Poems of Plenty
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Anxious awaiting
Laughing is starting, brewing little lines Across my face without storm petals amid nines. Disaster averted, thwarted and interpreted as ghosts That stand in dark canopies watching champagne toasts. Dealing with grief – alone, empty, slightly decrepit and stale Without fortune propping, enveloping your mild fail. Steer thy thunderous belching wail towards dreams That stultify a carnivorous morning haste – oh no, not teams. Lucky, you’re lucky, fortuitous; gratuitous longing, yet You’ll gather more fruit without caring or preparing for the wet. Take a journey towards the centre and delight in splendour For ye shall tender a family with meek manners sin bender. Naught is for now, a broken sow as it fills the yard, Caught dancing without a male, bereft of music, not even a shard. Loving grip has a tale of true desire, slept upside down Crept into hollows beneath a vast cantaloupe of a draft free little town. Laughter is ending now, meandering and capricious it was Little fear, facial lines clear, and brows of the least burrows amidst applause. Thank you, thank you, thank you for not stirring or blurring The contempt that was learned, and frightened, contrived and spur in My stricken venture because I listened to fruitless purring… |
Ahead
A battle cry lingers in my brain, Braun is tinted and yet melting with disdain. Slumber are the Gods who caress, Our slovenly fear and mess, With laughter and tears. A way we have to go in this day, Affection is naught, stoked and at bay. Whether or not our future is astern, Depends on nothing but feeling in turn, As we drive ahead convulsing, our minds a burn. Counting the days, the years and marks, That deceive a class of helpless fools, We head for the stars, trying like mad, To understand something, Anything, It’s just sad. I take my cloak and head for the door, I’ve had enough, I want only to change, not score. |
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Listen Without Your Ear
There comes a time in your life When expression wields a gift Of might, When times are changing, And wings grow, Your conscious knows for want, Of change, To re-arrange, To journey beyond the mediocre And feel free, To poke and ponder. A beings plight, Of thorny woes and fields Asunder, With nothing but obstacles, Delays, Catastrophes, Pain and delight, All in all, Mostly out of sight. It’s not true, To tell him a fool, Or sponsor mind with Cruel tales blind, For the being knows, All, tis true, From days gone by and days to Come. Fear not the truth. For it can be Known. Listen not to the clown who betrays, Your knowingness, Intuition, feelings, Good thoughts and desires. These are strengths, not Weaknesses Or unworthy notes to A fine symphony. Look unto yourself, Choose what is right for you and Let all else fall to the side. Be. Just be. Your ear deceiveth for fear of Vibrations of truth. Listen without your ear. |
What Happened?
Help, help said the little wall bracket, hoping to appeal to the framed photo on his left. Oh woe is she, feeling desolate, strange and just that smidgeon of temporary insanity that makes one do strange things. Strange indeed, for the shine and scratch of her tone was none the less taken as a sign of unconventional behaviour. Indeed, the god of pottery stood abreast with magnificence amongst the lowly service cutlery. He shouted, because he was a man – not really a man, just the usual behaviour of a man. His shout was heard all the way to the pantry. The Vegemite stood up, it’s jar erect and lid poised as if contemplating the astral tides amongst the toastal heavens. Nobody watched or cared less; things would never change in the kitchens or the dining rooms. Pot belly stoves knew their place and kettles sunk in solitude only screaming when they wanted attention. Do you think that paint stained the last of cheeses hope? Or was it the fly that couldn’t really form vowels in his effort to communicate the universal truth. Bang, bang against the window, a tide of swarming loops bringing nothingness. Not that the patio, who watched innocently, knew what was happening at all. Of course she pretended she did – objectivity was her cry, her ban. What a crock, whispered the clothes line as it swung with the inevitable twist of life amongst the clean and beautiful. Good night you swallowing jewel of pain, you’re the hefty portrait of insidiousness that we assumed you were. |
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Sorry to you……sorry.
