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

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