Saturday, 9 September 2017

Sun Dance.

If only I could 
throw words 
onto the page
like Jackson Pollock 
threw paint onto the canvas,
a kind of divine anarchy,
beautiful chaos
celebrating nothing 
but itself,
iridescent,
dripping molten stalactites
in flouro red, orange and green
descending
over the primordial world
aeons before 
the red blaze cooled
and life emerged,
slowly,
laboriously,
from the cobalt blue.

Published at One Sentence poems

Friday, 8 September 2017

Home

The butcher bird pours
liquid ripple of song
into the blue sky.
The rosella dips his red head
at the stone bird-bath
and drinks in alert delight.
We sit on the verandah.
Your eyes smile.
I reach for your hand.

Published in Naturewriting 

Monday, 28 August 2017

I Gave You All.

I Gave You All.

I gave you all, said "Come, lie with me,
on me, in me, by me, through me,
gaze upon me, caress me.
I give you life and beauty too-
all I have is yours to share
but please place me gently in your care."

But you have torn my garments,
stolen my jewels, scarred my face,
besmeared and besmirched my skin,
groped and gouged my secret parts-
your rule, cruel, your treatment, rough,
so insatiable you can never get enough.

I writhe and cry out in protest.
I heave and crack,
send mighty tempests.
I stop the rain.
I send parching heat.
I must struggle and strive
and cry for help.

I plead too, say,
"Come, repent, be my friend,
be tender, gentle, make amends,
it is not yet too late to start again.
Think for a moment of the future.
Those children left will bemoan your folly,
and, despairing about their hope and fate,
curse your abusive misrule,
and you for being a short-sighted fool."

O can we not live together?
I give you life and beauty.
Can you then not care for me,
love me, work with me
or must I, at last, finally, regretfully, 
in deepest sorrow
turn my back and put you out.

Published in Verse-Virtual and in The Weekly Avocet

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Then.



Then.

Then the earth went quiet.
No creature called.
No background hum.
No crickets, cicadas, frogs.
Birds gasped, opened their beaks,
held out their wings to cool,
then fell to the ground.

Then water took low atolls,
covered dunes,
inched up river valleys,
covered abandoned houses
and twisted war machines,
lapped tall towers
still standing like strange sentinels
in the orange tinted tide.

Then, on the far horizon,
the sun flamed dirty smudge,
lit the mountains 
and the haggard faces
of the survivors
moving higher and higher
over the pock-marked land.

Then suddenly it dipped
into impenetrable black.
No silver pepper of stars.
No moon, though the ocean
still ebbed and flowed.

Then only darkness
covered the face 
of the mighty deep.

Published in Autumn Sky Daily.



Saturday, 12 August 2017

Birds

Birds.

His head is brilliant blue
his composition bright and fair
and the fairy wren with jaunty flit
hops and bounces through the air.

This head is scarlet red,
the flight all speed and swerve.
as rosella glides on brilliant wings
in dipping, parabolic curve.

In his suit of black and white
and rising heavily from the ground
the magpie flies with a swish,
a muscular, purposeful sound.

Crow’s song is a monotonous caw,
his feathers are dull and black,
but he still rises into the air
in slow, direct and functional flap.

The butcher bird pours liquid song
into the morning light
whilst eagles on high thermals soar
and falcons dive with speed of flight.

Crow, wren or hawk, I love them all
and I raise my head to stare
in silent praise and wonderment
as they slip and glide in silken air.

Published in The Weekly Avocet



Thursday, 10 August 2017

The Fallen Forest Tree.



The Fallen Forest Tree.

I think on this blue planet,  
slant of rain, scud of cloud,
surge of river, the glittering sea,
flocks that flit, dart or soar,
wandering herds, encircling wolves,
coral blaze, fish, whale and krill,
leopard lazing in curve of tree,
myriad life given and accepted back
over aeons as the spinning earth treks
through the black void of space.

I raise my eyes from the fallen tree
to the tree tops and to the sky.
The abundant cycle of life and loss
stretches endlessly beyond 
this transient moment where I live,
yet why should I regret its brevity?
I embrace its mystery and privilege,
thankful that for at least this brief moment 
I have lived to gaze upon the earth 
in deep wonder and in awe.

First Published in Praxis Mag Online



 


 

Saturday, 22 July 2017

ironer, Degas


Ironer, Degas.

It’s not much more than a study,
just shades of grey,
grey bonnet, grey blouse, black skirt.
She is older, almost featureless,
the merest suggestion of nose, mouth and eyes.
Her body bends to her work.
Her right arm, clasping the heavy iron,
is strangely elongated,
as if stretched through time and labour.

Yet compassion is so deftly captured
in brief strokes of fluid simplicity
I must stop, stare and in tender sorrow
think of the life of this anonymous woman 
labouring through her monotonous hours
in tired, uncomplaining resignation.

Published at The Ekphrastic Review