faceless

Portrait of Mary Alice Eckbo by Thorvald Hellesen
I got what I wanted
lost everything I had
what can I say
What can I do?
the faceless ones
took everything
including
you

From the heights
of the mountains
behind oslo
to the depths of despair
inseine
enparis
to be redeemed
after death alone
leaves me faceless
faithless

the impressions that i left
kept me away from you
reducing you to
faceless
along with your
faceless
crew

Today Lillian prompted we poets with works by an artist rejected by his country (Norway) Thorvald Hellesen. I chose this portrait of Mary Alice Eckbo because I felt it had great detail where there is none overtly apparent – as symbolised by the faceless Cubist impression that has been created. I really liked this artist’s work. It is hard to see how it was not recognised by his fellow Norwegians. You can find the prompt here https://dversepoets.com/2023/05/23/an-artist-gets-his-due/

outa her mind

telling stories 
of phantom glories
looking over her shoulder
smirking until I cry
beating on the table
playing I Spy
wondering who’s there
saying it’s fine
working in montage
death and decline
definitely hers
probably mine
twitching of the wrist
pumping of the fist
batting of the eyelids
passionate kiss
vicious kick
full cheek lick
what makes her tick
she’s a bomb

Holy

 
 They told me I was holy
 I believed them
 Everything changed from there
 I knew what to say and how to say it
 I knew where to go and who to speak too
 And my messages of love served me well
 as I travelled the world gathering souls
  
 At first I thought I was on a mission
 Then the mission became a privilege
 I could bring light into the darkness 
 Lift the blanket of shadow over the world 
 Simply by saying the word
 Simply by telling everyone 
 what they already knew 
 Regardless of their inability to act
  
 I told them
 for a better world
 they must overcome self interest
  
 Then I saw the truth 
 How important my own self interest 
 had become
 If I was to be able to continue 
 doing such good and noble work
 love was the word
 and they loved me 
 while I loved adulation
 
 Prayer was empowerment
 They prayed, I played
 It was a perfect match 
 of preacher and congregation 
 Idolatry, narcissism and hedonism
  
 The spiritual demands of today’s society 
 thereby being well met
  
   

A Surrealist Rhyme for Erik

as I ascended clouds hid the way
I clipped their wings with shears of grey
The telescope told me I must act
Whispering of star falls and moonrise attack
I reflected on the power I lacked
I must net time and hold it back
the home I could lose the ground where I stood
solid as rock shapable as wood
saw me wretched with fear indecisive and torn
was this last of days the final morn?
So I took my sharpest pencil my notebook red
wrapped my head in wool to drown out the dead
in their bottle on the waves above the seabed.
I went to the library to learn from the books
how to save the moon from destructive skyhooks 
the learning was crystal clear as a diamond
shards came together for this ignorant vagabond
I knew what to do I knew it was right
to save moon and world I had to take flight 
I set my glider to fly from an open window 
when the sun’s mellow light fades to soft evening glow
I leapt on board to find rising fresh air
but all that I found was a down draft there 
and I fell to the earth as so many more
I resolved to try again but not like before.
A path to nearby mountains was a long weary trek
if I ramped it straight upward I could launch like a jet
but the weight of the world again dragged me down
into glass houses I crashed with a moan
so I built giant steps on which I climbed high 
to take the moon down from the sky. 
As I ascended clouds hid the way
I clipped their wings with shears of grey
the stars came to guide me as I climbed and climbed
pushing ever upward was all on my mind
until the way was clear the view up ahead
was one of the moon on a black velvet bed
a moon barely rising still held in sleep’s sway
a moon reluctant to hear my story let us say
so I sweet talked that moon with promises and bribes
offering pleasurable time on earth in which to imbibe
the moon gave a yawn looked up and looked down
asked if I was prophet, conman or clown?
requested some proof what I had to say was true
for it could hear only nonsense hard to construe
so I pointed to the black heavens where no starlight glowed 
the moon was astonished then concerned and then bowed
I will go with you to spend time on earth 
while threats to the skies are beaten and dispersed
I will rise again when the stars once more burn
to light the night sky with starlight returned.
Moon sank into the ocean for a seaside holiday
destruction avoided with the moon at play
the culprits attacked night to find nothing but vacuum
and the cow in the sky scooped them up with a spoon.

