One step …..
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Tag Archives: Poem
Sick
I will go and get a pillow with a flannelette slip
I will nestle in my big armchair lying on my hip
I will stretch out my legs toward the soft topped footstool
I will place the warm pillow on an armrest before lying out in full
I will lay my head down with a lap blanket across my knees
with handkerchieves at ready for mopping drool each wet cough and sneeze
I will keep the temperature from the column heater constant at around 20 degrees
I will take the symbicort regularly and salbutamol as necessary to relieve every newly occurring wheeze
I will try to keep my fluids up though walking to the kitchen breaks my morbid reverie
a bottle of water by my side is good for sips but not as satisfying as hot green tea
I will remove my glasses from my eyes because everything I see becomes bleary blurs
I will close my eyes to beautiful music to distract me from headaches shivers and joint pains that ail me like a curse
and if the sleep I seek does come I will for a while be at peace
for only good sleep refreshes and revitalises a weary body when little else gives relief
Power Politics Abuse
In a world where unprotected justice is just another manipulative tool
those who believe in blind justice look increasingly like naive fools
where chaos replaces transparency with the purpose of obscuring truth
evidence based learning falls from aspiration, to work fragmented and moot
when lies are an accepted part of political discussion for misuse
the power lies with those who societal values they readily abuse
if public denigration of dissent is a routine weapon of discourse
then know ye that they will come for you too by threat as well as force
if wealth and appearance are the only currency around
the majority may well end up in position genuflecting from the ground
if deceit tricks and hacks are permitted to taint the heart of democracy
then notional democracy becomes yet another self defeating fallacy
and the corrupt, malign and unread will rule over every land
empowered by the inevitable sycophants and their militarised bully bands
The poetics prompt for we dVerse poets https://dversepoets.com/2025/08/12/dverse-poetics-tuesday-power/ comes from the deep thinking Lisa this week. It is topical, omnipresent and scary – as it has been throughout history. Is it worse today than in past eras? I am not sure I can make an absolute statement about that. However, with the likes of social media and AI now available as part of the dissembling and propaganda mix I suspect it is to become so.
I cannot resist a more personal comment about two principled men from Australia’s political history who I believe represented the antithesis to the forms of abuse of power described in my poem above. Two men whose democratic modelling, and leading of social justice and cultural reforms could be learned from by many leadership figures engaged in the power plays of today. My father Race Mathews with his friend, colleague & mentor Prime Minister Gough Whitlam.
Servitude
My whispers to the morning
will not wake this sleeping brood
they whisper of the dawning
of the pastel colours hued
my whispers to the daytime
are those of habitude
of daily tasks and courtesy
none offensive, base nor rude
my whispers to the evening
are subtly subdued
yet another day is passing
but sunset is still well viewed
my whispers to the night
are those pleading quietude
contentment is a household
resting in subdued attitude
my whispers in my sleep
tell of my servitude
spoken in such a whisper
such that life comes not unglued
My Metahuman Love Affair
I recently met a metahuman.
Her name was Tina Fleet.
I found her interesting and she attracted me.
She was living just down the street.
I admired her superhuman power.
Her’s was flying feet!
She could launch into the sky on a personal whim
or run like the wind -
as just above the ground she skimmed!
She was also super smart,
in a class of her own.
None of us un-enhanced humans
had like her evolved or grown.
Her ancestry was drone AI,
from the time of the 21st century.
Now, one hundred years later
here she was living –
right near me.
A product of a mutant gene implant,
crafted by an ultra-mind
placed into a cloned human form
with attributes refined.
So, I can’t call her just human
because technically she was designed to mutate.
But on the other hand she became a friend
or dare I say, even a very special “metamate”
We’d meet at the local cafe for a cuppa.
Her supernature and powers didn’t bother me.
We would play a game testing her memory.
She never failed - infuriatingly.
We’d walk together on summer evenings.
She even held my hand once, after an impassioned plea!
She almost treated me as an equal
even though I was the inferior human species you see.
However,
there was a definite personal attraction.
I often wonder if it was a love that could have been?
I would have liked to have kept on seeing her,
but word had got around our town
that she was associating closely with a basic ancestral
on whom her metahuman friends looked down.
I didn’t want to embarrass her
my feelings were that strong!
I wanted her to be happy,
so I dropped out of where I didn’t belong.
And yet, despite that decision and to this very day
I feel that the way the Metas treat the rest of us
is quite unfair ……….
and wrong.
