Poetry

Farewell Dust – 14/9/17

The knocking intensifies, urgent and soft.

Rain is a stranger,

drumming the door.

But my fingers that reach for the door knob

Are covered in soft-silk

dust, and dry gum leaves.

And I know you will wash them away.

Your green coat don’t fit

The bones of the valley,

Grey wash watercolour soddens the sky.

I want long summers

To hang washing in,

Give me my sunshine, give me my dry.

There’s never a break

In the clouds or lush grass,

Dark dreamy paddocks sigh in your reign

Catching my pockets,

Drenching my sheep,

And filling the beds when the river’s asleep.

I know I craved water,

I didn’t know what it meant,

Forfeit gold living, put your feet in the mud.

But glance t’wards

the mottled dark storm

Life symphony, the gentle drum joins the band,

Child’s play-dust gone,

It’s a kind bargain

Rain is a gentle monarch over the land

-zu

Lovely rain prompt from dVerse, mine is late! Hope you enjoy ūüėä

Advertisements
Poetry, Prompts

dVerse prompt, shoes – 30/8/17

Summer shoes to be

Discarded, corner tossed

Feet free in the grass

– zu

A prompt from dVerse about shoes, I’ve always enjoyed hot weather when I can kick them off! This is a haiku, 5-7-5 syllables. I always have trouble with syllables because when in primary school they taught us to count them by the amount of times our chin went down when we said the word, well with my Australian accent words tend to become a little compressed! Does anyone have a better method of counting syllables?¬†

Poetry

“Someone’s Wishes” Poetry Prompt – 28/8/17

First day on the job,
Walking into the wish factory,
Caught my dream job,
Working on the purple planet,
Into the factory floor full with violets
and puffed clouds from the ventilation.
I’ve never made a wish come true,
Been on the collection team a times or two,
Scooping out the wishes from the atmosphere,
Microphones tuned to catch the words, ‘I wish’,
Endless flying, a little tiring after a time,
Especially on foggy days.
My resume was filled with sky racing and
Apple seeding.
How could I have got this job?
Ma said I’d never been made to corral the desks and papers,
But I hankered after the smooth and sweet
While fixing my engines and chopping the sky.
So today when I wander in
It’s with starry eyes.
Joe claps me on the shoulder,
Joe’s my new boss.
Says he’s got a desk just for me,
And walks me through the rounded floor to a corner,
Makes me sit.
Very simple,
Take the paper,
Read it,
And make a wish come true.
He claps me again and strides out.
Well. I grin. Looks like I’m a desk sitter after all!
First paper,
Surprised I glance again,
Looks like it’s from the boss’s son,
Joe’s kid.
He’s written from a smaller planet to the left,
I think it’s orange,
And quite small.
Written in a scribble, the boys were in a hurry that day,
Says, wish I were a wish collector.

 

-zu

Written from a prompt by Teresa Creations Blog.

Previous poems,¬†‚ÄúRadiant Sunrise‚ÄĚ two word prompt ‚Äď 24/8/17

Poetry

“Radiant Sunrise” two word prompt – 24/8/17

It’s a pig,
Slops and all.
Gold shines his back,
Lace clouds fall.
A pen, some straw,
A place called home.
To greet the sun,
To feel less alone.
Morning caught in a dewy web,
Moon faced sun.
Friends who are here,
Are better than none.
The pig and all,
The same under their skins.
Feeling joyous and well spoken,
Radiant, he grins.

 

-zu

Prompt from Teresa Creations Blog.

