Here is the link to the small local Newsletter I edit for our small Strathbogie Tableland community Tableland Talk July
Tag Archives: writing
The Gambler
Reply
Precedence
is chance
The roll is a fast
chaotic dance
The die is cast
numbers spin
Will luck outlast
the spin I’m in?
The dotted faces
turn and prop
bounce and hop
My future turns
on fortune’s stop
Excitement
Anticipation
Fulfilment
or suffocation
Desperation
Indecision
High risk taking
recidivism
Bound for glory
is my folly
Wracked and ruined
that’s my story
Highs feed lows
on pure vainglory
Today’s dVerse prompt from Ingrid was for a subject of each poet’s choosing. This one came from a draft I had on gambling, a subject I have been trying to get my head around.
The first sunset
When you go out of your way to pay a special visit to a reputedly special place to await what is reputedly the best sunset atop the best vantage point in the country to watch
What do you expect to see?
The first true signs of the end of days the man with the straggly long hair and dropping moustache stated categorically
Glory in all its vividly obscene dissipating layers said one
A solid shaft of pure golden light representing the pathway to heaven said another
The small group sitting in the rock beside said it was the last sunset they always came to see, but they hadn’t seen it yet
A couple on the other side of the hill crest said they came for the purity of love they experienced every evening together under the setting sun
A man and his dog told me they found in the descent of lonely Sol a parallel with their own existence dying each day and reborn alone each morning no matter how splendid each even looked to others
There was a small girl in rags come up from the squalid town below. She saw hope in the sunset of an escape into a world of bright light and enchantment away from her stolid grey existence
There was an off duty policeman present. He came to wish all the bad things he saw done every day depart below the horizon before he could sleep at night
A woman all dressed in white told me her life was colourless and joyless except for this moment every day where she could finally grasp the meaning of true beauty before she forgot what it was in the black of night
A priest in his hot black tunic and white collar was saying a prayer as I passed. Bless this world with the light of another day
An aged pensioner said he came to pay his respects to the newly dead as they left this life for the darkness and left him one day more alone
A trail runner had run all the way to the top because it was there, but he had to get back before nightfall lest he stumble or lose his way
A groups of drug affected alts were there to optimise the effect of their high in natural harmony with the earth the sun the solar system and the universe as their synthesised meds could take them
An artist was there to capture the waning beauty of Ra’s life giving fireball on a canvas 2m square
An astronomer and a night watchman came together not for the sunset, but for the starlight to follow. Their interest was in the understanding and security of the afterglow.
A marketing businessman came to follow the money wherever opportunities for advantage might be found, he was always up for a look at a business opportunity wondering how he could leverage the sunset to his financial advantage.
I found a spot of my own right beside the stony summit and looked with the other people sitting there across the broad brown plain below, the towns with their lights blinking on one by one, the smoke rising from eternal hearth fires, stubble fires, waste fires, methane columns and coal pits I saw the permanent haze along the curvature of the earth, the grey brown band of smog climbing into the atmosphere the sooty stain on the sun and I realised there was no magnificent sunset here every evening. It was a man made illusion comprised of the load of filth pumped incessantly into the air
I knew then I had come to view the sunset and witness the tangible manifestation of sinking decline.
So I left that summit for cleaner clearer view summits and my journey took me around the world.
I saw the sunset on other plains hills mountains lakes oceans and ice caps
I met talked and planned with others who with me wanted to rediscover the first pristine sunset and resurrect it forever
At the last summit I attended I met just one man and one woman who had been at that place sitting walking watching and talking about the same sunset together forever
I asked them what they had learned?
They said it will come.