Yes.......We Know Oh the night, the fall of black curtains, Clothing the stains of yesterday, Withering away within the dusk, temporary as it might sound, A wonderful feeling of morrow, of sounds to come. Yet, it was now that the fields full of light and stumbling fools, Brought the relief of what might be, Might be? Of course there is a might or a possible, But what of it? Alone it doesn’t often feel tormented or even part of the whole. The withering wonder of the soul’’s departure into the land of never, The sleepless scuttlebutt of nebulous worries and frivolous whys, See, You will see, if your eyes remain closed, deeply ensconced, Buried alive in smouldering wet tales. How do we, as the gathering singularity, feel, touch or hear these woes, these tides of spring; the perpetual musty slithers on your skin, Never, Never will doubts surface from within the ocean of madness, She who knows – wains to subside into the porticoes of peace. No doubt my love, for we are not to be held back or strewn with inept, Guises and trying times. We are the ones who must yell in our sleep and awaken, The fields of mauling tides to dispense with never-ending, Always failing, fits of passion. We know we thought we to. Good morrow sweet maiden. |
Travelling
Hark! I see a bird. A ferocious yellow-tailed wombat. A likely event considering that within walking distance, is the highway, the sky-way, the pounding blackness of ever present, diluted and primeval screaming and, feathers scorched from the sun and wet from the winds of time. No it can't be, that, that over there, near the group of innocent leaves that drop and, dither. Oh, it's not what you think, hardly even a coil of Darwinian know-how. Let it be, let it pound the dry Earth and it will learn, all there is to know about marches and, instigated wars, that stop the water flowing in your bath. Close the tap, you can open it later, lots more to come you know, it's not over, cause it feels right and it smells, like a taste of simmering sunshine. Yes, we are the ones who will leave our nests and fly through the cosmos and learn all there is to know. All and yet nothing. We won't gain a thing, for the tide of the moon will shoo us like flies in heavens backyard. And then we'll be free. Hark! I feel the bird. We are the bird, aren't we? Peace. |
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A Troll's Life
If a cloud has silver lining, it shines. The rain cannot hinder a trolls, business as the life, given and taken is what precious few know. Living, sleeping, breathing, and all the brides of our merriment deliver fathoms of guilt. The fields deliver what is, soil carries hopes and, brings the seeds a haven, that cannot instill more than has, already taken. The birds fly toward the future of, the night and expected passions to touch a crown of feathers; the shine doesn’t let any rain pass, they are the protection that we all wish we had – a craven, a magpie, a tiger these all take the feathers of tales that once ruled and, now lie at bay. Our troll expects more, than she’ll ever receive – knowing that; she still feels the sky above her still mind. She can relax. Our troll is relaxed for she knows the silver lining of the cloud, gives and takes at will. |
RED
Colour gets its whiteness from the allure of mystery, It shuns the tawdry veils of societies, and yet, without gathering political correct thoughts, a touch of parody feels as if black, is the new black. A vision trusts that it has seen, what others only feel are thermal features, on a turn-of-the-century mantelpiece, so, bargaining can often be construed as a blight on the victims carcass, as if warmth is some distant longing, nights vision. Laughter introduces a new realm; between the sheets of grey something, is delighting. Coughs of blood tell, another story, a true viewpoint, from the direct sunlight, like, kids playing with their feet, that hang from devils legs, leaves crushed and deformed, crackling spires. |
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ALOFT
Lost or binding – a field of new dimensions, Aloft is the wind, shameless, twirling beyond now. Wishes can’t dash the stray, torturous bellows, unless…. Unless… It’s known. Growing and fielding and wanting and believing - all. Let’s put up, Let’s arrest delight so clarity becomes a shadow of time. Aloft the wind, shameless, twirling beyond now. Much adoring feats reveal travails that quash and canter, A flying fish walks down the aisle without junction so it may Delight, delight, nay – relish in daub and yet feel straw. Portal, Laneway, Doors, Closed, dashed, frightened of imperial enemies. Aloft the wind, shameless, twirling beyond tomorrow. |
Yes.......We Know
Oh the night, the fall of black curtains, Clothing the stains of yesterday, Withering away within the dusk, temporary as it might sound, A wonderful feeling of morrow, of sounds to come. Yet, it was now that the fields full of light and stumbling fools, Brought the relief of what might be, Might be? Of course there is a might or a possible, But what of it? Alone it doesn’t often feel tormented or even part of the whole. The withering wonder of the soul’’s departure into the land of never, The sleepless scuttlebutt of nebulous worries and frivolous whys, See, You will see, if your eyes remain closed, deeply ensconced, Buried alive in smouldering wet tales. How do we, as the gathering singularity, feel, touch or hear these woes, these tides of spring; the perpetual musty slithers on your skin, Never, Never will doubts surface from within the ocean of madness, She who knows – wains to subside into the porticoes of peace. No doubt my love, for we are not to be held back or strewn with inept, Guises and trying times. We are the ones who must yell in our sleep and awaken, The fields of mauling tides to dispense with never-ending, Always failing, fits of passion. We know we thought we to. Good morrow sweet maiden. |
