She's a
living beast,
steel hulled and thrumming
from wave lap,
humming to pulsating engines,
tinkering to pots and pans
in a busy galley,
the whirr of air conditioning,
heat of miles of wiring,
sounds of boots on linoleum-covered
steel deck plates.
A beast that lives to the
sounds of sailors,
sleeping off watch all hours
of the day,
a busy bridge navigating safe
and troubled waters,
of a sudden, the engines cease,
generators fail,
galley stops cooking,
and the pulse of mechanical
life dies.
Sailors stand where they are,
in darkness, hearing nothing
but the lap lap
of waves on a hull slowing,
the silence deafening, a roar
of black,
the darkness a shout on the
consciousness
of sailors used to busy busy
life,
silenced to submission.
A grave, steel encrusted and
murderous,
awaiting a fate none can bear,
anchors unable to be actioned,
no hydraulics,
at the mercy of the sea, and
wind
and a nuisance to other shipping,
still sailors feel dumbly
around their prison,
searching for a sound, a familiarity.
Ashore, when the power dies,
you still hear the flight
of planes overhead,
cars passing, day or night,
people passing in starlight
or sun,
but at sea, cocooned in that
steel compound,
just the nothingness of fear
and trepidation,
awaiting a fate none can predict.
By torchlight, engineers work
hard,
for pride, for their reputation,
for mates,
to get food cooking again,
and a means to travel,
for the sounds of life in
a shell that thrives,
and when it happens, when
that thrum returns,
and air flows, tv's flicker
on, and navigation happens,
the sound of sailors roar
approval, and happiness reforms.
You see, the life of a sailor
is a tenuous one,
and a dead ship wakes sleeping
sailors,
such is the roar of silence,
hope returns,
when a ship is once again
a ship,
a living entity, a stell microcosm,
and the simple life of a sailor
returns
with the
flick of a switch or the flow of deisel again.
The
Romance of Dandelions and the Rhine River
'Tis a warm German afternoon,
lil'
Franz Hoeffer sits astride a log
dipping his toes in the river Rhine,
pulls dandelion wings and floats them
into
an air that swims with Beethoven
eminating from a hofbrauhaus
on a white glistening escarp overhead.
He dreams
as he watches them,
little aelerons lifting skyward
on a breeze washing the Lufthansa valley,
dreams of Jumbo jets
and fighters
twisting and turning through clouds above,
and his toes dip deeper, feeling that flow
warms the moment
into memory.
Twenty years later, Franz stares upward
remembering the dream, of flight and fancy,
as the sea bucks
the steamer awry again,
he alters course to meet the flow around his toes,
wonders at the events conspiring
to make
his feet feel the Rhine
flowing through his Teutonic veins.
And Beethoven plays ever onwards,
succour to dreams and romances,
to dandelions floating to C minor,
to winds creating fantasy and dreams,
to
the flow of notes dancing on trickling water
carrying edelweiss from snow capped peaks,
to the Sea Major that became
his life.
Phare de Slyne
The picture that inspired this poem can be found at http://posters.seindal.dk/p355453_Phare_de_Slyne_Head_Galway_Irlande.html
See before you,
A French
perspective
on an Irish tableau.
Rough-hewn Atlantic rock
awash with centuries
of wave action, swirling
white.
Dark grey pedestal
of light emitting fantasy,
for sailors tramping south.
On a rough rough night,
waves
fling high and try
to extinguish golden delight.
Grey and imposing,
on its castle of ancient time,
sailors
glee stands its ground.
Wishbone on the
Windowsill
Been there since christmas,
when the turkey was carved
and a feast to be had,
dried out now,
awaiting it's tenuous fate.
Sit's on the windowsill
drying in the morning sun,
the smells of cooking
and steamy boil ups wafting,
still it waits.
Little Susie keeps climbing
the bench to see it,
she wants first go, needs
luck,
at her age?
still it's fine, she's patient.
Then one day, had a party
many guests, woke in the morning,
cleaned up the place up,
and shards of broken luck
littered the sill.
You know that feeling,
when you have to tell
everyone,
to let Susie know she won't
have a chance to be lucky
this year.
You cook chicken, roast,
size 10 beauty, and it goes,
all in one sitting,
you place the new wishbone
in pride of place.
Next time you have parties,
you rig security, a cam here,
bit of tape there,
and barbed wire across the
windowsill,
just in
case.
Ouch,
that thought hurt.
Don't write
poetry with a hangover,
toxic bubbles invade the primary
transmitter for passing information,
from the synapses to
the fingertips.
Blink harder, the words seem to work better,
oops, poetry not pastry,
can't find the damned mind
eraser,
to clear the crusty particles away.
