Month: March 2017

The lake like dark wine

unfurled, bent in the light,

rose as waves in the sea,

 

broke

on the pebbled beach.

I may as well

 

not be

here: I might be

mad, but feel

 

the water rising up the sand

would be/is;

 

even if

I never was

there, by the wave-tormented sea.

to my old piano teacher
    to Mrs. Wells remembered

this afternoon along that road
the paddocks where you grazed
your horses, your pug dogs snuffling
clustered at the door, your riding
crop and helmet, the house
redolent with sun and a dark piano
were all no more than that
nothing history of real estate
zoned out of this universe,
they think, that turf assuming
its rightful price and nothing
else in this day and age.

in jest i called your name
in the heat the breeze
could not budge
‘mrs wells, mrs wells’
and the wind in the leaves
moved in arpeggios
the bird trilled
and the white keys
were the sun between
branch shadows on the
road and those the black that
blocked and took the melody
over like an evening without
its dusk and day
the afternoon
a haunted
piano

january 2016
musick point rd

Booze is great – it

drops us in the shit

our fathers made –

in the field, hard-up

against the bark

of a tree.

 

Dec ’16

So, home and the rest of the afternoon

i don’t remember. The sun had shone

in the rain on the walk home and later,

rain. The clouds at sun-down made way

for stars and i thought of a house we found

in the wilds, miles from the mess down

to my trembling hand.

there’s a golden globe that bounces in Gisborne

laps up  surf

 

 

langours in sand

trees shift their branches

wafting in greeting

not to be missed

 

 

paint pallets no justice

define not the still

of a sunset epiphany

risking its will

we bow in deep envy

praise mighty relief

pleasure intensifies

natures mischief

 

no camera can capture

the rays spiking through

a deluge of colour

soaking me through

intriguing

 

 

immeasurable beauty imbued

 

‘m

 

If time measured love

instead of hours

hearts would not cease

Sun would not set  embraces

 

 

 

Moon would light belief

 

 

the clock could not tick

its seconds

Childs play nor cease

or chase old couples smiling presence

young lovers deep intense

 

the garden grows unfettered

by chiming of knell

each tree and mountain growing

the ocean tide and swell

 

second instances of feeling

milliseconds of sublime

creation fettered not by motion

sand is shifting seeds will climb

peoples melting into moments

hearts sinking in the sun

stars gaze to blaze the darkness

Creator sighs an all is done

 

 

I can see

into

your eyes of blue

Like a drifting sea

surrounded by clouds

I look deep

inside

My big blue eyes

gaze longingly

within you

trying to gauge you

Are you real enough

for me?

Are you tough enough?

Are you rough enough?

Do you truly

get me?

I’m a wild child

drifting on

a Sunday cloud

Not ever contemplating

landing

Can you feel

into my heart?

My childish

spontaneous

open vessel

Hop on

for the ride

Who knows

what you will find

inside

Can you see

into my eyes

of blue?

Because

I can see

into yours…

You inspire the flower

to loose distended crown.

Is that you, my orphan,

dressed in the aperture

of my dread?

 

I must illustrate

the angle of your head,

unbent; the limber

leg, compliant; engage

myself – our hues

 

indivisible; and in

some better way,

enunciate

the tenor of dew.

 

*note that “loose” is not a typo.

I couldn’t do it,

Not at that pub.

All those clever bastards

Spilling wine

(into their throats).

Fancy standing up

To read –

I’ve seen the pictures:

All black jeans

And pained looks,

Unruly hair and rolling eyes.

And there’s me

Drinking days done

Gasping for ale,

Anything –

It’s too late now

The stars are up.

And anyway

I have nothing to say.

Not here.

Later, perhaps

When we’ve had a drink

‘shame to stop

2 steps short

of hell’s exit

( – Alighieri, Dante);

 

hard to turn;

go on; to lie, hear

the pulse between

my ears..burn;

 

apt (is it), bad

luck or.. – what a shit

of a trip i could

drop but for

 

(i confess) my

irrational belief

in..discipline which

is i admit –

 

Still i

scrawl in the garage

(tools, disused, &

who-knows-what, you

can be sure does not,

magical, come-to when you

leave the room);

 

slouch on my best shit-

brown couch, down

night & day.

 

But I’m not as scared

as I once was – of

dogs, bees, the flowers

that conceal them;

and water  (because

when you step on it you go down

and all that is good – faith in man,

football, politics… is

snuffed.

 

When I nearly drowned I thought

of nothing. In the loft however

years later when a live wire

shook my hand and wouldn’t let go,

I thought something more –

like sorrow, but then the fuse snapped

and after that I went to bed and had

the dreams of a child again); strangers,

the otherness-

of..

 

*

 

Distillation of the Self – Note: remember this:

 

my last poem should be like

liquid drops squeezed from the pulp;

 

lean, light like high white

birds in the cold-blue sky

of morning.

 

This is something to aspire to (like – ).

Isn’t it. So pure it

may/be imageless; mere

cuts from the black abstracts

that flap in the dark dark night (like – );

 

maybe soundless too,

extrasensory. might

call it 0 or even less

because nothing will be

except ..;  the bare -..

 

If I could isolate it ex-

tract abstract it from…

I could..

it would be like..

I might split as

the flesh does from the soul,

free at..

 

*

 

Last, i request to be

burnt, buried; dug

up, hung. As willow

light like black silk

, limp on the thorn; i

 

rise like burnt

flakes in the high

wind and live

lightly, never care

 

. which is good, not

morbid, but up

– like burnt

flakes in the wind, which

aspire to..

 

After Christmas I clean the garage up –

in the new year.

 

*

 

Could I dispense with rhythm as well?

Verse? Forget myself

 

*

 

in the garden, snap

the twigs,

for instance, tending the vines;

 

but all that’s left is

but sap as, composed,

I recollect. Some sticks, is

unsaid & that’s fine

no-one ever knows

what goes

on because

if you saw my dreams

you’d have me guillotined

like bob dylan,

but even he would be spared –

here, in America  –

now, yet..

 

We’re self-assured like we were

in ’76 which was

(we knew not) the end.

 

Some were astute enough to smell the decadence

and kicked the door in.

 

*

 

It’s happening again. Come

friendly bombs:

 

do the old boot boys in –

in Surbiton, Hamilton

– tending the flowers

in the garden. The grapes

shall be late this year.

 

No, hit those guys, who got drunk

& caused trouble down this street –

students; now in summer suits:

bloody lawyers & accountants –

get them!

 

Come,

Islamist,

Big Business.

Trumpist, blow yr big… horn,

come                                                     (Freedom/no Taxes/ no Government

(: Yawn))

over us.

 

*

 

I have 24 years left to live.

Woof-Woof.

 

Dec ’16

Well, she said, it’s been a while.

As it had; 40 years or more.

She was young and wanted a lift.

Oh, you must remember –

The road to Canberra

Autumn frost’s silver sheet and blackened trees

Peripheral place names and Kris Kristofferson’s

Sunday Morning Coming Down;

And us, going up and coming down;

Thoughtless oblivion at the helm of a Holden.

Driving to somewhere and nowhere,

Drinking and singing to the road’s end.

And you looked at me as though I didn’t exist;

Not in any real sense, beyond this and that.

You look at me now through tired eyes

As though we shared an epiphany –

All we shared, I recall, was a look

And it, really, didn’t add up to much