In my hands the grip on life is weakening incessant tremor shakes my tenuous hold in my voice the words are thickening no longer resilient assertive or bold in my falling hair no flowers will bloom there is no lustre richness or growth in my head there is no room for pleasant thoughts or more to know in my eyes the irises are black darkened by illness, depletion and pain they can’t look forward only back to where I’ve been and will be again in my nose the smells are fetid ripe with the stench of sickness and rot in my mouth the taste is wretched appreciate what you have? I think not!
Does it alter every morning when the light strikes the land when sunlight ever bright or through grey skies hits the strand do the shapes and forms move under photon pressure waver only photographer or artist heeds every little quaver when dark crevices are lit by yellow shimmer or dull purple patches when mountains high or plains below are patched with coloured swatches when treed slopes or waving fields bask in brilliant splendour it is time to remember nothing is static take time to appreciate and consider
I live in that locket with you I’ll always be a flower in that metal pocket so you can always see your lover at your breast that lover always me you wear upon your chest your flower my honey bee my image and lock of hair to be there for evermore so you my love take care to continue to adore
Behind the jackets amongst the socks between the T shirts there sits a box
bagged in plastic in cardboard bound secured by elastic without sound
the box of letters still unopened by me emotional fetters too strong to see
This week’s prompt for we poets comes from Kim. We have been asked to write an autobiographical poem of three stanzas about a box. I have written on this before - my mother’s letters remain unread. Interestingly, I got very close to opening them just this week. The prompt was timely. Maybe next time I will have a different story to tell about the box. See the prompt here: dVerse.
Whither the waste on every street civil detritus at my feet yet I walk on ignoring implications of daily deposits and ruination the industry iceberg from households deflects convenience trumps, responsibility defects as blithely we step our way into history dumping waste our greatest legacy and each new generation cries why me? as they fill the land with more misery
The next train will be the wrong one it won’t take you where you want to go no matter where you think you are going this train will not take you there
the following train is sure to take you somewhere else if you want to go somewhere else please consider the following train however, also consider that somewhere else is always somewhere else it is never where you think it is please only board this train if you want to go somewhere else
please stand behind the yellow line for your own safety we can’t guarantee your well-being if you fall in front of the train we can’t guarantee your well-being anyway or anywhere you might want to be for that matter trains are not well-being services please go to platform 4 if you need well-being services the train there will stop at Brighton Station where you will find the highest concentration of psychiatrists, psychologists, mental health nurses, clairvoyants and shysters in the city of Melbourne Brighton might be the stop to help you get sorted we hope you enjoy your stop in Brighton
please consider other passengers on the train during peak periods move along the aisles to the centre of the carriage this reduces entry obstruction in the centre find your centre look closely at everyone around you find yourself in the same can of sardines ask yourself what this means?
the next train to run express runs from Parliament Station to Union Station this train is a contradiction in terms lines have been drawn there is no crossing these lines please be aware this train may be delayed by stationary action at Union normal services may not resume until Parliament legislates so scabs can break the line pace the platform and make frustrated calls to lovers, family and friends (in that order) afterward this train may be a rough ride we advise passengers on this line to avoid windows please keep your head down we cannot guarantee the safety of your head in the event of projectile deployment helmets may be recommended but are not mandatory when riding this train
I’ll ride the river to your door strong and silent I will come to you I’ll wind my way from where I was lost the river will deliver and save me too and when becalmed by your charms once again after all this time I’ll float leisurely then outstrectch my arms to again touch the flows that sooth me I’ll let the gentle eddies turn me around my turbulence washed away I’ll settle on the sandy riverbank with you forever and a day
The gully is the belly of the forest the soft wet green place where digestive juices change things one form to another
the gully is the heart of the forest where nutrient rich fluids are pumped vital organs synchronise their functions to the vital goal of common survival
the gully is the womb of the forest where meetings become intimate couplings fertilisers are spread daily by fauna or flora fertilisation is automatic according to the season
the gully is the incubator of the forest where diverse growth prospers and dormant growth awaits just the right time where seeds and spores are stored for better weather when better weather is not come
the gully is a place to take your body to appreciate and learn what life can be
The people are raining in bits and blobs the rain is red bled tears and sobs the people are flying up through the sky arcing like rag dolls to heights very high the thunder is frightening the lightning is death the people are dying taking last breaths fleshy lumps are dropping back to their berth with fractured bones falling to rattle the earth the children are worst as their bodies burst with each new detonation another curse as the soldiers wade through the carnage they create claiming it’s orders no difference can they make instructions come from those sitting above but the executioners fit in with them hand in glove while mothers cry and fathers weep some bodies may heal but other scars run deep and the harm ensures an eye for an eye more and more people will rain from the sky
Melissa’s dVerse prompt for we poets today references the surrealism of Rene Magritte. I chose the painting Golconda (1953) of raining men to address the terrible wars around the globe and our repeated failure to learn the lessons of history.
Now is the time to lay it down to accept the role I should have owned to be responsible after all these years for the grief and suffering pain and tears in my ignoble name I make this vow to be better, stronger and to show I am of moral fibre, ethical, of worth who has earned this precious time on earth who can turn his demons into strengths who will do the right thing by any length what does it matter some might say? it matters nought at end of day to which I reply, gracious and emphatically it might not matter to you, it matters to me there is no pleasure in a life blind, accursed and unfair while there can be joy in a life of seeing, kindness and care
I see the human condition as a comedy in which all of us take our part. We project or suppress our characters, we deliver our lines, we wish to entertain, we endeavour to engage with our audiences as we perceive they want us to, we offer intrigue by often thinking other than we act. We consider our individual lifelong performances to be important and then we die. The joke is really on us.