Then I took a pencil and etched
a thin streaky mark through my ear,
lead
poisoning on a frontal lobe
devoid of cognitive response.
I sat and read what I just wrote,
you know, editting
process kinda thing,
and realised everything I just scribbled
was supposed to about apple trees mating.
Driftwood
Series
Driftwood
Mighty tree,
hewn by nature,
flows to the sea
on flooded river.
Washes
ashore,
an art form,
a seat for travellers.
Scrimshaw sculpture
in natural state,
lounge ornament.
In the Lounge
Stands guard now,
sentinel alongside
hutch
dresser and entertainment cabinet,
peering out into an orgy
of furniture and momentos.
Visitors gawk,
try
to see what I see,
a bole shaped like a goblin,
peering round the side,
two legs with over large penis,
dangling.
Then
surprise,
I have a change of heart,
see nothing in it,
demote it to residency in the garden,
an ornament for dogs
to pee against,
cats to scratch waiting paws.
I see it in passing, and wonder,
what did I see?
it stares back
in mute silence
offering a wan smile,
in a natural place again,
rotting away.
Garden Rot
Rotting place,
garden humus burns
driftwood remnants,
worms crawl
and aeragate,
slaters scamper
shards rot off,
weta and slug share home.
Decisiveness
Weta and slug carry post humus
remains of driftwood sculpture,
each
to their own place,
Weta to more rotting trees,
slug to virile compost.
I dig both over, in the garden
grow
vegetables and plants
eat the products
meant to make me feel good,
an empty stomach hurts.
As an empty space
in my lounge now,
but sitting in the easy chair,
stomach full and replete,
the gap in the lounge is filled with
memory,
I don't rue my decision, never have.
Bad for the Soul
I
rue the ache in a gut,
rotting with indecision,
and the stale ochre of
old driftwood and lettuce,
slater dung
hanging in pain.
Made a decision, stole an asprin
from a medicine cabinet short
on tangible items of aid,
swallowed
my pride and drank
water to speed the process.
Later that night, the edge came off
as urine flowed bright brown
and
down the bowl it flowed,
flushed clockwise on a journey
under streets and alleys.
Streets and Alleyways
Le Francais call it La Rue, le avenue,
a thoroughfare by any
other description,
beneath them flow the mechanisms of life,
waste water, fresh water, cables for power.
Through
the streets of my town,
sewage flows to a holding tank,
set out of town, for the smell,
filtration by bacteria ensues.
Remnants
of meals eaten,
mix with the rich and famous,
the social security folks,
waste from passing travellers.
And
a portion of driftwood waste turns,
mingles and bunches, solid waste,
is picked up by a nursery,
strewn on saplings
of soon to be mighty trees.
Saplings swaying in the breeze
Nourished
with water,
and caste off waste,
small trees flourish and prosper.
Owners dog runs up and down,
choosing
a stem at will
to unleash a quick stream, scented.
A breeze blows cool through leaves
bark strengthens despite
water,
the attention of Bo weevils and Cicadas.
One tree grows quicker,
a legacy of some far off nutrient
carried
through a fist of poems.
Chosen, it goes on a winding journey,
to a new land, and new setting,
in an area once
remembered in genes.
Small beginnings
It
once knew this area,
the soil rich in familiarity,
a time before death,
and removal from steep hills.
Planted
where it once stood,
on a slope overlooking
a winding river vista,
the birds an echo from the past.
And
a gene runs through the taproot,
deep into terra firma,
eaten nutrients once tasted,
then upward to spreading leaves.
Strength
comes in growth,
in survivability, time,
strength is knowing the past,
and building for a new future.
The New House.
Twenty years on, it flourishes,
tall and strong
in a southerly gale,
sounds of birds and bees flying
through tendrils of green.
The sounds of chainsaws break
the calm,
and soon the genes of old driftwood
are cut down at the knees, bleeding
on a landscape used to dereliction.
On
a truck down highways busy,
and over a river whence it once flowed
to a sea and beach far away,
to a mill to become
four by twos.
A timber yard sells neat sawn lumber
to busy builders and handymen alike,
a new house is built
next to familiarity,
the air similar in a genes journey.
I won the lotto, bought the land next door,
built a
solid timber house I call Driftwood,
walked indoors before completion,
found something in the lounge, a memory.
A Bridge no more
Ever wonder what five inches
of
deluge does in eighteen hours?
Wrecks lives,
changes landscapes,
minds sent reeling from stock loss
and the
ruination of a society,
makes memories die.
It stood there as long as I was around,
Dad drove over it,
threw
stones from it
into a slow moving river,
fished for trout under it.