Stops
The lock stops access The clock stops time The drug stops abscess The organ stops rhyme The boot stops turning The period stops lines The water stops burning The cleaner stops grime The valve stops pressure The jar stops brine The ruler stops measure The law stops crime The plug stops water The wave stops sine The truth stops laughter The pump stops prime The grass stops growing The bottle stops wine The gardner stops mowing The devil stops divine The food stops hunger The hunger that is mine This stop goes no longer Than this very last line
Their hands
Their hands when they touch
Flow from rolling of wrists
Each touch is a signal
Each touch is a kiss
Their fingers are folding
On whispers and secrets
Cupped hands are holding
All ahead that will be
Their fingers trace circles
On their palms telling futures
Tender are the touches
Of their hands as their tutors
Their hands rest together
One on top of the other
Their hands mark their measure
Their harmonious hands
Their hands spread out
Open and true
Telling each story
Each soul on view
Hands hold each heart
Supporting each core
Their hands do the learning
Of what more to adore
The extension of hands
The parallel lines
Pads of sensitive fingers
Their dreaming defines
There are fists and shaking
The are dips and rise
There are quivering fingers
Before flickering eyes
When hands arc with arms
To gracious embrace
The lovers say nothing
As hands touch each face
Delicate lines are drawn
Across soft skinned cheeks
Then with touches to lips
Mouths start to seek
Two seeing hands
guide the blind
Sensuous and caressing they massage
to unwind
Four hands synchronise
to breathe in kind
in waves of love
entwined
Peer lust Peer sorrow Regrets I carry into Every Tomorrow
Rum tum tum Rum tum tum I succumbed Rum tum tum When the words were flung Saw the bait Saw the bait Thrown to peers alust with hate Saw the bait Do its work to humiliate Watched his face Watched his face Cloud to the many shades of disgrace Watched his face Laid waste by such bitter taste Witnessed the scorn Witnessed the scorn For one different and elsewhere born Witnessed the scorn As with thorny crown he was adorned Turned my head Turned my head When more weaponised words were said Turned my head Away from watching as his heart bled Felt my shame Felt my shame As passive part of this vicious game Felt my shame My deathly silence my silence to blame I still regret I still regret No one’s eyes to have met I still regret Complicit inaction I can’t forget Where is he now Where is he now Is he high or is he low? Where is he now Does anger in him burn aglow?
Santa asked we poets to explore the issue of peer pressure for this week’s dVerse prompt. I expect there are few people anywhere who can claim complete innocence. Have you got anything to say for yourself?
The myth of silence
The words
I have always heard
about the silence
of the forest
have never
rung true
There is no silence
in the forest
No matter how much
you romanticise
or wish
there to be
The forest is noisy
relative only to
just how hard
you choose to listen
life is to death as tears are to rain
Bright is the light that shines on me
as I dwell finally
in deathbed reverie
the doctor he talks
and talks and he talks
my wife she weeps
and weeps and she weeps
and time it creeps
and creeps and it creeps
what is this light that shines above
lights pallid face of death
to my love
the darkness it resists
and resists and it resists
in brilliance it glows
and glows and it glows
in radius it grows
and grows and it grows
this light that calls me as my light fades
this light that draws me
to the night of shades
with death it walks
and walks and it walks
my feeble hand I raise and wave
I waver and it waves
faces watch uncertain so grave
grave and so grave
I see my hand stir dust in the air
second last thing I will see anywhere
the dust it wafts
and wafts and it wafts
my brow is mopped
and mopped and is mopped
my hand drops
I drop and it drops
as dust I settle back onto deaths bed
into the pillow sinks my head
life’s weight I shed
I shed and I shed
looking down into the room
I am surprised it is lit
by only gloom
the husk has collapsed
collapsed collapsed
hollowed of life
of life and of life
beside my wife
my wife my beloved wife
the dust dispersed draws my spirit in
and back to dust
I go again
the gift I leave is small but complete
I was loved and I loved
I am replete
Today’s dverse prompt is from Laura, to write words of departure based on your choice from a set of quotes. I chose the quote from a favourite and most remarkable movie – “All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.” Roy Batty, Blade Runner.
Dreamland
Ah, my chimeric and fanciful place
A world to inhabit when I displace
Where food is abundant and water is clear
Where choices are free I’ll ne’er shed a tear
Where sharing is normal no money spent
Home is a shelter without mortgage or rent
Ideas are born to be actioned for pleasure
Actions occur for outcomes or leisure
Thinking is respected intellectual pursuit
Everyone loves and all follow suit
Where judging is absent because no one judges
Where grudges are absent because no one grudges
Where religion only follows the Gaia led path
To planetary health such joy makes me laugh
My friends are my friends conflict unknown
We simply marvel at how friendship keeps growing
Said Prospero, “Every third thought shall be of my grave.”
What Prospero said should not be decried
Give death a rightful standing in our lives
As a lens through which to view the good for which we strive
To ponder temporal versus eternal that is always nigh
To elevate appreciation and despondency defy
And so, when vibrant youth immortality implies
When healthy vigour makes the future glisten in our eyes
When happiness is at its peak with all that it supplies
When prosperity creates opportunity many are denied
When security is such that all our fears it belies
Take a moment to remember it is only life that dies
Value life through death as on times fleeting wings it flies
The mind that honours death values life on high
Plum eating
pick I will go collect a bucket of plums see purple plums outside red plums inside bite taut elastic skin snaps and recoils under pressure of sharp incisors burst taste exploding plum tartly sweet firmly juicy with sticky feet feel the texture anticipated chewy soft an eating sensation never lost wet with flavour deep and true dribbles assured all the way to the end of it swallow the energy immediate hit spit pit ah plums
Today we https://dversepoets.com poets are playing with food. Thanks Misky for a prompt that has me re-savouring my favourite fruit.
