who is she? face like mine but aged in a tiny sudden way surprising as a pond - murky water turned mother of pearl a dance-floor for the sky time is a galaxy pinpointed and vast I find security counting frost hairs around a leaf; photographing rain drops in the puddles the trees swing deep … Continue reading reflections
The beginning: white paper - a rectangle of everywhere light, a thumbnail of summer’s bleached sky. After careful work scattered graphite shadows amorphous as breath on cold windows annotate the page. These jumbled greys cooperate / frame the paper’s light until from a catalogue of darknesses emerges a fluffy white dog
If one could choose a muse, wouldn’t human nature choose Tiddalik*, that greedy frog sucking all water (giver of life) to himself? Creativity is a gluttonous thing, always wanting feeding... This is what I have become - embittered like a dandelion head, seeds blown off in wind or child’s fancy. Brown and frayed and shucked … Continue reading On Muses
Oh little worm I cry for you, a brave blue collar hero in the machinery of life. You can’t know that tiny, iridescent spheres of deadly plastic are concealed in the soil you eat so conscientiously and you may not know that your little life keeps the lungs of our planet-body healthy and fit. Oh … Continue reading Machinery of Life
One night, before I lost my hair, a very dear friend and I had a long online chat which had me in stitches. From picturing myself bald, with a tweed peaked cap and horn-rimmed glasses, we suddenly invented a whole new character - Alpatooti. This mysterious being brought me so much laughter - along with … Continue reading The Roller Ride
arriving here I stand awed at rows of violins the smells of timber and rosin and a young grandfather in a cardigan with horsehair on his workbench he handles your cello familiarly and sends us for a walk "the light might be good" he says and we head "to the end of the road" where … Continue reading How it was…
my grandmother drank her coffee black her eyelids closed to the morning's glare and the impossible barrage of birdsong on her deck you were among the branches and the flitting and the shards of mosaic sky rosellas in red profusion screeched, begging for seeds perhaps, or just yelling about the next train to Central as … Continue reading It’s what you can’t see…
the Romans feathered helmets erect learned the sterility of war their Empire's wondrous landmarks became punctuation in history's soil their roads crossed continents in massive webs their confidence still glimmers in ancient armour and upturned pillars but now, we're in dress-rehearsal writing history our age split asunder by tablets lit with green-glowing back-turned candles - … Continue reading Different Century, Same…?
(i) My hatted head 'neath the bald sky; grey and secret. A plover's egg. (ii) Two wattle birds in flurried cluster; piggy-back flight towards Spring.
look there notes on a musical clef crotchets hanging sight read or flight's rest a row of pigeons silhouettes bowing to balance tails fanned clatter of wings pizzicato circling fright bow and fan again a photo, a tune a swing-rhythm a wing-rhythm a juke Written for dVerse Quadrille 131 with Brian Miller