
the joyful anticipation of time spent together is heightened by the inevitability of separation whether one waits for the other to arrive or the timing is perfect buoyant hearts rush to the coming
the anticipation of separation casts a shadow over time spent together time to dread and then watch the leaving heavy hearts drag at the going
both will love and hate the preoccupying delirium of the in between
The sun is a furnace around which we orbit. It sits in space 152 million kilometres away, providing just enough heat to keep our planet and its inhabitants alive. Every time I recognise this fact I have the same response – what are the chances? WOW!
Natural places struggle to survive man’s built environment – Albert Park Lake, Melbourne
Man built over grassland built into sky built atop mountains to nature defy built into forest built under water built in the desert built bricks and mortar built with cut wood built with the earth never understood non stop building is death
every built patch a carnage every built patch an ending every built patch a destruction of what nature would have seen every built patch an obliteration of what nature could have been
This crumbling old bridge was once an entrance to the town but these days another road goes another way around and the old bridge isn't even a walking bridge today as its rotten frame collapses in an advanced state of decay I'd like to see we walkers reclaim this historic bridge and road reimagined and rebuilt it would easily take that load we would walk both sides of the water accessed by its span travel both embankments knowing we safely can return by the old bridge to where we began to roam enjoying nature's reclaimed beauty right here by our town
Horses of the Australian High Country – near Corryong.
At the crack of thunder a handsome young colt took flight down the alpine spine he dashed and crashed through alpine scrub until he had arrived in the sheltered valley amongst his mob that gave him comfort and respite from the raging storm that crowned the mountain turning day into night
his tremor settled as he sidled up to his grazing mother the elder mare she turned her head to see the sweat on his flanks the rolling eyes of fear she nuzzled licked and settled him with a maternal stare curious young Brumbies wander alone all to often with reckless care
and all to often intelligently they navigate and interrogate the delicate high country strong and predator free they browse moss fields and trees leaving only debris as well the large wild Brumby mobs roam freely about as if the place were theirs to own they churn the creeks and chop the wafer thin soil to its rocky bones
the wild horses of the Australian bush are part of history myth and legend but their introduced arrival on colonial fleets often goes unmentioned noble creatures of the northern hemisphere they cast dark highborn shadows across native southern habitats their hard hooves and heavy weights disrupt natural indigenous flows
Today Dora asked we poets to write to a general prompt about horses. She included several remarkable sample poems you might like to read here https://dversepoets.com/2024/07/23/poetics-running-with-horses/ I chose to write about our local Australian wild horses, Brumbies. As an introduced species, Brumbies are controversial, both celebrated and appreciated. I hope to have developed the reasons why in my poem.
These black shoes made prominent display in their window on a cold, wet day the sole remainders of a winter sale thrust forward beyond blue veil walk in my shoes for the rest of the tale
The silver mists of Golden Mountain obscure the ranging view but create a tableau different and good of ghosts, and flitting wood nymphs too?
when wallabies thump their way through the wood it sounds like tree fellers of the past they appear in swirls of misty pearls then disappear just as fast
the deep forest loses depth the towering forest loses height and still the height and depth of it is perceived as majesty and might
spectre trees and bracken fern emerge and fade as shades the mid story of denser shrubs thickens, then lightens as glades
above in the lofts of the tree tops lost in a murky crown the creak of Gang Gangs evokes a haunted house as the mist keeps coming down
heavy with moisture grey as lead the weight of water settles it drips from every frond and leaf and jewels the risen nettles
muffled by its soft grey cloak hushed by its thick grey mantle awaiting the sun is forest under fractal lintel
the chill of it penetrates every thermal hat, scarf and glove the pleasure of it permeates souls with the nature we love
here in the forest, the misty forest be one lost and found take the time to appreciate the mystery of mistery found all around
We are sitting in the basement fifteen of us and a few cats and dogs the battery powered light flickering endlessly giving this dark windowless space an unsettling strobe effect we are powerless to correct
anything
there’s constant noise down here the wet wood in the furnace gathered in life risking scrambled forays sizzles spits and pops like everything above ground
the thermal fan under it turns on ever grinding stripped cogs whir, grrr, whir, grrr
such a refuge such refugees
the six month old baby grizzles persistently as her mother rocks in place mother elicits an endless suppressed yet ever audible keening cry over the child eeee, oh, eeee, ooh, ooooh
our elderly neighbour in the corner incessantly mutters unintelligibly and fossicks in his rucksack for something he never seems to find rustle, bustle, rustle
the small boys of the street wrestle spar for an activity to do until someone inevitably gets hurt accusations fly accompanied by pleading cries and whimpers for concern but there is little room for that sook sook sook
oh the irony of such violence here and now in play and then the recriminations begin all over again or it's back to the board games already fought over and played dozens of times
or back to exhausted, restless sleep
the horror that has thrown us together it has lasted five days now with no end in sight I mean how would we know we have no radio if there was if there is any end in sight?
add the horror of literally dashing and splashing to relieve yourself topside before something or someone gets you in one way or another
the horror of what you see while you are out there exposed and defenceless amongst the snipers the stray ordinance the wreckage the carnage, the bodies and body parts the smoke and the smell you can't get rid of any of it the imagery burnt into your retinas the stench of burnt everything embedded in your nostrils the burns on your skin your very own smouldering soul
two young girls push toy cars and trucks around the room filling them with anything they can that will support a story of some sort to overcome their fear you never know how it will manifest next as they fret, fidget, fuss, fume or fuse
we all stare at the floor most of the time except for the brief apprehensive looks heavenward, to the ceiling with every new global shudder of our tiny enclosed world we know where we are yet we are lost we are buried I wonder will we be buried here? in our own reality show live tombing what will that be like?
CRUMP!
is it that noise that bothers most? or is it the ripping and tearing of metal and wood like live cardboard screaming until it also is finally dead and still all movement defeated all creaks silenced all purpose gone with the wind
the exploding windows the thumps and whumps of trees and structures unknown falling to the earth the wild crackling and detonation arcing earthing power lines writhing like electrocuted psychotic snakes the searing howling jet stream that is simply the roar of wind generated by wildfire and wild fire the small arms fire rippling like saucepan popping corn the convulsive impacts of guided bombs drones missiles random artillery or the moments of deathly silence when it all stops when the next set of questions begin do we venture out with hope? or do we continue to wait to still sit still in this basement of dread
our will to endure fading fading deeper into despair
our fading resilience a fading of body and mind
we can see in our minds eye the fading of our ink from every record of us there ever was as we fade from presence and the present and from remaining data banks we fade from existence as surely as every other ordinary person is knowingly or carelessly erased by war
This is the spot I like to sit and watch the bees at work this mere is the spot I take my rest reflect on the mysteries of life’s cirque to see the flowers pollinated to see the caterpillar form and eat to watch the chrysalis deliver the pretty butterfly to floral seat to watch the autumn turn green cloaking to dusky yellow, reds and browns before stripping bare and thus exposing woody boughs for next years round and in spring I observe the flourishing of vivid sprouts and blooms from sleep when they give energy nourishing to new growth it fills me, replete in knowing summer will again warm me in this spot at nature's feet
poetography.ink 