The creek is dry sandy bed bleached instead the creek is low paddle depth for a toddler to enjoy the creek is frothing splashing cascades for bum jumping the creek is running free smooth water turns and swirls the creek is high turbulence and turbid as the creek is full of deep dark fast water the creek broke its banks shallow eddies in the paddock pools rapids in the gullies the creek is awash scouring the walking track eroding the embankments undercutting the trees the creek is in flood rushing water rips at posts waves break the surface vegetation speeds by logs twist and turn the creek threatens the town roads are awash sandbags are filled roads disappear cars float stock are isolated on islands or washed away the creek becomes a lake houses are inundated some become mobile then collapse businesses go under boats take to the rapid water for rescue and supply the creek abates there are mud piles and debris carcasses and wire the clean up begins the creek will do it again such a small creek
Homer Mallow or “Marshy” to his friends was a very accomplished poet his preferred topics were politics and sport although on reading him you wouldn’t know it
"Marshy" loved a dig at the pollies as much as he loved a pokie or a flutter he liked to dig deep into the issues of the day in a recent interview his mum said, “It could have been his bread and butter!”
His political commentary definitely had merit this one was a favourite how could you ignore his most sophisticated poem called “What Scott?”for which he was best known when Morrison was PM Marshy characterised the man as an incompetent dog he followed with a pearler of a rhyme saying the PM was as useful as a hopless frog I’m sure you dear reader can spot the clever double meaning
Unfortunately, Marshy will never be recorded amongst the great Australian poets it’s enough to make you weep much of the exercise book he kept his writing in was used (in the backyard dunny) while he was away from home for the first time crotching sheep
However, looking back through a rediscovered school text book scrawling certainly reveals a lost talent a heart of poetic gold and an ear for a great hook found at the local Salvos Opp Shop many written on the hop hidden gems were revealed in the pages of these books, such as “Beatrice Kennedy has a nice arse any day now I’ll make a pass” to set the record straight the Beatrice Kennedy in question of the twelfth grade denies any pass was ever made.
We will never know exactly what Marshy could have accomplished he died in an explosion in that very same dunny while visiting his parents between crotches.
The Coroner’s findings indicate this was caused by ignition of an unexplained build up of gas. Not one known for straining at his jobs, Marshy was known to light up the odd ciggie while waiting for things to happen.
RIP Marshy, may you get to continue writing on that great dunny in the sky.
With deference to the once marvellous Fred Dagg (aka John Clarke)
There is no bargain with death I see where death when ready can claim me there is no contract to which I agree no time of death's choosing do I concede my sovereign rights death violates my free will death does mitigate under what authority does death reign supreme when to live forever is my dream? I’ll wave my sovereign rights in death's face my personal waiver and reaper's disgrace when his grim coming calls me away "No claim have you!" this citizen will say when death withdraws as he surely will I’ll have demonstrated my right to live still all others beholden to the laws of nature will look in awe at my individual power more sovereign citizens across the land will march to their own tune sing to their own band we will refuse death with our rightful demands
My friend stabbed herself in the heart today the blood ran down her chest and across her belly it formed a self authoring suicide note almost black and sort of treacly in a spidery scrawl probably nanotech of some sort amazing what they can do these days she chose arachnoid stylised helvetica size 14 bold no underlines why? it is beyond me I always thought she was a calibri kind of girl but I guess that says something about me doesn’t it? not knowing “I was feeling heartless,” the words said. at this point I wanted to puke (sic) because she was the most full of heart person I knew I don’t know anyone like that anymore “I needed to know if there was anything in there. The cuts on the arms and legs just weren’t doing it. I decided I’d have a stab in the dark. At least there would be a some sort of real outcome, at least I would find out one way or another. If you are reading this it means I am dead - and I had a heart afterall!”
if a bullet were a feather susceptible to the weather denied its trajectory and death wish lost its velocity lost its hiss only then would it always miss its appointment with death's kiss
Angel carry your heavy payload until god asks for it one day Angel bitter, discard your halo throw it worlds away
Angel fly to heaven above dive to hell below Angel receive peace from a dove or scavenge it from a crow
Angel weep soul deep until your very last breath Angel sleep the long sleep pray yourself to death
Angel just Angel lust Angel thrust Angel sing Angel cling Angel wring Angel must Angel bust Angel dust Angel wing left wing right wing broken wing
Angel nothing
The dVerse prompts from Melissa today were inspired by Kurt Cobain’s birthday. I chose to take one line from a Nirvana song and reflect on the feelings that might drive a suicide. It was a harrowing exercise and I am sorry if it causes hurt. https://dversepoets.com/2024/02/20/happy-birthday-kurt🎉/
Beauty is in the moment Sitting by a window Sun streaming in From directly across the way Low in the pale blue winter sky But strong enough to warm the room Through tall floor to ceiling glass Strong black lines The shadows of the woodwork Stretch long, deep and straight Across shiny slate Framing the scene Defining the space Giving shape to enveloping comfort Warming the calm Enclosing peacefulness As I now heavy lidded Look out on gold rimmed trees Vivid green grass Foraging birds And hear the cascading water of the creek Beauty is in this moment
poetography.ink 