At what point will poets achieve their peak when it's no longer possible to be unique? Every time I pen a verse I wonder if I got there first... Or is it a subliminal plagiaristic streak?
early morning cockatoos wheel with paintbrush wings dyeing the sky white hot! hot! they screech the gum leaf tips glint ominously
It's just how she and I intersect. For her it's a point of respect - when aiming for rile-up she's faster than dial up - it's as simple as "Click'n'Collect".
i am here every day, folks here like a clock ticking and ticking some days i feel useful measuring out the time in careful dollops of mash mixed veg, of course don't waste opportunities get it down 'em i am here every day, folks answering questions i sometimes don't even know if I've understood i'm … Continue reading School Holidays
full full as a plum stuffed by time and ripely red juice which stains like blood smears and sticks on skin or fabric when split bitten and broken the teeth of life raw pain ruptured burst and weeping shallow heartstone its fringe of flesh clinging, imploring in the pitiless heat and heavy tread of the … Continue reading Broken
Along a winding dirt road on pebbles slick as ice the tyres describe a skater's arc blackly. But it's his scream from which echoes tumble like the driving rain and mountains cover their ears with the sinking sky - slinking, hunkering, slumping against the horizon. Does the tree shiver invisible as reason in the eye … Continue reading The Car Accident
Three of my favourite photos from today. Words are not coming for me so let your own mind wander. Enjoy a moment of private reverie.
One day Dad went out and got us a puppy. She was small and wide and very wiggly. Dad was told that she was a cattledog cross kelpie. But as she grew (or failed to grow) we deduced that the kelpie was something much more like a corgie. I can't quite remember why but we … Continue reading ‘Snitch’ – a portrait
Mountain shrouds rising behind trees’ black, dead-armed scream. River’s rush below. My tears are for the wombats... all wildlife who starved or burned My first attempt at a Tanka - a Japanese poetry form explained by Ingrid at EIF.
Some poems sing beautiful chords: like classical music -the soaring of notes and the mellowing hum of joined words; or like a painting whose colours are dreams, whose shapes are illusory, abstract as a foreign language. My poems are full of English, the careful thumb tacking of nouns and verbs stretchy experiments with syntax; but … Continue reading Waiting for a butterfly