This week Mish asked we poets to write from a gallery of surrealist photographer Erik Johansson’s images. Find the prompt here:
https://dversepoets.com/2023/05/09/poetics-slipping-into-surrealism-with-erik-johansson/

Roderick

Roderick was into sleeping.
He went to bed because in his head
he was boring.
No one noticed his time asleep.
He’d been gone a year and week,
which suggests he was quite boring.
He’d been lying in bed day after day,
when someone wondered, then went on to say,
“Where’s Roderick?”
They found him asleep and snoring.

Then they said how long it took
to find him in his tiny nook.
He quietly stated that he mistook
the year and week for one nice long sleep
convinced it was just the next morning.

Only getting up to go to the toilet,
his face was pale, eyes crusty and set.
At some time his beard he’d wrapped into
a bun, his idea of having a small bit of fun
to deal with the cold and no nightcap instead
he wrapped it around his balding head.
They all said how odd he looked.
He replied it was heat restoring.

With no one to talk to and no tv,
Roderick had slept all of that time restfully.
In his small dark room where day remained night
where awake was tedious and without delight.
When Roderick woke to that knock on the door,
a voice had asked, “Roderick, would you like to sleep more?”
Roderick never felt better than when he was sleeping
so to sleep again he went as night came creeping.
Never was he or others so content
than when Roderick slept and time simply went
another year until Roderick’s next dawning.

The Wombat Burrow

One of the locals
The wombat builds each burrow
mindful of each tomorrow
knowing he won’t stay long
before an urge moves him on

then on he goes to build again
dig and scrape til when
he sees some point of no return 
ends nights scouring with a yawn

he sleeps all day and eats all night
moves very slowly unless with fright 
when with lightning speed he bolts for a hole
one’s always nearby because building's his role

after a while he returns to the past
to re-excavate old burrows that didn’t last
knowing the smell and pleasure of earth
knowing each hole is his home and hearth

Today’s d’Verse prompt for we poets was from Kim. We were asked to write about animals making their homes. We have lots of Wombats around our place, so it was an obvious choice.

I did it for my babies

I sobbed while I banged my head on the dock
I lit the fuse tick tock tick rock
With nowhere to go I ran amok
because I knew no one gave a fuck

and my children died inside the conflagration
while outside I died as a witness stationed
to watch this act as the ultimate martyr
from lover to mother to miserable failure

now my babies don’t suffer anymore don’t you see?
their loss was my hope for my babies three
their release from torment my relief and my grief
I their life giver corrupter and thief

I scratched at the doors where help is the word
I pleaded for help and not one cry was heard
I make no further excuses for this desperate crime
judge me oh judge me and I’ll do my time

but I urge you who judge to stop and reflect
on the festering harm of abuse and neglect
on how absence of care equals opportunity cost
from pitiful existence my babies were lost


As dry as the land

Night’s last lingering cool breath
Marks the beginning of the end
As we rouse and arouse
Sleepily rising and realising
This cannot, must not, ever happen again

Bidding farewell to the events of the dark
With butterfly kisses and nuzzles
Tears of grief dwell, well and fall
As we own everything and commit to nothing more

For the first time, the last time we lie together
We listen in silence as another day’s hot outback wind
Begins to worry the doors and windows
And again rattle at the foundations of our lives

It’s the same drought wind that has been blowing forever
Forever keeping us apart no matter how much we lean into it
It keeps blowing us backwards to where we came from
It marks our passing back into life as it really is
Demanding and obligating with survival at its core
As dry as the land, as gritty as the sand

Bruised

I’m feeling a little bruised
a little rushed a little used
when you turn your whip like tongue on me
a little crushed and very confused

when you say that I’m not worth it
yet you keep on coming back
I decide that I’ll stick with it
and then you call me slack

yes I’m a sucker for punishment
my friends all tell me that
but really I’m a sucker for nourishment
I pray for it after every spat

