Glassy-eyed, I drive home
mostly on full beam
twists and turns snake-like, a poem ...

This will be a long post. Every day I'm musing on the theme of "glass".

1 June 13

On the Meaning of the Word

1.
I prefer mugs
even for water.
There's something
solid about water
in china, porcelain,
ceramic or even
handmade pottery.
Imagine the clay
seizing and settling
fluid molecules.

2.
A glass can be fashioned
out of plastic, of course.
Ours are illustrated
with Cadbury Milk
and Freddo logos. 
The frog rides a go kart,
performs a fabulous ollie
on a blue skateboard
surfs a wave, and dances
like Mickey Mouse.
This demonstrates the power
of chocolate when shaped
as frogs and dressed in
yellow t-shirts. The Dairy Milk
image appears to repel
the idea of water.

3. 
On the other hand
glass can sing
its crystal lips
loving the stroke
of a wet finger.

2 June 13

When you think about
those trillions of coloured bottles
holding elixirs of desire
the promise of oblivion
the temptation to become
irresponsible and hit someone
hard
you are glad glassblowers
have been superseded
in a world of mass production
and can breathe life into art.

But how does a bottle of red
get endowed with that elegant
presence, even when lying down
on the wine rack in the dark?

3 June 13

Wherever glittering chips have fallen
there has been a happy football fan
or two or ten, or a party of teens
not yet clear this earth belongs
to them, its brittle booby traps
their future, even as the brief tinkle
challenges the eternal stolidity of stars.

4 June 13

A photo behind glass 
gains a gleaming
affirmation of beauty.

5 June 13

Moments in the Big Smoke


1.
While her carafe and glass of water
present a bright beech-coloured face
to the ceiling and entertain grey
planes of other less organic matter,
her computer refuses to recognise
the room's inbuilt projector.

We must move to a room whose
fourth wall is all glass, and without
the play of light on restless water.

2. 
Three orange-jacketed
men
leap onto the tram
I'm running to catch
not wanting to wait
in the cold
around me
something is disturbed
not quite right
on a pavement
so close to the State
Library of Victoria
its pillared presence
all dignity, duty
diligence of care
these unsettling screams
and reckless jerky moves
a gang bowling like water 
into a plughole - circling
fighting - a downward
spiral
and on the paralysed tram
the men in orange ask,
"Which windows?"
examine the language
of scratches and gashes
as if for insight
yet speak without
HOPE
"It could've been worse.
Sometimes they spray paint
the floor, or write with black
texta so you can't sit
on the seats."

And I look at bright
newly-upholstered seats
thinking about
how it takes a village
to raise a child but
how big must a city be
to teach that child
the language of adulthood?

6 June 13

Journey Into Illusion

1.
I'm never alone on a train.
Even if I sit across two seats
read a book and eat chips
that crunch and crackle loudly
in the almost-empty carriage.

I'm never alone because
there's my counterpart
clear as a coloured photocopy
in the dark window.

I study my hat
my posture
adjust the way 
I sit
from watching her.

Fellow-travellers are also etched
against tonight's sky's black canvas.
Or pewter.
But - HEY! We disappear
illuminated by a station's
attempt at reassuring daylight.

I await my encore,
the dark landscape
a backdrop to my
resurrection: and
there I am!

2.
The reflection is like a sidecar
or replica attached to the body
of our caterpillar/Bombardier.

Beyond our two vehicles
a mat of light on horizon &
occasional orange streaks
marking closer streets.

Cars' blue and white eyes
float bodiless between 
level ranks of highway
lights, avenues of honour.

All light suspended by 
invisible thread or ink
and no wonder they say
reflection is illusion.

Just A Thought

Imagine there are no bars
Imagine the door is open
Imagine your wings
have not been clipped.

The voice in the clouds -
The song of the earth -
What do you hear?
Where do you go?

Imagine you know nothing
Imagine your past is past
Imagine the future matches
none of your predictions -

Look down now
Look up! Realise
there is nothing to
hold you here: now!

Your wings reach to cover
the entire realm of creation
Your door admits everything
You ask: What are  "bars"?

If you are checking this blog occasionally, I just wanted to let you know I'm concentrating on writing a memoir right now. I will be back on 1st June with a new series of Poem-A-Day entries, to a theme I've made up myself. See you then.

Victory

I just have to
drink you
red wine, merlot
to be succinct
toast success:
it was inspiring
the leadership
our Shire Council
decided to provide.

State Government
cares not whether we
sink or swim 
in waters and futures
contaminated by
greed thinking.

We thought four for,
three against
would be good.
It was five for, two
against in the end.
We cheered wildly
and some cried.
This victory
only the beginning.

LOL

All those years ago
teaching Social Studies
I called them dreamers -
without photoshop
they created visions
and we feared
the domination
of robots, computers
taking over the world.

Well, they have
taken over.
The known world
is not the country
we once inhabited.
Here I sit, reading
posts by my daughter
hitting "Like" and
saying "Love"
and she returns
the compliment
two rooms away
behind closed doors.

Going for Brunch in Bulleen With Old Friends

Driving east on the Ballarat Road
Sal Kimber rollin' me along, our
crossroads intersecting, where life's
lines are drawn.

It's trains, and journeys
along a river, dancing to
our forebears' tunes, crossing
country only to make a song.

I'm a highway traveller
freeway lover
the rhythm of wheels
notes and scores
of the past unsung.

Driving west on the Ballarat Road
knowing Deer Park was truly so
and a new Officeworks will save
us hours.

It's driving that opens up
new opportunities, makes the eye
see what was not there before,
and stories get told with drums.

I'm a highway traveller
freeway lover
the rhythm of wheels
notes and scores
my lifelong song.

East is my past, the people of love,
of everlasting hope for futures lost.
West, I face the setting sun, the future
repetitious, red.

It's always a road divided
broken by lines, official and
unintended. The music moves
and so do I, marking the beat.

I'm a highway traveller
freeway lover
the rhythm of wheels
notes and scores
always a tune in my head.