I am going to tell you a story about what began, thus .,,,,
our underused garage became a room for rumpus.
Little did we anticipate the rowdiness it would encompass,
when rowdy young children began to rumpus plus plus!
Discuss the matter further we must.
This week Kim challenged we poets to craft a quadrille around the word “rumpus”. This is an almost true story. Only the children have changed. https://dversepoets.com/2025/08/25/quadrille-230-lets-kick-up-a-rumpus/
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.
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
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not permit AI to use my work.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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 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
“Our hearts long to trust and be trusted.” Karl Jaspers.
What is the human world without trust? It is a world of lies and deceit that has lost its common purpose. Only in sharing the truth can there be trust. Without trust there can be no hope, no true happiness.
Every one of us seeks trust. If we feel we can no longer find it in our leaders or institutions, we must seek it out in each other. It is there we will find trust, hope and happiness.
I wonder if I will ever get back on my bikes
free to ride wherever I like
living with arthritis is a constant pain
I do hope I get to ride again
luckily I can write to fill my time
put some cycling photography into rhyme
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not permit AI to use my work.
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
Did you see the seagull
standing on the lamp post
looking at the scenery
taking in the view
ooh ooh
poetography.ink 