Saturday, August 20, 2011

CHOCOLATE

Without an address book 
I can't call you. 
There are more kilometres than I trust
between your starting point and mine.

You emailed: "Unless I hear from you
I'll be there" for conversations sweetened
by cake, chocolate and surviving fifty years
knowing there are some distances 
new technologies just cannot bridge
some uncertainties conquerable only by
a teenage pact to always be friends.

Over hot chocolate with chili
stirring the chocolate glue
we agree to exchange mobile phone numbers.
The real test is keying them in.


After the Lerderderg Library is Officially Opened

Of course, that sulphur-crested commentator
just had to express "his" opinions from the top
of the leafless elm.

And now, near dusk, the cuckoo shrike
makes its move on the feast otherwise known
as my verdant garden.

The honeyeaters have gorged themselves
the pigeons and sparrows hunched together
as "Old World" birds do.

The trees are suddenly still.
Bees, numbed by cold, gone.
A chirping announces fairy wrens!


"Of course, your garden's quite a jungle, Jen".
But safe. Cat-free at last (perhaps trespassers
all died). Safe.

The leucodendrons lose light
as last light flees to the sky
and everything rests.


Hang on, it's still winter
Walking up the slope from town
blessed by perfumed vines, their scents
drawn into my clothes

fitover sunglasses
keeping my eyes dry, not watery
from glare. Going home

to a garden full of honeyeaters
in the flowering gums, bees
on the rosemary ...

only the heat indoors reminds me
the air is still chill to my mother
shawled, sleeping in her favourite chai
r.
 Free Verse Weekend

Thursday, August 4, 2011

I came to my blog and found treasures in other people's. Nevertheless, hay fever is dominating my experience of life right now. More WATER.

1.
Clogged after drought
water pools, leaks into communal
drains, stays there, backed up.

2.
If he who dribbles ink
is eating poetry, I without
sense of smell or sanity
am cooking it.


Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Have decided to write about WATER some more. I often walk by our local rivers, I spent 10 years as a child living by a big river, and I spent several years living in a bayside town. It is hard to put into words what "water" actually means to me, it is so much part of my own bloodlines. Isn't that true for all of us?






FLASH FLOODS

Elsewhere in the country
tragic losses - people,
land, livelihoods. I loved
the picture of young men
playing a piano salvaged
from mud.

We who walk the once-
swamplands are glad
someone created channels
the waters could fit into
find a direction in
be fully self-expressed
as rivers.

Photographs catch an
aftermath, a mere suggestion
of force exercised - tossed
saplings, reed slapped on fence
a tight weaving, admirable in any
gallery, museum.

The silence
of drowned frogs cannot
be photographed.
Can it be we who have
engineered this local
and sudden extinction?

Or the way things are
simple as artistry
plain to the eye
uncomplicated by fear,
past trauma, story.
Part of a process we'll
never fathom.








Monday, August 1, 2011

I'm back. To dance with my love, the poetic foot, the sway of language, its raw-throat song and silky spells.

WATER

Take a tumble
submit
you are a stone, smooth
a carrier of river history
go with the flow, roll
make new statements
sit together
force the flood
having abandoned you
to flow around
to lick you, hungry
subservient
until some rain somewhere
powers the next
irresistible torrent.









Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Prompted to write an ode

Well, I had think about this. What do I know about that is worthy and dignified? Not much. Do I have a high enough level of emotion, and imagination? Lyrically addressing something/someone - what, who? My textbook says they are meant to read aloud. Gosh, so much expectation. I will just throw caution to the winds.

And yes, I'm late with these last two. Too bad.

To a High Flyer

My chirpy friend, your urgent voice
at first concerns, then I rejoice!
It's you, it's you, oh feathered one
patterned with bars of golden sun
and black as if singed by summer fire
and yet your voice is a veritable choir.

Urgent, you chirp, and swoop for gnat
Is this your greeting? Have you seen a cat?
Another swoop under the shade cloth's cream.
creating a debt I'll never redeem.
As fast as you hunt and eat what you catch
I'm too humanly slow to be any match.

You dash, my friend, to higher perches
your days spent in these frenetic searches
for supremely delicate morsels too slow
to escape your arrowed flight, and shadow.
I stop my work, enthralled as you call
and amaze at the way you triumphantly trawl.

Yet you care not; what should I expect?
No more than those unfortunate insects
whose lives are short and shorter still
because you harvest, eat your fill.
You're not an especially social creature
are you, my sunny honeyeater?


That's enough of that one.

The last prompt: "after leaving here".

We Drove To The Transfer Station
We Used To Call A "Tip".

It took much less time
and muscle to unload
the ute, roll the old carpets
out
into the skip and watch
the weeds tumble
from green tough bags.

And not one scratch!
Not one peevish last
thorn
or redback unhappy
at the enforced migration.
We slapped our mitts
together, happily
well rid of
such rubbish.