In the right months, as a kid,
jumped
into a deep pool from it's span,
splashed glee written on everyones face
on it's mighty ramparts,
crawled along
the gas pipes.
Now I sit on my PC, staring in memory,
a photo of a gaping hole
in the Pohingina Road,
no sign
of black top
or green painted sides.
Just a gaping hole in a memory,
gone in a few hours of mayhem,
I sit
way downriver trying to imagine
it's shard remains passing
as crumbled silt past my house.
And fail.
Man
failed, nature won,
for now, one day I'll take my grandsons
and they will have memories,
on a new bridge, new fish,
and
pray they don't have to lose
a memory.
The Wind Blows Chocolate
Rumble in the jungle.
The sound
of captured air travelling
the highways and biways
of a tract of pipes bent for food.
Emit a sound quite rude.
Party
poopers stand whiffing
aromatic herbs control fragrance,
nostrils volatile from anal assault.
Blame the chef,
not my fault.
In a bar, drinks consumed apace,
one patron crashes on his front, splat,
his baked bean diet unfolds
in his comatoseness.
Pinch your nez, no danger, god bless.
A womans trick is to diffuse expertly,
no sound,
no smell, no residual embarrassment,
men wide open and ripping yarns.
Send them packing ladies, put 'em in barns.
Grapes
Suspended above hungry mouths,
supine figures dart
tongues
in playful erotic joy,
bite pleasure and juices flow.
A mannequin stands erect,
Michaelangelo's David,
or
a Venus de Milo,
marbled love plied from stone.
Grape juice litters sanguine shoulders,
remnants of a bird orgy
the
smell assails the erotica,
and turns blind lust rampant.
Too bad Caesar failed his people,
too many grapes and
sluts,
not enough time for the pleasures
of power and governance.
Yet now, we have the Grapes of Wrath
what
pleasures ensue from within?
The minds set on the crushing
into a fine wine, palatable for now.
Lucretia's Week
Lucretia Chowmonderly
lay by the pool,
always
on Mondays
she played the damn fool,
made love to the poolman
in her big king size bed,
turn the picture of hubby
down
as if he were dead.
Picked up by the chauffeur,
every Tuesday morn,
would be out shopping
and partying
to dawn,
lays with a hangover
till late the next day,
all forgotten now,
her previous lay.
Thursday is
girls time,
out on the rantan,
sometimes the beauty parlour
enhancing her tan,
sometime the hairdressers
to
style her blonde locks
so that she can lure in
some more male jocks.
Friday and Saturday,
at home with her
man,
pretending the marriage,
isn't a scam,
then on Sunday
to church she does go,
to confess all her sins
like
she had any, you know?
The Undertaker
Buried trees today,
blown to a horizontal
death,
across driveways
and near a house.
No priest on hand
to read the last rights,
just the buzz of a
chainsaw
and sawdust to sawdust.
Once mighty wattles
and towering blue gums,
now consigned to the woodpile,
for
a winter burn.
The sun now shines
where once there was darkness,
yet a space is a space,
and empty from what
was.
Geek Speak
There be a mathematical chance,
hyperbole will
dance,
Geometric shapes will fly.
Cross the pages of grids,
arithmeticians flip their lids,
astronauts streak
through the sky.
Philosophers daily engage,
in thinking that's all the rage,
their hypotheses set on to cry.
Monotheists
gainfully pray,
an entity will come their way,
no bacon for them at all to fry.
A Biologist in a college,
stumbles
upon newfound knowledge,
a rat on a table suddenly dies.
Politicians do pontificate,
about the things we really
hate,
and the last word across their lips was a lie.
May the PC that you are on,
be your truth device, no con,
may
the words come to light ere you die.
A Childs View of Quaint Vegetables
No Mummy,
not Brussel
Sprouts,
but sweetheart,
they're baby cabbages.
Oooh Yuck Mum,
Yams make me puke,
Oh come on honey
they
build strong muscles.
Daaaaaaad, there are slugs
on my silverbeet, wah
Silver beet makes you strong, son
and so do slugs, hahaha.
Leprachauns Lament
Skeediddly daddly
scumpitidy doo,
fracksal
palima
hufftitippy poo.
Drachnasia whirmonga
shriektra kaibosh
mantira, byhungy
efrumpty gopripitoss.
Jaschitra
lubmingo
scrippity trumbay
ahhh to be shure, lass
have a nice day.
Tha Vingnyet on a wark
Doggie doos
Walked along,
path
bare, but for a pile
of flies sniffing
a feast.