Juliet and Romeo (revised)
Juliet
is all slick and wet
her long hair in her eyes
she has been hit by an idiot
drunk driving by ……………. bye bye
Romeo
roams idly past
he sees the girl on the ground
he looks at her - quizzically
then he realises what he has found
Juliet
breathes in gasps
as blood pools under her back
she looks up, sees Romeo
last look, last love
as her limbs go slack
Romeo’s
not much you know
but this time things are different
He wipes the hair from her glazed eyes
and wonders where her life went
Juliet
rises above the scene
she watches Romeo
He cradles her head
gently in his lap
he whimpers out a moan
Romeo
struck by love’s full fist
his only love has gone
he whines, he weeps at his loss
death into his soul is born
Juliet
bears final witness to
Romeo’s last testament
“Did my heart truly love till now?”
he whispers
------------------------------------------
For the first time
he knows of true love and grace
“Good night, good night”
“Thus with a kiss I too die”
He declares to her still and pallid face
Romeo
bends his head down
and tenderly brushes her cold blue lips with his own
he softly places her head on the ground
a final look to the only love he has known
he lies quietly beside her
he takes her right hand in his left
Romeo
retrieves a switchblade knife
from his trouser ‘s pocket
meant for rivals never his life
and yet, he eases the blade into his chest
dividing his ribs apart
the sharp-edged steel slides smoothly
it finds his broken heart
As blood pools under his back
he has nothing more to say
onto the cold hard tarmac
his life also leaks away
Juliet
utters one last cry of grief
before she disappears forever
or was that one last plea for relief
in hope somewhere they will reappear together
for never was there a story that reeks of more woe
than this tragic tale of Juliet and her Romeo
Verdigris
Verdigris verdigris
How this oxidisation shames me
Will I ever get my copper clean?
Only with elbow grease
I’ll polish until a mirror like shine
Emerges by degrees
In Forests #02
What is it the forest says to me?
It says, “Dive in deep and gleefully!”
and oh I do so like to take that advice
because diving into a forest is oh so nice
I approach the edge excited each time
because when forest bathing the time is all mine
nearing the forest the world changes scale and shape
new dimensions appear: from 2D to 3D, into 4D I leap
as the colours of tree thin lands fade out behind me
the colours of the forest grow ever richer to see
and time seems to stop while immersed in this place
as the harshness of cities is quickly replaced
by the soft light of beauty and amazing grace
the smells of the flora the anticipation of wildlife
the moisture in the air the freedom the relief
where I walk in peace awestruck and at my own pace
where I find so many reasons to pause and marvel in this space
I belong in the forest it puts smiles on my face
it slows me it soothes me it relieves me of haste
it gives me adventures I would never otherwise find
it welcomes and embraces me and I return all in kind
I embrace the ground cover the mid story and canopy
I welcome every insect bird and animal I see
I soak up the sights of mosses lichen and fungi
the waterways the water aquatic life and algae
and I think if this is heaven in heaven I want to be
because then heaven is on earth to revere joyfully
Today’s d’Verse prompt is from Lillian: write a poem that somehow mentions, is set in, or is motivated by the woods / forest. As I hope you can see, I like nothing better than to spend time walking in forests.
If only …..
If only you had stayed, I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones with you. Why wouldn’t you? We could have learnt together. Such contrasts are about opportunities, about understanding different perspectives, about understanding each other and how to live and love together. All sorts of days come and go. All types of moods. There are enough days for everything we could imagine sharing - good days and bad. If only you’d waited to see how bright the future could be. If only you had taken the time to see through the clouds to the clear air beyond, to project us into that space of hope and optimism. Instead you allowed us to falter at the first hurdle without even thinking to explore how we could make the dark days bright again. You succumbed to the transient storm as if it would last forever.
This week Kim’s dVerse Prosery Prompt comes from Walcott’s Dark August , “I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones with you.” The task was to write up to 144 words of prose incorporating this line. I chose to write a flash fiction about the disappointment of a short love affair quickly lost to stormy weather – in 144 words.
