K

poem in the fridge (for Sarah)

 

poem in the fridge

for Sarah St Vincent Welch

 

things opened are in here

the can of worms, the ointment fly

stool samples, acid trips, specimens

 

all sorts, oh and did I mention dinner?

voice says ‘we are your dead in here’

the feast preserved , slow cultures

 

cut off from nature

thing that could bite once

‘we go through your guts in time’

 

each packet bears its epitaph

and one day rise to justice?

dark thoughts when the door is shut

 

so all we meat must fear

poem in the fridge (for Sarah) Read More »

one of these days we’ll be discovered

one of these days we will be discovered

 

little corner, too much information

then it will be as if we were sought

though that cannot be the case

 

some ones will come here to this place

which isn’t one at all

and ear to the soil of our saying

 

one of these days we’ll go through the wash

come out gospel clean

sleep like babies in there

 

it will be a small day

smug rounded for glory

some call triumph too

 

the day of vindication play

like Jesus on the water always was a bird

like sesamum Buddha

like Bouraq for a Houyhnhnm 

and we’ll be Struldbrugs then

 

it’ll be on POET’S day of course

sometime and soon

with a weekend lovely looming

 

cheese and chalk

a toffeyed nose

tricks of all along the way –

the cheering we’ll begin!

 

we’re building our pyramid

inside out, top down

bit of a leap and it’s a pyre too

 

the universe is closing now

time is almost over

but one of these days we’ll be discovered

we’re the team coming out on the pitch

 

everyone will join in

ring to the echo

 

we’ll find ourselves of course first

work out who to be

 

till then my humble hunch is

it’s safe for us in here 

 

one of these days we’ll be discovered Read More »

these flying islands




these flying islands

 

gone like a cool breeze

 

frisbee free

strophe propelled

canvas a range of opinion

idea thrust

 

pastoral comical tragical

 

hello

find you here

in if you like

a conversation

 

that’s it

lean in with

tip till

keep a grip

 

let the string out

breeze take

beats tap

rarely rhyming

 

who will have the tiller then?

call a tug-o-war

 

climb!

take in and trim the cat

watch while

we let down ladders, many

 

sometimes it seems like a pile of islands

lift let

and there are becalmings

latitudes for donkey

mule

 

a prize

for the most beastly behaviour

allowances age made

here are the ruins

and blow me down –

the annual awards!

 

on the carpet

or took off by rug

come from the rope

and ever enough

down for the canvas count

won’t you look up

 

kilting

trapezoid!

Saturn high V

 

one bean for a cow and grew to this

pitch a tent skyward

fee fie on’t

sniff

 

not for profit

so let’s swap

I’ll show you if you’ll read mine

 

Louder

damn those hornball cicadas

 

islands are all second guessing

they are the dead flock

each go alone

above my nation

 

bombers have held a fete

 

call glissement

a capture of say eau d’imagination

or not

often as slap in the wet belly fish

come catch and toss again

 

time wasted!

not me off the hook

 

sail on!

and then the thousand years

sail of the line ride finest

 

little books for a world come ever smaller

pack fairytale

they’re seasonal

 

cast like coins two up

friends in the head

and many the tricks of presence are

wrought for the warmer world

so

blow me down

then a line gets out

sticks for instruction

mantra or an admonition

self to self

go go

 

toys and islands

in the bath once

was the whole of a harbour

storm safe

in the aeon till everything begins

 

you can take the machine apart

islands flutter by mechanical

wound as the heavens once must have in

 

a twinkle up for stars

never the same together but twice

 

see under them the workings

flowering all

come in a burst of cloud

 

propel the self as if by fart

 

or the how-they

pulleys sprockets

cogs rags oiled

toes grip the rung

 

slippery devil

then float free

 

ringside for angels falling

lit

and every weather

 

dance up in the air like this

others clear blue

and Christmas again

the Sunday month

 

I’m opening a door here

part your own mists, will you, won’t?

 

make births as from the undersea

and who will say volcano?

