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

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Poetry

Pony – 28/9/17

Little pony in a little pink paddock,
Gazing at the moon, he says,
“What kind of moon are you?”
And the grass is dark and dreamy
And the stars are singing madly,
As the pony in the paddock stands and stares.
And the trees sway black on
The shadowed banks,
The river rolls in paper pocket swirls.
Keeping his eyes on the horizon,
See the pony dance,
His curling mane tossing to the night.
His sharp hooves pounding in the night.
The night makes not a sound, he knows he is the king
Of this small circle, circus dreams and patchwork seams,
Light blue luminescence,
A gypsy saddle blanket, he discards.
Come again some other night,
He’ll be chatting to the skies,
And the stars will be staring at his eyes.

 

-zu

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

Blue – 20/7/17

Be all the blue you don’t want to see in the sky

That bitter note of sunshine rules the skies

Blow up the water tank the roos don’t mind the bangs

Leave the pieces laying on the dust

Silky dust wanting water and somehow I don’t care

Under the verandah the clouds are gathering

Could this be the end of all we’re hearing now

Or is this the only thing keeping us sane.

All I see of me is my shadow on the wall,

Walking down the hall thudding on worn carpet again.

-zu

Everything I write comes back to the word drought. It’s not the worst word once you get to know it.¬†

Poetry

A Ludicrous Limerick, and High-flown reflections while sitting on a water tank, Part I. – 18/3/17

I see the galah in the tree,
The same time he sees me.
We are both perched high,
But I cannot fly,
So he is the first one to flee.
-zu
Actually he didn’t flee, so I kept writing.¬†
He was just a baby,
And didn’t know humans are dangerous.
He tilted his head,
And determined me as
No threat.
Focused on more important things,
Like feathers that the wind sets
Askew.
And a wind that could toss him out of,
A tree full of shivers and sunshine.
-also zu