Lolly Paper
Wafts along on a breeze of chance,
dances
merry tangos
in an effort to refuse
conformity.
The child on the bike.
I waltz left, slowly
a BMX with
deranged nine year old
tries to run me down
in uncontrolled madness,
happy smiles.
A Car Backs out of a driveway.
Nissan
300ZX, all power,
purrs backwards
poking backwards out from home
to block my reverie,
hits accelerator
and
vanishes, smokey.
Rain, Flood, Misery
It rained.....
very heavily.
A
little river flowed...........
a flooded torrent.
People, once happy.............
sighed in misery.
The
land can't breath
The People are choking
The stock are no more
The Flood strangles
Fastnet
Light
The picture that inspired
this poem can be found at http://posters.seindal.dk/p344128_Fastnet_Lighthouse.html
Pushing beneath a baleful
glare,
once silent sail in full voice,
listens for mermaids siren
a fog horn in a misty seaway.
A Pennant tells a long story.
Fastnet Light stands guardian
o'er rocks washed with wind
whipped spray,
an empty beacon in days glow,
two elements touched by the
sea.
Twin foresals point her into
the wind.
And a great obelisk of white
points her to seaward,
safety in a storm tossed pleasure,
great hands pull sheets tight
to swing
large sails to their rightful
place, in the scheme.
And it stares on, blindly
blinking nothing.
Rue de Joulet
In gay Paris,
I see the Seine
reflect francais sunshine.
Artistes at their easel,
daubing
french maids
dressed in haut coiture.
Saunter down Rue de Joulet,
beret cantered Pyranees-style,
lick a popsicle
ere it melts.
Julienne St Bromerge sings Edith,
birds flitter from oak to oak,
life passes gaily on.
I Almost Forgot
I almost forgot to write
my poem for today,
to be honest, I haven't
had much to say,
I sit
and wonder how long
I'll be this way.
So here I am trying
to write something new,
but for the life of me
can't
think of anything to do,
looked at my shirt,
and finally my shoe.
Then it came to me,
something for sure,
inspired
by me knocking
my head on the door,
saw it written in the
carpet on the floor.
When I talk
Why is it
when I talk to
you,
my mind wanders?
And how is it,
when you talk to me
my mind strays too,
in fact why is it
when folks
talk to me
my mind takes a holiday?
Perhaps early onset Alzheimers,
or a hint of Parkinsons.
Now, what
were we talking about?
A stick on the ground and
the minds eye
It lies on the ground,
too
broken to move any further,
as low as it can get,
maimed from a severe dismemberment.
You reach with your hand,
cold
to touch, yet alive
with green leaf and sap oozing,
look to it's host,
see the carnage enacted.
Observe the
end, torn
imagine the exact damage
whence it came, think repair.
Your climbing skills are rusty,
the taste
of bark on tongue,
foreign.
In your eye, your minds eye,
you see rebirth, sense success,
in your mouth you
taste death.
Back on the ground, the stick
firmly placed where you found it,
a sudden realisation you're not
God
nor a tree counsellor, walk on by.
Lay Down my Sword and Shield
Scrambled over heather
fighting
the Celts
north of Hadrians Wall,
slain Saxon renegades
on the plains of Salisbury.
Marshalled resistance
in
the vineyards of Bordeaux,
clashed metal with metal
with Teutonic hordes
on the colossal Steppes.
Walked the
streets of Rome,
a beaten hero,
forgotten but for the armour
the shield, a blood red sword,
the look of a tireless
campaign.
Found an empty house,
laid down shield and sword,
cooked pasta with a ravenous dog,
hailed Caesar,
spat into dirt
died where I slept, alone.
Cadillac Jukebox
Sat in a milk bar,
swapping
cokes with girls
in pigtails and short pants,
sounds round the room,
high laughter and joy
and the sounds of
Elvis
from the musicbox in the corner.
A waitress in a miniskirt
rollerblades between aisles
and people are
happy,
plenty of smiles, then
with a flick of a switch,
a cadillac roars in
and parks in the bar.
Big negro
with an afro do,
pumping Stevie Wonder
from his radio set,
the crowd, mostly white
a little upset, close in
threatening,
smiles gone,
when out of the Caddy
comes a change of tunes,
a mixture of surfing sounds
some blues and some
jazz,
the mood reignites,
a Cadillac Jukebox
everyone sways.
From the club across the road
come a curious
crowd,
listening to white folks sounds
reaching out to them loud,
temperature rises again,
as women see women
men
see men, smiles.
The crowd in the bar
push the Caddy outside,
black meets white
and the music decides,
youth
dances with youth
no matter the colour
and the cops arrive.