 

from all walks

many more in mind

 

sunk ones too

and islands down

 

someone hid a sneer behind

soon outed though

and back to task

 

we better a world as we go

make it up as

we’re here

we’re gone

ready or not

loose

and here we come

high as fast as who can fly

 

as is the leaf uplifted

a vapour trail and gone


 

these flying islands Read More »

the Clive Palmer Monument

 

the Clive Palmer Monument

 

will be smaller than life

and careless thereof…

 

it fronts the museum of

where the workers were never paid

what they are owed’s colossal!

 

some say kitsch and some grotesque

something for everyone

dinosaur bones!

 

both thumbs up

loves a lie

things he touches turn to shit

 

the Clive Palmer Monument

features the pineapple’s raw end

it is less than a lawnmower    

or see-through Anzac

 

man that is cut down like a green blade

in his prime…

 

here’s not the Brahman bull

but steaming product thereof

served on billboards

 

and – while misboding – here’s

the missing pizzle part

(you’d need a microscope

that’s how fast he drives, flies, litigates)

 

really it is a hole in the ground

plenty of poison for everyone

 

the Clive Palmer monument

is being erected by the legal profession

(kind of a thank-you note)

 

It’s where ‘Midas has ass’s ears’ is buried

and there to this day the grass is singing

it’s all about Clive – always was and always will be  

 

trunkless              

makes great

the lone and level sands stretch far from…

 

General Clive’s drive

by the church called Saint Clive’s

statue of the sleeping Cross-Bencher

 

Clive is a one man rotunda  

a sun comes out of his nethers to shine

best of all

Clive is still alive

 

what a rascal!

delightful mischief!  boys own

takes so long to wipe up there

 

the tropics their own monument

why try to make any sense?

 

the Clive Palmer tribute is something

not quite biodegradable

was thrown from a car with much deliberation

a kind of minor trumpery, before and after that avatar

there was a time when you could vote for this

 

and because you ask me

I can confirm

yes this is all personal –

we call the highway Bruce


 

the Clive Palmer Monument Read More »

myth of a-semism

 

myth of a-semism

 

there is no mark without meaning

neither made nor found

 

try to make nonsense

go on

 

those who set out

do just that

they have tumbled an ark into stone

they this that

here’s the picture of nothing at all

 

it’s tinkle whiff

the chimney slept

the life raft leapt

 

like lightning spread

clouds gone from the page

 

one day some one will cypher it

one day someone will know

myth of a-semism Read More »

responding to John Bennett’s love poem

 




the legislators acknowledged at last

 

having expelled all thoughts of republic

 

peace declared universally

with every kind of song and dance

guardians tickled to a fit

esperanto

everyone listens

we take turns

 

money’s abolished

the budget is open

machines, but only if they’re fun

 

everyone will get enough

sleep, cuddles, sweetmeats, admiration

and every tree may grow

come koalas!

 

your golden age

the borders gone

Zeus patron of the exiles, cross-dressed

open to all suggestion

 

this is a world of infinite care

acceptance

or do as you damn well please

 

no one is blamed for what they can’t help

everyone held to opinion

 

do we need watches, clocks?

no crimes against humanity!

where no one will remember tomorrow

or read between these lines

 

all this is proclaimed – a NO year plan

must have been the way I slept

 

and those who believed in us

whom we loved

 

the dead shall rise

to our conversation

argue the toss

and call account

 

it’s all looking good from here


.


plus a haiku 


the rain persisting here too

I take off my hat

unzip and join in 

 

responding to John Bennett’s love poem Read More »

roadkill – responding to Sarah St Vincent Welch’s ‘the recent burials’

 

roadkill

responding to Sarah’s ‘the recent burials’

 

wallaby gone when we came back with rifle

so push off the tar

and days watch by, summer fast

yd hardly see the crows, or who were they (?)