Waiting for the 2.42
Waiting for the 2.42
nothing much else to do
so we cuddle and kiss
oblivious
to the sensibilities of the other pair
sitting there
Room
There is a room in a house on a hill without doors
nobody knows what it was put there for
because nobody knows that it has no doors
the room in the house is alone and forlorn
trapped by its emptiness without any doors
never able to hope for better or more
ne’er an open door through which to explore
Ariel is submarine
Ariel was submarine once seen
where aquatic fossils scraped the sky
submarine is like a dream
of eternal meanderings passing by
like a book written within
like records of the past deep
until revealed or awoken
they have lain millennia asleep
Run river red run dry run dead
In the Valley there are few trees now
since white settlement the river gums have bled
steadily back into ever depleting soil
the dehydrating sap bleeding red
some majestic sentinels remain
on final watch across the floodplain
of gritty dust and cropped introduced grasses
as the parade of indigenous extinction passes
withdrawing from the flats
retreating across the hills
ascending to heaven after suffering grave ills
and the broken remnains of centuries of trees
stand skeletal or lie shattered on the ground
as if awaiting a last chance for redemption
after each falling whoosh and final thump of sound
in atonement for overseeing the loss of forest
they crave to protect their young who escape the cut
of plough or chainsaw or grazing teeth they
enfold survivors in fractured parental branches
fostering the roots beneath
attempting nurture of trunk and leaf
but they have nothing left to bequeath
to young individuals left standing exposed
to sadly age in grief
witness to a parasitic human occupation
a relentless quest by the future’s thief
Waterhole
Water water
in that hole
I see water in that hole
been so dry a heavy toll
now I see water in a hole
drinking drinking
drinking up
I keep drinking hands a cupped
all that water it’s going down
I keep drinking though it’s brown
walking staggering
just how far
to another waterhole reservoir
the door of hope is now ajar
waterholes be my repertoire
heat and sun
pounding down
no further waterhole to be found
in the lee of boulders I go to ground
to die in shade without a sound
Going nuclear
The idea of Australia going nuclear galls me
Mr Dutton with a finger on any nuclear button appals me
This land of sunshine vast spaces and mineral wealth
locked into a future of power hazardous to health
with effective contribution to the grid decades away
when we can scale up renewables here today
I am in a state of dismay
at nuclear plants throughout the land
of nuclear waste dumps / come contraband
of huge ongoing costs already astronomical
compared with falling costs efficient and economical
of obsolete technology by the time it is in place
when an ever improving tech is already here
its a disgrace
it’s sensible to consider it and review the outcomes
but not to legitimise it without proper data and sums
this is not a neutral decision and should not be
it is populist electoral baiting for a fait accompli
The nuclear legacy window is closing ready to be dismantled
Not whimsically enthroned and politically handled
Blaze
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not permit AI to use my work.
Love signs
Each kiss a little longer
hands running through my hair
a massage of my shoulder
a whisper in my ear
hugs are that much tighter
gifts come with thoughtful care
the lifts are so much higher
the intimate things we share
welcome touches when we lie
lingering snuggles tight in bed
brushing tears when we cry
loving words never left unsaid
closing off the world around us
the opening of our own
full of love and trust
a permanent inner glow
holding hands whenever walking
some teasing and much fun
lost in each others eyes when talking
there’s no doubt about true love signs none
Scared of the new summer
It makes pleasurable sense to live in the country
but I am apprehensive about what it means
when the blistering sun and a searing north wind
are set to scorch the earth when they rise again
I am scared of the new summer on days like these
marked for worsening catastrophes
where shimmering heat on the horizon it seems
prefaces the burning of landscapes by fire destined
to scour every countryside rise and glen
I feel the new summer fear rise again
I am scared of the new summer as you should be
when severe climate change dictates choice and activity
Of lovers and madness
Love is oft mad
at least it is common
for those who are in love
to behave madly most often
whether love at first sight
or as an earned right
love’s haze can refuse
the darkest of midnights
to acknowledge or confuse
bright beauteous light
thus driving one to action
bound later for redaction
for as Shakespeare said
in lines wise writ and read
“Things bad and vile, holding no quantity
love can transpose to form and dignity.”