Yet the Caddy Jukebox
plays long and loud,
the
children of indifference
dance the same songs,
happiness is replaced
by the intent of the old
'hey children, hear
us'
"white will be white
and black will be black."
Illusionary affect of silence
It gives you a sense of suspension,
moves people to look over shoulders,
that whisper of soundlessness
as
a stare into space fills a void.
People will tell you it is golden,
yet when you see it,
there is nothing,
just
a timelessness waiting
to unfold.
Monks practice it with ease,
little children take time,
A minute here and
there
for someone once living.
Yet to some, the illusionary affect of silence
is a scream on the consciousness.
Home Invasion
"How old are you?"
in his rough Russian-Hungarian
guttural, as he fondled her breasts
through
threadbare serving maid
clothes, rotting away.
"Sixteen" she mumbled apologetically,
felt his hand rip her torn
knickers from
her hips, the rip a yell in the dark.
The townsfolk hid, heard her cries,
heard the soldiers laugh,
and grunts,
the sound of bare-skinned hand hitting,
cracking cheekbones, on golden hay.
They would have cried
for her,
but why do something they never have,
she, the village dolt, dumb, wracked,
unable to be good stock for
a gentleman,
little alone a farmhand on heat. She was
the village mat, walked over and used,
yes even for pleasure,
but never like this.
A dog yelps at a retreating conqueror,
pisses on the tree he leant his rifle against
to
do up a worsted fly, now damp from sex.
The village heard her whimperings, her wailing,
her hunger, to be loved,
to be cared for,
yet noone hugged her, gave her comfort,
just scuffled their toes in the dirt, in passing.
They
found her one day, naked,
making some kind of statement none could fathom,
dangled from the Oak tree, her life silent,
bar the blood dribbling from torn breasts,
and a stick devouring her sex, bleeding the pain out.
They cut her
down, gave her a burial,
buried their shame, and someone cried,
maybe her mother, or an abusive brother,
too later
though, the soldier her saviour,
like her town, all gone now.
Self electrocution.
Mum always told me,
'Never make a call in a thunderstorm'
like I listen to her,
talked to Sandra
as
the storm circled above.
Could hear the click click
of the static
as her sweet voice
swooned me in my reverie,
a
crash of lightning
and clap of thunder above.
Reached over for a cigarette
burning in a stainless ashtray,
saw
blue sparks eminate from
fingertips melting black,
and the shock of heat crossing shoulders
hunched in pain.
Woke
in hopsital,
my girlfriend was worried,
rang 111, ambo's came
picked my sorry arse off the floor
and gave me burn
cream
an ECG to be sure.
Mum was right, dang her!
The Lounge Room Pavarotti
Ordinarily I wouldn't do it,
though
sometimes,
for some reason,
a Pavarotti-like animal inside me
screams his joy.
There are times,
with windows
open for a summers breeze,
I walk through the lounge
and the animal roars,
startled curb crawlers turn
not to
listen, but in fear.
Ave Maria is the usual suspect,
or an Italian version of Danny Boy,
but lately, a startling
change,
rapping in bass baritone
to In the Ghetto, by the King,
these times I try not to laugh.
Old Rose next
house over,
the eighty year wonder lady,
knocks on my door,
asks me to turn the stereo down,
I burst into a tenor
rendition,
"Dont bother knockin', the house is a rockin' "
she runs in a demented hobble.
Last night I woke myself
up,
seems I was snoring in A Minor,
in tune to White Wedding,
don't know what was worse,
the key of A Minor,
or
the nuptual premonition.
Magna Crematus
Magna crematus,
the large burn,
ashes spread on dampening gardens.
Posies sprout,
new
growth thrives,
life returns for cherry pickers.
Lionel Ritchie croons,
plants live for music,
tulips dance
in a warming summer breeze.
Nuclear weapons
threaten natural order,
Magna crematus awaits a new start.
Russian Prostitutes
Oh Olga,
take
my twenty ruples,
may the black ice
of a Moscow alley,
melt into the Volga,
and flow to Lubyunka.
Vodka
flows through lips
long used to fire and ice,
births in the homeland,
anonymous.
A hungry mouth grows
fuelled
by the need to live.
The Kremlin issues a Red Flag
to wrap around heads of state,
only woollen rags or a copy
of
the Moscow Times covers
the ice bound decay
of a babushka on heat.
Tavoritsch comrade,
they suck you for
ten ruples
or a bottle of Smirnov;
the cold is hard this year,
'icicles hang from my nether parts,
warm them
for me,' she says.
Often in mid winter,
street whores are seen
floating dead on that river of ice,
thrown
to a watery grave
for the spring thaw.