I hate you and I love you
I tell you and relent
then you diss me and you kiss me
never knowing what each one meant

you don’t hit me or spit on me
you don’t go out with another
you just discard me like a soiled rag
whenever you think I’m a bother

then you take me back when it suits
knowing you'll always have the boots
to stand over me til I breakdown
to abuse me when I meltdown

I crave to be better, yet I'm a weak nag
always with one hand reaching for an escape bag
but I turn back from every open door
I pathetically keep coming back for more

then as I slide down every jamb
lamb to slaughter, slaughtered lamb
self esteem slides with me, to the floor we sag
and I gag and I gag and I gag

I see myself for what I have become
I know I'm not the only one
It isn't something helpful to know
others also powerless if they stay, powerless to go

Impacts of planned burns on the Southern Greater Glider

Our Strathbogie Forest

This planned burn scorched the canopy, collapsed habitat trees and burnt through gullies

Importance of Strathbogie State Forest for the Greater Glider

The 24,000 ha Strathbogie State Forest in north-east Victoria was declared an Immediate Protection Area (IPA) by the Victorian Government in November 2019 on the basis of its state-wide importance as habitat for the nationally endangered Southern Greater Glider.  This declaration formed part of the recommended conservation actions in the Action Statement prepared for this species under the Flora and Fauna Guarantee Act to help ensure its survival (DELWP 2019). 

2023 Greater Glider surveys

Areas scheduled for burning in 2023 are known to contain critical habitat for Greater Glider (see full report below), however Greater Glider occupancy in some of these areas prior to 2023 was poorly known. We have conducted nocturnal surveys in several of the burn areas.

Results of these surveys re-emphasize the…

View original post 305 more words

My first American sentence

Deep, deep in the forest where man is not known there is no good or bad.

  1. One line
  2. Seventeen syllables
  3. Condensed, no unnecessary words or articles
  4. Includes a turn or enlightenment

Thank you David Ben Alexander (and Allen Ginsberg) for alerting me to new forms of haiku.

Colours of the seasons

My colour was autumn 
in a fading colour kind of way
as I scrambled for more time
as time slipped away

then my colour was winter
cold bleak and grey
the shortening of daylight
gave more night than day

when my colour was spring
and more light filled the air
I felt for a green time
my happiness was there

but my colour became summer
coming in bright yellow hues
til the landscapes went dry
sun extracted summer dues

now my colour is a rainbow
arching over seasons
casting no shadow
coloured joy without reason

Spicing it up

Basil had finally arrived
in Arizona dreaming
of repeating Krakow nights
with his saffron love,
Garam Masala.

After leaving sunny Paris
they had spent thyme 
watching Tuscan sunsets
before mulling spices
into a mural of flavour 
for adding some Aleppo pepper
to their long awaited reunion.

Laced with dill,
pickled appetisers set
a savouring mood 
for their evening

Cumin, coriander paprika
zatar and mustard seeds
ensured the main meal
was saucy, spicy and hot.

Sea salt, lemon grass 
fennel and sesame seeds
added potentcy to the salad

Nutmeg, cinnamon and vanilla
heightened their senses
throughout dessert.

By the end of the meal
they were ravenous
for the after dinner mints.

Merril set this week’s dVerse prompt for we poets to spice things up using at least three of twenty-five listed herbs, spices, flavors, and spice combinations. For a bit of fun, I chose to cook up something that used them all.

Any door every door

One of the strange houses of Lee Madgwick

Today’s dVerse prompt was to undertake a very interesting ekphrastic challenge from Sarah. Sarah asked we dVerse poets to choose one of five fascinating images created by UK artiist Lee Madgwick . I chose the image displayed above.

How many times do you step through a door and
that decision changes the course of your life?
How many times?

You step through a door and
whether you know which way you are going or not
that decision changes the course of your life.
Many times.

You look through open doors and glass doors and
the view beyond each threshold can look better
much better with broad vistas of more promise 
than the narrow one in which you are standing.
You are a stand in
many, some days, every time.
How many times do you go through these doors
to where the grass is greener?
Many times.