Juliet and Romeo
Juliet is all slick and wet her long hair in her eyes she has been hit by an idiot drunk driving by bye bye Romeo roams idly by sees the girl on the ground He looks at her quizzically then realises what he has found Juliet breathes in gasps as blood pools under her back She looks up sees Romeo last look last love as limbs go slack Romeo’s not much you know but this time things are different He wipes the hair from glazed eyes and wonders where her life went Juliet rises above the scene She watches Romeo He cradles her head gently in his lap He whimpers out a moan Romeo struck by love’s full fist his only love has gone He whines he weeps at his loss Death into his soul creeps Juliet bears final witness to Romeo’s last testament “Did my heart truly love till now?” he whispers For the first time he knows what love meant “Good night Good night” “Thus with a kiss I too die” He declares to her death pale face Romeo bends his head down tenderly brushes her cold lips with his own he lets her head down lightly beside him as he lies quietly beside her takes her right hand with his left Romeo from his pocket retrieves a knife meant for other men he eases the blade between his ribs it finds his broken heart As blood pools under his back his life is also gone Juliet utters one last cry of grief before she disappears or was that one last cry of relief in hope he reappears for never was there a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo
Ingrid’s prompt for this week’s dVerse poetics was “Homage to the Bard.” I chose to write a poem approximately on the theme of Romeo and Juliet. https://dversepoets.com/2022/04/26/poetics-homage-to-the-bard/
Okra
Two women sit under a thatched roof
supported by rafters
coarse wood brown
smiling and chatting together
Chickens scratch at the edge of their shelter
a bold shiny colourful rooster
a big shiny black hen
Their surroundings are a circular patch
dry dusty earth red
small mud brick dwellings
define a perimeter orange
The late autumn day is lit by a cold sun of
clean blue light
One woman sits above the other higher
she is perched
Her long thin legs hang over a shallow edge
a rug covered platform
She is the older in a thick faded purple
dress a pullover yellow
is topped with a scarf white around her neck
Her head is swaddled in a woollen wrap crimson
it frames a face sun
lit, weathered and aged by decades of labour
Spaces such as this
fields such as she can choose
to see at anytime
will forever be green and brown
She gazes pensively across
open communal space
She ponders her past with pleasure and regret
she speaks of things new
old, deep and trivial
Her arthritic hands clasped in a lap
of gratitude flesh
Her battered Nike sneakers peek out from
the long layers of fabric above grey and yellow
her face is calm
Her future as it will be
The younger sits cross legged
a woven mat under her strung tan
Together cultivating lines of okra
drying under sheltering eaves ragged
shadows of indigo host
hangings vertically in bright green
coloured lengths
unclasped necklaces ornaments
of metres adorn the space with a decorative
interior that creates a sense
coming festivity
The drying shed colours the day, the place
it’s people making
according to the crop
a pride of place for transient
prettiness and implications
security, work well done
Here for generations other
younger women have
sat for hours
days post harvest preparing
sustaining products of manual fieldwork
multi hued
for deep grey winter consumption
Her dress is brighter golds
magentas her hands are as yet
unaffected by the gnarly
growths destined by labour
She repeats centuries old weaving
patterns confidently efficiently unhurried
listening quietly thoughtfully respectfully
Tales of the past wash over her black and white
through her as water of life in delicate pastels
as hope as comfort
She knows here there are will be
still lessons to be gleaned
conversation the reflections of her elder
The younger a willing learner of
a quasi meditative state borne soft pink
by the methodical repetitious
nature of her work it is was as surely known
the best way for learning lessons
by the word of her people
successes and failures
myth legend
retelling that never ceases to inform
warm warn entertain and delight
There is comfort in the learning
a knowing that all the natural obstacles over
which there is little control life
will continue on on on
There is no question about how
time is to be spent
day by day this is dictated
by seasons culture necessity
green yellow brown grey
There is no concept of time ticking away
each day is known-quantity where
choice is limited but colour rich
life is sometimes unpredictable dangerous
set fluid simple
giving and taking with impunity
Time has no measure
life itself opaque
Two women commune as did
two before them
back it goes into the dark
blue of distance
where many women become every one
sitting together, stringing up green okra
another part of every year’s never ending
rainbow
The Tall Brown Woman in Green
They told me about her hair
before I met her.
It was green.
I thought it the best hair
I’d ever seen.
The fall of her locks
topped long flowing frocks
that ran neck to toe
as they swept the ground clean.
In bare feet
so she walked
or sashayed
I should say
her hair bounced away
like gentle waves of the sea.
In long flowing robes
from her head to her toes
luminous bright green
and shimmering a sheen,
she moved as one
supple, undulating dream.
