Poetry

Sketchbook Poetry – 28/11/17

The sunshine is pickling,

The ocean is brine,

I’ll keep this day in a jar,

So it will always be mine.

-zu

 

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Poetry

Wakefulness – 15/11/17

Why am I still up? It’s the moon, the moon, it’s much too bight.
It’s the silence, it’s my heart,
all the thumping, footsteps, running.
Why am I still awake?
It’s the lumps in my bed,
It’s the sea, it’s the sea, it’s much to dark,
and it’s crashing in on itself, and I’m afraid, I’m scared that it will
disappear, disintegrate in every smash of every pulse.
The walls are much too smooth, my bed is much too safe. Why am I still up?
Because my coffee cup is empty, and I smashed it into shards
and they’re turning into powder, and so, what if when I pour my cup next
I mistake the pottery sand for coffee beans and make my tea with that instead?
I’ll wind up dead!
And if there are tangents, are they staying up late at night, sitting with steaming cups, plotting over benches like so many sharp toothed worms, grinning at my discomforture when I find I cannot sea them,
are they underground?
And was that last typo an intentional working of my brain
as a deep illusion to the ocean or, not?
My head aches, that is why I cannot sleep.
And why am I still up? Well would you put me down?
What would you call this sweet insomnia if it was late for tea?
And if I was running with it, would you wait?
-zu
Poetry

The Wind Will Not Stay

It’s hard to find a meaningful thought, when you don’t really know what you want to say.
Look at the way the wind beats the grass into soft waves running up the bank of the dam. You can see it start from the furtherest blade, it eddies and swirls till it runs out with a sigh at your feet. The rustling of the wild oats is the chiming of thousands of tiny paper bells.
Remember when we ran fast through these paddocks, your soft blonde hair laughing in the wind. We filled our shoelaces with itchy golden grass seeds and never felt them prick until we ran inside. These paddocks were filled with wild bulls and spaceships, I had the knack of making all our play seem real.the cool dark green shadows were forests filled with ancient steadfast trees and all our favourite stories. Back then we knew with absolute certainty that the sunshine would last forever.
And it has! Look at it. I’m sitting in the hard trodden path between the sea of grass, and the sandy beaches are filled with sunshine, it pools in every divot of the glossy green poplar leaves, it skims the top of the wild oat waves.
Heading back, my feet take me unerringly to the faded path cutting down the bank of the dam. It was made long ago by calves, exuberant with life, running up and down the bank, again and yet again, as their mothers, large with sweet grass stood steadfast and chewed.
After I slam the screen door behind me, I strip off the shoes and socks made prickly by golden grass seeds, which I have picked up just by a quiet walk through sunny waves.
-zu
Poetry

I don’t know the why (dVerse prompt) – 17/9/17

I remember the joy when I first realised a poem does not need to rhyme. I wrote a not-bothered poem, unrhyming, looked at it and thought, this isn’t poetry. Then I looked again and thought, who cares? I like to write my poems in huge blocks and chunks of text, then I come back later and cut it up into the rhythms my tongue tasted as I spewed it from  my mind to the blank white. If I write fast enough I can get this feeling out, amazing how my thoughts come forth in settled patterns, forcing a poem. Later I will read it back and think, how on earth did that genius, that tiny bit there, come out of me? I will then cut ruthlessly to remove the non-genius. I do not remove it all because to do so would often leave me with one word here and one there looking completely unrelated on the page. I often write in Drought. Dust colours my nostalgia, my water is my utopia, my earth and joyous home is crackling grass and the flying crows that whiten bones. I write in feelings and also gel pens or black pens or computer screens. I try to make my feelings clearer by obscuring them in metaphor, in the hopes that someone will pick my wild random phrase and say, you know, I have felt that too. I want my words to give me wings. I will write an impossibility and after when I read it through, I will say, you know, I believe that this could be real and look, look at how that word there is fluttering, it wants to be true as well.

 

Summer takes a sigh

Lungs collapsing in the sun

Birds fly on up-draft

 

-zu

A prompt from dVerse, to explore why we write in the style we do, with a traditional haiku at the end. I’m not sure my response made my why any clearer, but I didn’t realise before I thought about it that this is definitely my style, at least at the moment. I haven’t put in any line breaks as I usually do so you can see it as it is raw. I still and probably always will be growing in the way I write, so this is a snapshot of me now, I guess.

20170919_202114

 

Poetry

Real Interactions Turned Poetical pt II – 15/9/17

He’s standing in their yard, pine tree green.

His eyes are buried in wrinkles,

Browned and egg head bald.

Straight and very gently tired, corduroy black

Coat, vest, grey shirt, over

Old fashioned suit pants. His whole life is settled here,

Floating down, sloshing in a puddle of time.

Butcher turned baker, he knew the whole town.

His family tragedy, cracked the earth he stood on

Into fissures of volcano soil.

The cracked hearts scarred black

But the old wounds have been covered by new grass for many a year.

Now his old eyes shade kindly when he speaks.

They put his wife in hospital nine months ago,

Four hours every day he slides her way.

He comes out every morning holding the hours precious,

Wrapped in old newspaper,

Carried, breaking eggshells, inside thick and yellow, is all their time.

If he lays them carefully on the faded carpet

Every day when he gets back,

Perhaps they will hold together

A few months more.

The steam engine huge events that have rolled over their puny puddles

Push the water out in heaving waves.

But every time the same water trickles back into the same hollows.

We’ve been through it before, he says.

It’s the new movers in that undo them

Oil to the old water, the puddle thins.

When the old-timers all turn to dust,

Their newspaper lining disintegrated, sodden, gone,

The old place will keep its wheels turning,

With one or two less cogs.

For now the screeching cockatoo and the dank dark pine trees will bear him up

And tomorrow he will see his wife again.

 

-zu

Another one for the metaphor challenge from dVerse! I wasn’t going to, but no one can argue that there isn’t a metaphor here somewhere. I mean if you look really closely. It’s there. Perhaps an extended metaphor even. Somewhere. At this moment metaphor has ceased to look like a real word to me. Metaphor metaphor metaphor. Ok.

Also here’s my other metaphor thing. 

Poetry

Clouds – 13/9/17

I was born free; no body owns me

I can sleep on the sand

Following summer into the north

I can cloud drift

To rule the horizon

But I come back to

Beach scented oceans

Again. Because clouds

are still trapped by the earth.

-zu

Prompt from dVerse, a Quadrille using the prompt “free” and exactly 44 words. Mines a bit late!

Also drew a bit of inspiration from this corny song from the old Pippi Longstocking movie! https://youtu.be/a7m4vPcfeOE