You look through closed doors, opaque, the cracks and 
keyholes of doors
to wild skies of threatening, black clouds, heavy and 
threatening cloud banks of stormy weather
oppressive and threatening with worse to come
you know it will be worse for at least a time
many, some days, every time.
But still, consider.
How many times do you go through these doors?
Many times.

How do you choose which door opens 
to the best passage for the rest of your life?
The green of desire or of envy,
the passing black of fear or courage?
There are no obvious silver linings.
The lines are not clear.
Can you say your lines?
Your lines are not clear.
There are no obvious wishes to guide you.
Your wishes are not clear.
Can you articulate your wishes?
When will you wish honesty for yourself?
When honesty is a necessity?
Don’t close that door.

When is the right time?
Or the right place?
Or do you bother to choose at all?
When the right door opens for you?
Even when no choice is always a choice and
change will come regardless.
Change will come.
You know this.
Do you know this well enough by
understanding there is only luck at play?
Only luck is at play.
Do you know this?
You might not know this.

How often do those doors that are closed to you and 
blank with no offerings
get ignored because there is no obvious gain for you?
You walk past new worlds of wonder and peril everyday.
All the time.
Any door every door any time every time.
Every step is a decision.
Every decision is one to please, regret, grieve or rejoice. 
At the time or
in time.

But, you never know and
that is the reason for looking at doors
any door and every door
and always wondering about going through
into some place else. 
It should never be otherwise because
time is linear and time is limited.
All doors are only one door 
any door every door
in front of you when and where ever you are. 

And each door has its own nature
protecting you from the elements
or exposing you
locking you in 
locking you out
shutting quietly behind you 
slamming in your face 
creaking with foreboding or
letting in the fresh air.

You my be attracted by doors to the light.
It seeps in around the edges and under the woodwork and
you think to be in the light must be a good
place to be, you cross that threshold.
That threshold will be crossed.
to find a good place to be,
And sometimes it is a desert, a blazing sun, a hot, dry furnace and 
you retreat desperate with thirst, burned and changed.
Other times it is a moonlit field and you run through the soft green grass
before realising you have strayed enough to
never return to be the same person.
Does either door scare you?
Are you scared?
Hope is the latch, fear is the key.
Finding a way to use them
is finding a way to be.
You never have to stray far from yourself to change.
Crossing that threshold is no distance at all.
One that can take you al long way.
Crossing that threshold.
You are changed forever every time.
Many times.

Any door every door any time every time
go through. 
You change so the world changes
You change me and everyone else irrevocably.
You change us all.
All of us change.
Neither you nor I, neither will we and 
us ever be the same we, you and I.
For passing through any door every time will change 
us here and now in time.
The person you thought I was is no longer mine.
The person I thought was you is no longer in time.
The world changes instantly every time without design.
We pass through many doors many times.

How many times do you step through a door and
that decision changes the course of your life?
How many times?

You step through a door and
whether you know which way you are going or not
that decision changes the course of your life.
Many times.

Choice

this is a prosaic story about choice, choice is thirteen. choice is growing up in a fairly well to do neighbourhod. she has all the things the other options in the street enjoy, a neat house built by free willy (her dad), an allocated amount of pocket money in return for contributing to keeping the house ship shape (as her dad always says), three meals a day chosen by responsibility (her mum), a bike for moving around her immediate environs (which she has never extended) and an obligation called obligation (her pet black cat with a collar and tinkling bell to warn away the birds).

choice likes her life. it is predictable and secure and fun and she never has to worry about what to do next because there is always free willy, responsibility or obligation to let her know.

the other options in the street are pretty much the same. they go to school to learn how to behave away from home, they join clubs and play sport to understand how to be organised and they sleep comfortably tucked into warm beds with soft toys and billowing duvets and down filled pillows and electric blankets for the colder nights.

they all think waffles for breakfast are a delightful Sunday treat and one hour of tv each night is enough to keep them talking all the morning after. it never occurs to any of them life could be any different.

