Fragile like a bubble floating gentle on a breeze uncertain airy eddies dropping it and raising it with ease a dip toward a branch and a child waits for it to pop breath held eyes wide standing still mid hop then it spirals up just before the moment a random push to nowhere special rescued by chance bound only by circumstance the brittle coloured shiny shell wafer thin and precious we await another chance buffeting the waiting is delicious to influence things the child waves hands and blows with her small mouth she hopes to help it survive the ground disaster beckons from the south her little puffs send fragile bubble in unintended directions she watches amazed the effect she has on the subject of her affection her will her thought her decision to act on the outcome she desires embolden her to further acts beyond bubbles she aspires eventually the bubble pops its streaky rainbow skin we both sigh in satisfaction at its inevitable oily end as it bursts in prism lit spray asunder the fragile bubble also releases wonder the child and I are compelled to create more of these globular gems to see what control we can exercise what we can contrive with them
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
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
Preface: During peak learning, a human takes around three years to master the skills and individual creativity necessary to draw a stick figure. AI machine learning accomplishes replication of such a feat in a microsecond.
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
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
True forest paths are not seen but felt it is fair to say the engineered tracks of man are just a gash of impudent human display
observe the busy insects fly passages through the air they’ll not prop at copse or rock they will find their own way there
and the animals patter many trails with a purpose we often guess not ken they wend their way over hill and dale then back home again with nary a blight touch the landscape so light could we aspire to accomplish this when
our heavy footprint leaves such a dent on hillside, plain and fen
such a blight such an intrusive pity the forest is sliced as with so many knives the forest is cut up as a city
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.
The river of love that runs through my heart is a river that flows straight to you sweetheart and when it comes time for me to depart my spirits will be high as I impart my gladness at receiving love’s joyful dart from you to pierce my once armoured heart
Victorian cold climate rainforest of the Dandenong Ranges
Where is the rain that fell on me six months now the heavens have sweated dry where is the rain that fell between the earth and a cloud filled sky
it isn’t only that it remains unseen but unfelt as the red dirt cracks and dries the grasses wither to browned off greens spelling disaster as this hot summer fries
I remember rain, it’s cold wet drops splashing, a nuisance, a bother rain washing down canopies and from rooftops falling as spits or sheets, one on top of another
I knew of its coming as thunder heads piled as heavy wet clouds gathered and unfurled awaiting the deluge all the while or misting blankets that obliterated the world
as mirrored droplets clung to trees sound was absorbed as water swirled spiderwebs glistened in the wet breeze the only sound was water hurled
I miss the damp of the atmosphere now a thimble lost is a terrible waste who would have thought rain so dear how lovely to feel it, wet upon my face
I lost myself amongst the scarlet sage in the peaks and valleys of the Dancing Range where the red earth is cracked with heat and age where the hills themselves whirl in fiery rage
where my love bewitched by a tyrant mage was broken, his desire to assuage I hunted them daily in this moving maze of shifting hills and surface crazed
every dawn the landscape rearranged to bewilder the hunter until deranged to trap me in this rolling cage of shifting hills and surface crazed
of endless paths endlessly paved reaching only the ends of this mage depraved I searched shapeless valleys I scoured the peaks climbing and descending weeks and weeks
his lair it seemed I could not find until I had a change of mind was this real where hills could rise where valleys could twist before my eyes?
was I confused by spell or malign charm was it my brain doing much of the harm could I separate my thoughts from my pain logically concentrate to search again?
I sat a day to plan my way to find a new route to my prey a map I would make to display a grid of my searching every day
the shifting landscape I would ignore only compass and distance would I score disoriented I would be no more I would come upon mage's door
for three days I laboured under blazing sun everything turned but I was not spun I found what I wanted I knew I had won a door in a hillside that must be the one
I steeled my nerves and I drew my sword I gritted my teeth and charged the door it shattered as inside I bore shocking the mage to his very core
taking full advantage of his acute surprise I smote him between his evil eyes and so the tyrant mage fell and died as behind him the love of my life I spied
we fell into each others arms the death of the mage broke the wicked charm on my tears of relief she was free from harm shifting hills and valleys were at once becalmed
Melissa introduced we poets to artist Alma Thomas for this week’s dVerse prompt. We were charged with choosing one of her paintings and writing what the work evoked for each of us.
Mountains stand above valley and plain ranging over extensive stage mountains never look the same mountains turn many a page cloaked white in winter's fog and snow clad in the green shades of spring baked by summer’s hot yellow sun in autumn’s many colours seen softened by forest leaf en masse capped with crags of hardened stone eternally surveying woodland and grass water and desert from lofty throne
Bear me brother Bear me well Bear me from this churning, bloody hell
carry me brother across your broad back to escape the carnage of bullet, chemical and flack
your boots are heavy, clotted with mud your uniform rain sodden, stained with blood your rifle I can no longer see across your shoulders you trudge with me
my head flops flaccidly I wake and sleep or is it unconsciousness that takes me deep away from pain and brutal surrounds the crashing violence of artillery rounds the moans of others gashed, crushed and burned the landscape blackened the ground turned
my noble saviour my hero of a man my rescuer of honour one who does what he can
as you bear me to safety out of harms way will you release me to live again or fight another day?
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
I searched for the river to slake desperate thirst
I thought it was somewhere around here
I thought I smelled water but I remained cursed
every turn brought simply more tears
I toiled through the scrub on my knees as a first
I soon began to smell fear
the dry of my throat and my eyes were the worst
but I still felt there was water around here
my effort was flagging my heart fit to burst
lost I scrambled and crawled for life dear
then I heard a tinkle with cracked lips pursed
I stopped to listen and peer
was I tricked, in illusion immersed?
no, there
a gleam through the woods did appear
and I rose and I ran and the wild things dispersed
as I charged and leapt logs like a deer
all the pain and the doubt that I had nursed
vanished like fog from a weir
disappeared in that moment I felt myself blessed
I found water deep, cool and clear
and I dived right in, water up to my chin
I drank and rejoiced in the swim
and I swore in that water
that life giving elixir
no wrong would I e’er do again
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
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!
At evening when the sunsets vary when the birds settle in roosts far and wide when the lowing cattle lie down to cud I reflect on days toil and try to decide will I stay on here with Mary will we try another place far away will it change anything really? or is it just another run and hide no loss can transport you to such misery no grief can claim you so deep inside like the death of the most precious to you the loss of a loved first born child
Ah, the light of the golden hour the yellow wash of dawn’s breaking sun such pleasure in the early morn omen for a another day of wonder beautifully begun
The luxury of poetry the images created there the pleasantries of high art the challenges laid bare the thoughts on truth and beauty the ugly brutal truth the clearly written words the affected words forsooth
the scibblings of a madman the writing of a scribe the wounds of the wounded the dying and dead imbibed the love of many lovers the truth and pain of love the anxiety of living the wonder of it hereof the unitary or divisive delivery of hell or heaven above
Ah, this last of exquisite autumn days the slant of light of breaking rays through fractured clouds to which some might say how disappointing this grey sky day but the rays of light delighted me the yellow bands proportionately dominate the view, you can’t but see the illumination of everything touched by these
and in that light the detail found from sun's surface waves inbound everything on earth reflects colour and pleasure if you look hard enough for work or leisure an architect's masterpiece of blossoming features or a beautiful flower of imperfect creases
see the light touch your skin examine the surface you find yourself in think of yourself as embodied light the light within grants power of sight and if you think deeper you just might fully appreciate autumn's dying light
poetography.ink 