we look this way
we look that
we raise our binoculars
we have a chat
we love the birds
everywhere we see
delightful birds
we watch with glee
Poetry days #07.
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not use AI. I do not want AI to use my work.
I walked into the apartment
on a turbulent afternoon
in my tiny slice of sky
ominous clouds did loom
the titans were massing
for a deadly contest
but through my small window
I could see no conquest
Poetry days #06.
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not use AI. I do not want AI to use my work.
What is that thing you have concealed at the back of the darkest shelf
Mr Unknowable Self
what is it you have hidden away
is it for a rainy day
is it for a special time or special friend to reveal
is it honestly come by or is it something you steal
who are you Mr Unknowable Self
and the secretive part of you
neither pauper nor with wealth
covert and invisible to all including yourself
fearful of understanding
a past that might never heal
committed to hiding away the things not to be revealed
so how are you Mr Unknowable Self
are you content with never knowing
never believing in yourself
will you practice deceit all your life to avoid one likely fact
if you explored the things you don’t want to know
you with yourself
might that make a peaceful pact
so take down that thing from the darkest shelf
open it to the light
make sure it is dealt
with to relieve you of your plight
Poetry days #05. For the online Lysterfield Lake walking map and description I have published on the Victoria Walks web site click: Lysterfield Lake circuit walk
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not use AI. I do not want AI to use my work.
Fierce sunshine challenges an emerging breeze,
"Take me on if you will, my radiant expertise".
Breeze stays gentle, slowly brings summer rain.
"Well sunshine, would you challenge me again?"
Poetry days #04.
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not use AI. I do not want Ai to use my work.
A rainbow cast its arcing spell
across the horizon from hill to dell
sweet colours did the people see
I saw an enchanted mystery
from where I stood the vivid arch
did move as I moved across the path
no matter how I tried to catch its base
it slipped from me with every pace
I could not solve this riddle before me
for it faded, just as magically
as it appeared in pastel splendour
and so my query had to end there
Poetry days #03.
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not use AI. I do not want AI to use my work.
The red back pack was already second hand
bought cheap from an opp shop by a hiking man
it’s straps were a bit frayed
it’s colour a bit faded
the brand now out of favour
but it still had years of wear
there were pockets for liquidity
and pockets for your water
pockets for snacks
and a wear pocket for nadir
but if you kept that pocket closed
there was nothing there to fear
there were pockets for your clothing
pockets for rain and sleeping gear
there was a pocket for a journal
and a way to quickly reach a camera
because recording of life’s journey
involves equipment for ephemera
it had seen through a lot of windows
it had been through many a door
it had heard so many a tales
it couldn’t remember them all anymore
it had walked the tracks and trails
of many countries around the globe
such that it's experiences
never felt far from home
but it was ready for new adventures
to be up and about again
it was only a matter of time
before the hiking man said when
Poetry days #02.
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not use AI. I do not want AI to use my work.
Shafts of sunlight break up the gloom
into luminous green rainforest rooms
every moist step and touch of the earth
another experience of the wonder of life
Photography days #05. You can find the Goodenia walking map and description online at Victoria Walks: https://walkingmaps.com.au/walk/5756
All work is my own and copyright applies. I do not use AI. I do not wish for AI to use my work.
You gave my day a lift
with the words you gave me as a gift
and the things you did
I don’t know if you knew
but especially coming from you
I took them straight to heart
and I’m grateful for your part
in making my day special
right from the very start
that was a nice thing that you said
and nice things that you did
Poetry days #01. Find the path here: https://www.nationalparks.nsw.gov.au/things-to-do/walking-tracks/mount-kosciuszko-summit-walk
All work is my own and subject to copyright. I do not use AI. I do not want AI to use my work.
Dad laughs at his own jokes
children cringe and feign embarrassment
dad adds tickles and finger pokes
children claim harassment
and everyone shares miles of smiles
at table, play or from the floor
as dad persists all the while
cracking jokes more and more
"Don't encourage him!" everyone says
as dad scores another score
laughter turns into donkey brays
as belly laughs stretch the jaw
the fun settles slowly and aching cheeks
from grins as big as the moon
will be remembered for weeks and weeks
secretly,
we wish to hear more dad jokes soon
For this week’s dVerse poetics prompt Mish gave we poets licence to consider any aspect of laughter we choose. Believe it or not, sometimes I can set the house on fire with the quality and machine gun delivery of my Dad jokes. I just can’t understand why everyone present groans so much and pleads with me to stop!
She doesn’t have faith like Jesus
But she does believe in love
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she does celebrate life
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she always tries to be kind
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she leads a generous life
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she worships nature and its gifts
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she volunteers and gives a bit
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she does believe in peace
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she can turn the other cheek
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she believes in equality for humankind
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but believes in freedom of speech and mind
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but believes in growing knowledge and skills
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but believes people should not kill
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but believes in doing good and always will
she doesn’t have faith like Jesus
but she should be honoured still
Written for the dVerse challenge from Andrew. When we take up poetic arms in any cause, we are trusting that “the pen is mightier than the sword!”
I am unconvinced of spring
for winter still is here
despite the dates
there’s fire in grates
and a chill wind cold and clear
no green shoots have emerged
in fact the ground is bare
not moist and soft,but hard and dry
grass brown from frost and rare
the birds are still very quiet
the animals briefly appear
the skies are heavy and silent
rain and sleet is always near
clothes are layered and warm
boots are waterproof and thick
beanies and hats are permanent
raincoats and parkas are slick
and in amongst this extension
of winter into spring
I just want to mention
this weather makes me sing
Apologies dVerse - I linked the wrong poem. Try the next one.
Where the river meets the sea
I’ll wait patiently
until your ship comes in
carrying you to my smiles
we’ll walk the miles and miles
to a place to begin again
upriver to where small streams
become the water of river dreams
where meadows grow green under
skies of sun and thunder
there we’ll settle on high ground
ever fertile and sound
we’ll labour to work the earth
and give a family birth
a family that will grow
to work together and sow
under that mantle of blue and grey
after years and many a day
we will turn to each other and say
the life we chose has been a good one
as good as the river is long
to its banks we will continue to go
hand in hand
watching the river flow
Like paper to the wind
my thoughts I scatter here
unable to rescind
I let them travel where
I know not what they’ll achieve
succeed with or accomplish
I fear they’ll find readers
with care only to admonish
then there is the question
why bother anyway?
so many smarter and stupider minds
have so much more to say
and louder voices
because they so often agree
to speak their thoughts
only to celebrity
a different purpose is theirs
to be heard no matter what
without the necessity
of thinking intelligently
of sharing something
of value they have got
I speak simply
of observations
of thoughts I mull over
instead
I speak of imagery
of the wonders of earth
that crowd
inside my head
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
such is human life
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
lovers
a contradiction
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
lovers
linger and pine long
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
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
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
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
Clusters of pink
bundles of green
frosty treat
winter morning
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.
poetography.ink 