Monthly Archives: November 2013

somewhere in nothing

somewhere in nothing

 
all it took was a drag on a hydrogen joint
somewhere in nothing
& gradually all that loose dust sucked together
& pulled apart
then heated up & got cooled down until
us guys turn up
in the edsel with our booze & a porno dvd

now sometime the old clock that’s in there
is going to wear out
what with them nervous little Suns
stuttering so
the old hit just isn’t what it used to be
& the party’s over
because the olds are home & they’re pissed –

with a bit of luck we won’t be around
because it’ll be too hot
or too cold or both but eventually gravity
will get to nothing,

you can hear Mum out among the night stars
snoring again (& again ….

 

 

 

                               MY FRONT VERANDAH

 

Opening my morning front door I find

overnight                         my verandah

has become a purple pool

of Jacaranda flowers.

Rippling waters of lilac perfume.

 

Inside

my cracked leather mud-caked boots

clomp across the wooden floor.

 

 

I leave by my back door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                     DINNER GUESTS

                                           Early evenings

at my vegetable garden table

a family of fairy wrens.

Formally-dressed Papa.

Vivid-blue coat deep black collar ruff.

Mama drab in her greyness.

Two babies bobbing behind

in the slip-stream of her mindfulness.

 

 

 

walking into sunlight

walking into sunlight

 

 

walking into twilight

Sun behind me

not looking back

 

shadow stretching

to the horizon

out of sight

 

inside the mirror on her very face

inside the mirror on her very face

 

 

 

On the first night between us

between me and her –

she said, “Today, I am killing myself.”

I was quite distressful to hear that.

Early the next morning

she expressed her will to live on.

Living, she said, was in itself

a cute achievement for her.

She further said,

she found me by her side

early in the morning, inside the mirror

on her very face.

What a wonder!

A power of maya?

It was the mirror’s truth apparent to the eye.

My nation reflected in her eyes,

her own nation reflected in her eyes

were a similar words in succession.

Hence, I started loving my nation

and started loving her nation too.

Looking into the mirror

I reckoned

that I was still living.

*

*maya : the  illusion that life and world are real


 

crisscross like philosophical chatter

crisscross like philosophical chatter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I delete the first shadow of a poem approaching, shallow and grey as the sky today. My head is full of jumbled memories, yet the birds sing outside to herald something coming, something more than memories, something more than now. There is no breeze and their gentle songs crisscross like philosophical chatter. All the meanings of things are lyrical from where they sit, below the sky, above the earth. We overthink things too often and our songs fall flat as leaden echo. They sing and lift the line from the road, they lift shadows from trees, and celebrate the sun as it breaks through the clouds. We can learn from them to enjoy things as they are.

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