Poetry

The Painter – 25/8/17

See him striding down the side,
pot belly, paint pot.
The building’s grey, and so’s the sky,
he hums and sighs, oh me, oh my.
Long since he cast out desk sitting,
table tops and filming,
now taking pegases flying on advertising,
under a goldy street light
and an endless race track, looping, losing.
We win the race to this light, and lose it to the next.
And when we are stowed away
in some garage, others still race on.
We don’t mind, we idly watch our race losses,
it’s the only the¬†missed turns that get your goat.
But goats are not uncommon on the grassy patches in between the buzzing highways.
People who are late for losing, lately coming,
late for work, third time this week.
We still don’t know when to indicate. Incinerate or irritate,
no irrigation is required, third time this week.
Dwarfed by madly spinning tyres,
the kind that smoothly overtake.
And just a small cut into the landscape,
another road be blowed.
Takes five years to get that kind of did undid.
And his eyes are still drawn to soft edges,
vagrant grasses, sickly shrubs,
trees that cannot seem to stop,
often a magnolia, sometimes misty rain.
 While he sheaves his sickle, sower,
sorry, paint pot or else sander,
the skin beneath his nails is the only part of himnot weather blown and roughened.
The rain falls harder now, scattered shrubs seem thicker,
the road is winding long, so long.
He’s not sure if this should be goodbye,
for if he ends up on the other side of nowhere,
he knows he won’t be back.
That’s why every time he starts he turns back.
Safety in the city, houses stacking, needing painting,
and work is hard to get when the spaces in between em goes for days.
He could never be a farmer, post deliverer, cattle rustler,
nor cowboy, farm hand, window cleaner.
But he never thought he’d be a painter either,
at least, he thought he’d be a painter,
but these days all he’s doing is swatching greys and bones
on depthless walls,
encouraging the buyers to extend and to buy local.
He gets enough walls drab and smoothly coloured to get by.
And when he drives home, in the cherry jam flowing on the road,
he brushes his tired hand across his eyes,
smarting and dreaming of a roughened canvas
full of red dust and silver moons,
water stones are smooth, red ground is forever.
He tells the road again,
not tonight.
And he swears again,
this cannot be the only tune to sing.

– zu

 

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night.

Poetry

Why Not Stop and Stare – date:a long time ago I wrote this poem

We’re going down the highway, and we’re almost back home,

The sun is at its highest and it glistens on the dome.

We’re skidding round the corner and rolling down the straight,

And avoiding all the road-hogs, full of rage and hate.

We’re gliding past some road-kill, down along the track,

And until we’ve gone right by, I won’t look back.

For they did no wrong, and only died by chance,

And we rush right by them, with no second glance.

Galahs fly overhead, with no second thoughts,

As we speed in plastic bubbles, for they think us funny sorts.

As we drive along the highway, not stopping on the way,

With our artificial air, we could drive like this all day!

No time to turn down creek beds, as the willows nod and sway,

No time to stop at all and we simply cannot stay.

No time to watch the kangaroo, with a joey in her pouch,

No time to wait for native birds, who come if you silently crouch.

No time to lay on golden grass and stare up at the sun,

Speeding past in plastic bubbles, you miss a lot of fun.

No time to crush a gum leaf, and smell the gum-fresh air,

As we fly on by, going as fast as we possibly dare.

As we swoop on down the highway, for we’re very nearly home,

And the afternoon sun, glistens on the highway’s dome.

We’re speeding round the corner and flashing down the straight,

For we simply cannot stop, and we simply cannot wait.

And I stopped and watched the plastic cars, rushing till the end,

Swooping out of sight, under a gum tree, round a bend.

And I sighed behind them, why not stop beside the track,

And turn down a creek bed and don’t worry to go back?

Lie down in the shade in the golden grass that’s fair,

And learn to stop and stand and stare.

And take a gum leaf from a gum and crush it in your hand,

And learn to really see what is good and grand.

Why not stay till night fall, and watch the ghost gums dance,

And wander past the creek bed and take the track by chance.

For the earth is much too wonderful, not to stop and stare,

And gaze upon a joey’s face, and dance without a care.

 

-zu

This was such a long time ago. I actually wrote this while I was driving, on the way home on the highway with my family. As I was driving, I couldn’t exactly write, so I memorized¬†the whole thing somehow and wrote it down when we got home. I believe we were very close to home at the time otherwise this would have been lost into oblivion for all time.

Poetry

dVerse Quadrille #37: What Leads to Fear – 2/8/17

Running that’s the truth
And tipping, tripping, lie, or tie me down
Too late
Unexpectedly at the sheer drop
Arms windmilling
Against the fearful drop
And back I tip
Running again
Whipping though lovely foliage
In dancing copperplated heels
Down amongst the laughing trees.

 

-zu

Following the prompt at¬†dVerse – Quadrille #37‚ÄďBe Not Afraid.

Please let me know what you think, constructive criticism is always welcome!