Ref: A Midsummer Night’s Dream II 232-233
The interrobang
I introduce the 60 year old interrobang
the question mark as an exclamation cue
the bang originated as printer’s slang
a punctuation mark infrequently used
query and emphasis are from whence it came
for the enhancement of modern writing
gives use of an interrobang strong claim
a sting in the tail for subjects disquieting
Australian Raven / Crow
I hear the rasping caw of the mortuary bird
alone at the top of a single skeletal tree
black feathered reaper scavenger and restorer
observer for signs of frailty failure and futility
calling to others announcing death as imminent
there at the carrion end of the cycle of life
crow presence at death's arrival is prescient
beak and claw ready to tear and cut like a knife
the murderous flock train beady eyes on their prey
awaiting the moment they can safely descend
they utter hexes for stillness at the meat of the day
aware their role is to share in marking the end
Welcome
From Southbank
enter Melbourne on a bright yellow footbridge
under which the slow brown river flows
cross the river pass Flinders St station
walk your way to the parliamentary ridge
you will pass the most diverse of nations
every ethnicity, every colour and language
and generally we live harmoniously
although some would have it otherwise
I swear they would have us live in catastrophe
but I refuse to cooperate with their lies
15 minutes at the tram stop
The tram it is late the line it is clear
except for the gig riders in their weatherproof gear
the pedestrians dodge each other prop and weave
the boy on the kerb wipes his nose on his sleeve
the pigeons peck at spilt food on the street
lovers embrace and kiss when they meet
a young couple argue about where they should go
an old couple look sadly at the carnival show
that washes before them like the waves at high tide
where the truth is the water but the water lied
and the city is a victim in the coils of a snake
the people are uncertain is this dream or awake
the man on the seat nearby smells of alcohol and sweat
his hair is matted his shoes are wet
and seagulls circle looking for something to steal
from trailing children with chip bags they conceal
there’s a dashing young man dressed up to kill
and a dazzling young woman sexualised to the hilt
a girl sitting on the path is blackened to the core
blackened teeth blackened eyes blackened soul blackened jaw
the sky it is ruby splattered with pearls
of sun setting starlets in blonde locks and curls
it’s a festival of side shows coloured and brash
where faux credit has all but replaced cash
where art is artificial made by machines
where the grifters come to realise their schemes
a homeless woman drags herself past unstable and slow
and I’m ready so ready to go go go
The other side of the mountain
The mountain ahead was a really big deal
with trees on its flanks but few flat green fields
up on the ridges were sharp flinty stones
this was the path I must travel alone
all through my young life I believed what they said
crossing the mountain was folly many ended up up dead
I dreamed of the mountain most every night
in my dreams of the mountain I looked up and took flight
over the mountain I did range I did soar
over the mountain I sought release from remorse
I scoured the slopes and I scoured the crown
but I saw little and little I found
my dreams fell shattered and broke on the ground
I determined I must climb by foot from the town
I wandered for days on flat lands for a time
before reaching the base of the mountainous climb
the gentle foot hills were covered with flowers
the meadows were rich I crossed them in hours
the mountain itself was immediately steep
the forest was thick the scree cut my feet
I had to use switchbacks many miles for a few
only meters in altitude gained daily as I drew
toward the top of the mountain’s ragged sharp peak
in crisp snow and cold air were answers I did seek
I reached the summit with its razor sharp edge
I looked on the other side from a dizzying ledge
and what did I find on this remote outlook
enough for a page enough for a book
I found enough to shake me and to realise
that my thinking was blinkered by my very own lies
my remorse was false a craven escape
from fear of the truth in me now awake
I had thought it would be different on the other side
but all I discovered was another brutal slide
and that I did not need to climb to be true
I needed to scramble all the way back down to you
to say I am sorry for the harm that I did
to understand the hurt that occurred when I fled
I am sorry for the struggle the wounds that I gave
I beg for forgiveness if there is any to be saved
Frank Poems
(For Rain)
Written as a tribute to 1960s New York poet, Frank O'Hara.
On February 26
in the year of 2025
Rain brought Frank O’Hara to The Motley
for a short while he was reborn
in another place
in another time
where the words of other worlds and other times
are allowed to be reborn
and encouraged to live on
I had forgotten the name Frank O’Hara
until Rain reminded me of the small orange and blue 1964 book I had recently been dipping into
and here he was again
speaking again
speaking through Rain
being spoken of
the book is called “Lunch Poems”
I had come to think of him as a street poet
an observation recorder
but he is also a nonsense, a blender, a masher of words
a poet whose name I hadn’t quite yet fully retained
but I had sort of retained what he was doing at the time
Rain suggested I go and visit him on YouTube
I found some short and grainy black and white film recordings of him reciting and explaining his work
we take such things for granted
but it felt miraculous to be in the room with him in those moments
I wished I could talk with him
still I absorbed what he read and said and I dare to paraphrase here
Poems
poems
are made of words
the words don’t have to mean anything
poems are the vehicles
for words
to create a feeling
you can mix up words
in any way
as long as the feeling comes out
and stays