then one night something different happens anyway. choice feels it in a change of the wind, a new taste in the air, she feels it when she wakes at 2.36am to cramps and a bitter chill that makes her turn up her electric blanket. something is not right and she squirms and twists fitfully in bed for the rest of the night such that she wakes to a crisp bright sunny morning exhausted and grumpy for the first time - only to look out her window and see old mr routine next door being wheeled out to an ambulance never to be seen again.

the new neighbours come from some other place. they play a lot of music and always seem to be fixing and constructing in their backyard, their front yard and their house. choice can see an easel in the bay window opposite her room and a mess of paints and palettes scattered around. choice feels very uncomfortable about this. she knows proper people are always neat and tidy, careful and predictable. she and her family avoid these disruptive new people. free willy and responsibility say they don’t want choice introduced to anything or anyone who might be a bad influence.

at school choice sees the new boy from next door. he is in the next year and he also looks untidy, but whenever he is around choice can’t take her eyes off him. he moves differently, acts differently, speaks differently and when he turns her way it feels like he looks into her instead of at her. choice experiences uncertainty for the first time in her life. this boy unsettles her in ways she hasn’t felt before.

days go by, choice making no choices, just being choice, except she finds herself looking for the boy at every opportunity. find him she does like a a bee finds a flower. she finds those deep grey eyes swinging toward her as if he knows she is looking, as if he wants her to be looking.

without knowing it choice begins to find reasons to be outside in the street more often, obligation gets a leash, the bike gets ridden more than ever, a daily constitutional becomes a health necessity, chores start to be delayed or missed altogether, other options are no longer considered of worth.

then it happens and nothing is ever the same. he is waiting for her at the gate after school. would she mind if they walk home together? they are holding hands in minutes without knowing how or when, they are talking without pause, laughing and listening in wonder. at his house to say good bye he brushes her cheek with his lips. his hand lingers. she never wants him to let go and choice finalises the choice she doesn’t even know she is making. every future choice flows from there and then.

This week the dVerse prompt comes from Christopher Reilly. It is about choice. I chose to write a poem, but I couldn’t make it stick. It turned into prose, a short story and that happened, so here it is.

Good Things Only #16

OK, so it’s a beautiful morning. Cold, about 1 degree when I got up. Just a touch of frost. The grass is very green and I can’t see a cloud in a very blue and crisp winter sky. The air is sharp, crystal and the light breeze has a bite that penetrates. Nonetheless (I love that word), it is a beautiful morning with the stripped bare deciduous trees revealed in their all their steak naked glory and the evergreen indigenous trees contrastingly clad in their full, puffed up grey green winter coats. It is a beautiful morning. It is silent except for the gentle rustle of that surprisingly penetrating soft wind. Oh, and the always there hushed background tumbling sounds of water spilling and falling, running and spinning, turbulent and dashing over flat granite shelves into rocky hollows and against small stray boulders pushed along by the intermittent pressure waves of variable winter flows as they surge with irregularity down the creek. It is a beautiful morning.

Against the cold I am wearing my favourite jumper. There is no heater on, just the layers of clothes capped by this marvellously insulating and cosy thickness of wool are keeping me warm. Lovingly knitted by my loving wife, it only really gets a look at the world in winter. It is too warm most of the time for wear in other seasons. I think that is what makes it all the more special. The built in love and warmth reflect its specialised purpose.

It is big and old, enveloping, creamy and embossed. These days it is a little on the stretched, sagging and droopy side (giving it a 10 on the affection scale – which as everyone knows is the top score for a jumper). It sort of hangs around me rather than is worn by me. In fact it could be called an affectionate jumper. The first of its kind and a quality to be aspired to and emulated by all knitters who learn of it.

The crew neck now has a cute little “V” shape from under which diverse collars can peek. Otherwise the knitting has held its pattern for years, making it sort of tight and loose at the same time. I love the detail of its repetition. This jumper has character. Maybe it even is a character in its own right. Yes, i think that is right, it has become a character in the story of my life because I have an emotional attachment to this jumper. We belong together. And that’s the way I like it.