driving by each day

 

dog of my childhood

in a backyard gone

and the time capsules (late sixties) must be there still too

damp mouldy remains of still live and breathe

important things forgotten now

but smell bad

and straight to the bin

 

sometimes you’d think the whole planet bones

sunk further toward the molten core

but some were smoke before

 

no one buried the dinosaurs

that was a sad sad day    

roadkill – responding to Sarah St Vincent Welch’s ‘the recent burials’ Read More »

destination Belanglo

 

destination Belanglo

 

responding to Tug’s

 

the Belanglo joke: coming through the forest at dusk, the hitchhiker says to Ivan, ‘it’s getting dark and scary in here’. Ivan replies, ’You’re scared? I’m the one who has to walk back on my own’

 

it’s always coincidence brings us

atoms to the cell

moments pile

 

the girl in the boot on the highway    

the narrow escape of her friends

 

have to imagine thrust and parry

the bundling in

 

and that these people were, not of their nature, newsworthy

 

some will say good as she got

 

warrant outstanding in a twist (interstate)

was this an over-zealous citizen’s arrest?

a knife for compliance from the dream kitchen

 

so many known unknowns here

and so on, vice versa

 

narrow, lucky

dizzy in the dark, forced

minus meds in there

 

though bloody and still bleeding

could poke out a tail light

wave a truck down

 

would no news have been good for them?

had she gone quiet?

was it all screaming?

 

so many questions the courts are for

and can have no doubt this was justice

lurid albeit

 

once were like sisters

and some sisters are

merely acquainted

but you cross a line

 

motives still under investigation

 

we do know

it was her own car

 




 

destination Belanglo Read More »

Responding to Beatrice Machet’s ‘written on two collages’

 

clad in a vanishing

 

one room of the sea

where the singing drowned

wake knowing a beach washed there

 

each chamber set to its different time

and catch along the corridor

like fate

age each

 

clouds all too telling

are they more smoke than bone?

 

in a garden where time went

and here comes the day

 

see how up down steps

a dance

 

fallow feeling

where summer struck

 

you can smell each separate century

 

and song where I was

in the circle before

 

come through the book

made nonsense of

 

these are the clothes under the skin

cannot be washed

 

could curl up in a question – ask

 

who is the arrow?

and how have we flown?

 

going to sleep in another language

waking up where we are

 

day is waiting far down in the dream

 

we go with the words to be

go to the edge of the known

 


 

 

 


vestita per malaperado


unu ĉambro de la maro
kie dronis la kantado
vekiĝu sciante, ke strando tie lavis sin

ĉiu kamero ekiris al sia malsama tempo
kaj kaptu laŭ la koridoro
kiel la sorto
aĝo ĉiu

nuboj tro rakontantaj
ĉu ili estas pli fumo ol osto?

en ĝardeno, kie pasis la tempo
kaj jen venas la tago

vidu kiel supren laŭ ŝtupoj
danco

neklaraj sentoj
kie frapis somero

vi flaras ĉiun apartan jarcenton

kaj kanto kie mi estis
en la rondo antaŭe

trairu la libron
faris sensencaĵon de

jen la vestaĵoj sub la haŭto
ne povas esti lavita

povus kurbiĝi en demando - demandi

kiu estas la sago?
kaj kiel ni flugis?

dormi en alia lingvo
vekiĝante kie ni estas

tago atendas malproksime en la sonĝo

ni iras kun la vortoj esti
iru al la rando de la konata


vêtu d'une disparition



une chambre de la mer
où le chant s'est noyé
se réveiller en sachant qu'une plage y est lavée

chaque chambre réglée à son heure différente
et attraper le long du couloir
comme le destin
âge chacun

nuages ​​trop révélateurs
sont-ils plus de la fumée que des os?

dans un jardin où le temps passait
et voici le jour

voir comment monter les étapes
une dance

sensation de jachère
où l'été a frappé

tu peux sentir chaque siècle

et la chanson où j'étais
dans le cercle avant

viens à travers le livre
fait un non-sens de

ce sont les vêtements sous la peau
ne peut pas être lavé

pourrait se recroqueviller dans une question - demander

qui est la flèche?
et comment avons-nous volé?

dormir dans une autre langue
se réveiller où nous sommes

le jour attend loin dans le rêve

nous allons avec les mots pour être
aller au bord du connu

Responding to Beatrice Machet’s ‘written on two collages’ Read More »