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
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 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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
I’m all alone in the cemetery lot I need growth from bones so I’ll take a plot beside the friends I dig
I’ll form a skeletal assembly line something cadaverous and big to build a ghostly host refined
I’ll nurture them with fellowship we’ll dance to death metal music arisen from this macabre landfill tip atop our graveyard homes we’ll shake and rattle them fresh grown bones
In Australia we call a lookout a “Cockatoo” named after these birds because they always post a lookout in strategic position to watch over the flock and alert them to potential danger.
Cockatoos walk the walk they are smart and bold they talk the talk human or squawk they are social and caring for others in the flock they live for decades 100 years they can clock
Me working at the foam cutting machine in the factory days of my youth (damn, I forgot to include my long locks of the time).
Fire me because I hate this job the work is menial the owners are snobs my self esteem they are trying to rob
resigning won’t cut it because Centrelink stinks they’ll stop any payments for weeks and weeks so I’m trapped in this lousy job I did not want anyway they forced me to take it though I wanted more pay
but who am I to say I’m worth more pay when the alternative is no welfare paydays while seeking the work I am qualified for as opposed to dismissal or a lost file in a drawer
so I press button one I press button two slicing foam for packaging it’s all I need do when due for a break a mountain of off cuts I climb in my dead time and I bounce on my bum to the tinnitus hum of factory machinery that means nothing to me
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not permit AI to use my work.
10 January 2022. Chocolate lily, Mackerell’s Rd, Strathbogie, Victoria. Every corner, every stretch, every measure, cycling delivers surprise and pleasure.
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.
poetography.ink 