In the style of Kay Ryan In the backyard strands of trash plastic, twine or haberdash scratched up from decades now past by chooks. They don’t aim to be iconoclasts; they just scratch and their beady eyes seek bugs or roots or wormy writhe. And as they dig the little chicks check the minutiae of … Continue reading Watching Chooks
Easter Saturday Walk
A Curtal Sonnet The lake’s skin shifts; stolen colour and flicked light, and already, as we park, my camera craves the view. The museum’s bright shapes, provoking modern lines and beyond a gulls’ shirred cry, a wake in foamy white where a wind-surfer-cloud sheers swiftly the lazuli blue and to the north, two cranes necking, … Continue reading Easter Saturday Walk
Paint big ideas on the old blank sky paint them bright to catch the eye Paint some more and paint it large: paint the pollution from our cars and paint the sea a foaming brown and paint the greyness of our towns. Then paint some green in one small place to remind us of Earth’s … Continue reading Painting Hope
night of the flying fish
leaping tuna with flashing tails aloft aloft over the wheeling Earth brushed aluminium scales gill-flap moon until I sleep blows bubbles sky high, scant white froth of cloud and I’m down deep on sea’s bed rummaging light a shouldered mist soft hum and spume of spray laddered eucalypt takes flight silver and black my kelpish … Continue reading night of the flying fish
If I cut off my much-abused left side I’d instantly be heartless and one-eyed. What an achievement, what a gem! I’d have the makings of PM!
I’m where my voices led me, I’m exactly here accompanied by their soundtrack; their keening fear I have challenged them and won at various times but they soon start up again, their endogenous whine. The truth is, they’re an indelible part of me woven in, as sure as salt is meshed with sea. And without … Continue reading I’m Here
(Written age 18 - goodness knows what inspired it) If a person's hair turned gold with age would the first appearance cause such rage? Any colour beats a head that bare so why should people dread their silver hair? In ancient fables, and novels brand new the wise, the magic, the old and true - … Continue reading Silver Hair
A Poem from a Photo
silt rain sifts down from concrete on high slabs of daylight in cold chunks lie interrupting the grey innocent clouds decry a half disc of sun twixt sheaths of sky the arch of glory its sycophantic alibi
You can't fly a kite in yesterday's wind or swim in yesterday's river. You can't sing a song in an hour that is gone or tell a dead person you forgive her. If only we could leave the past right behind us as easily as water or weather. If this were the case would the … Continue reading Just wondering…
Who are we?
Here she lies - this complex machine palely greying, undignified flesh; eyes now always closed off from you; A coma, this failure to express. Her lips in quiet, dry repose; the blood in her heart beats loveless. The passing whimsy of her tongue - A coma’s failure to express. Like this she is just a … Continue reading Who are we?
For Lost Pieces
Like the red-gold and yellow trees I’m shucking leaves - my bones are bare to knife clean air Branches stiff, tall skeletons stark early the dark oaks still weeping winter creeping. Does a tree feel a loss of self - grief on a shelf for all to see like naked me? Written for MLMM's Lucky … Continue reading For Lost Pieces
Fenny’s Fact Story
Fenny Fawcett ran a factory printing fiction and fantasy but while enjoying fanciful fiction, she also liked her facts, you see. ** Fiction claimed as fact, she could only view as fallacy and she fought this fact confection with significant potency. ** Fenny started fracking for fiction in our history and finally formed a faction … Continue reading Fenny’s Fact Story
such a summer ripe with wetting fattened fruits primed for netting I saw the moon had grown mouldy dully grey and rumpled oldly cockies shrieking raucous, shocking days aprick with grass seeds, socking humid shroud of air that holds me ropes of rain plunging boldly pinned and damp as limping moth ‘neath the sky, its … Continue reading Looking Back