Her hips that were square
rolled sensually there
under rippling fabric I deemed.
Her shoulders carried smoothly.
Her pose held beautifully.
Her skin smooth as polished gold.
Her head held proud,
and defiantly bold.
Her face was of grace
framed in fine green lace
at the edges of the green hood
folded around her neck.
From the dripping sleeves of her gown,
where long hands emerged brown,
slender fingers completed the scene.
Bright brown eyes
looked curiously around,
‘til she stopped,
tall and sure
image of a noble queen.
She had turned toward me.
I, the watcher was seen,
and I found myself bound
to the tall brown woman in green.
The darkness 01
In the darkness there is fear of what we do not know where moonlit silhouettes change frequented pathways through accustomed landscapes to unfamiliar tunnels hooded by shadows obscured by gloom alive with the colourless and hidden In black night confusion and disorientation assert themselves by seeding doubt Insubstantial surroundings draw an inky deception across the known world where that latent but ever present dread of losing our way will always prevail
Today, the dVerse challenge was from Linda to pick one line from a Jim Harrison poem and use it as an epigraph for a poem inspired by that line. I chose, “Yes, in the predawn black the slim slip of the waning moon.”- Remote Friends, Jim Harrison. https://dversepoets.com/2022/01/25/poetics-songs-of-unreason/
Gotta Get Out
Sustenance, sustenance
The needs of my family, the very future
depend on my
Hunter’s skill
Tracking is the game
ignoring the baubles for the meat
persevering when hope is lost
When perseverance is the
only hope to find
As I cross the threshold
between sunshine and artificial light
where my flaming torch
of knowledge and experience
must keep me lit
alert to fallacy and trickery
Nevertheless it dulls
against intensely bright competition
These high ceilinged vaults
as if starlit with halogen and diode
I find it hard to distinguish whether
inflamed or extinguished
my very own light flares
or fades
As does the light of knowledge
or critical elements of judgement
This is a brilliantly ominous
hole in real space
This dead centre of comsupmtion
Of glow worms on mirrored walls of
perverted fairy lights created by evil spirit
I cross a
sinister boundary
into a world of corruption
temptation
and reduction
The world is rendered thus
The cavernous halls of this space
daunt
Its glittering stalactites drip
luminously
sweet waters
impure as added sweeteners can illicit
over gem encrusted
subterranean alcoves and niches
Where false gods are worshipped
Where diamonds turn to glass
Where purchase is neither
with foot nor by hand
But by extraction and brand
Burning into pockets
through means of exchange
where the purpose of this cave
becomes revealed
Although,
still not
to the naive, the gullible and the willing
Yet I stand strong
Resolute by my informed knowing
I conquer foreboding
fear held at bay
by the most fragile resilience
and I buy in
I buy big I buy small
I buy all the things I want at the Mall
Until I can but no longer
As these halls previously mapped
have seen the bounds of my credit card zapped
Gotta get out
before ruin befalls
My Christmas spree buying
One day for it all
Today’s prompt comes from Dora. In the context of the Crazy Christmas season she suggests, ….. “imagine a moment of pausing, a still point of epiphany.” dVerse
Good Things Only #15
Shinrin-yoku or forest bathing. When I first read about forest bathing the cynic in me scoffed, “Jeezus, how many gimmicky ideas can humanity come up with?” As curious as it may appear, I have reevaluated the matter. Why? Well, it was an accident really.
In reading the aforementioned book by Bill Bailey I learnt more. It was the Japanese Government that validated shinrin-yoku in the 1980s. After research confirmed the hypothesis that forest walkers experienced significantly less stress and anxiety than urban walkers, the idea became a public health policy. Hence the very real, legitimate and officially mandated practice of shinrin-yoku, forest bathing or put more simply absorbing the atmosphere of the forest.
I learnt this with a little embarrassment because I have clearly been a shinrin-yoku practitioner for years. Walking and cycling in the bush have long been favourite pastimes, as soothing to the mind and cleansing of the soul as anything I can imagine. I realise now I have practiced forest bathing and even refined the practice. My own specialised sub discipline will now be called forest basking. This is where I find myself paused, stationary, sometimes mid step, sometimes sitting, sometimes lying down looking either up, across or down, grinning, goggling or gasping or all three at once, in awe at nature’s beauty and evolutionary accomplishments.
I am no shirin-yoku guru or forest bathing shaman, but I am an advocate by default because I do my best to promote these wonderful activities publicly and widely. Why? Because if they are good for individual lifestyle and well-being they are good for societal wellbeing. If shinrin-yoku encourages people into positive low impact forest experiences those people become advocates for the forest and habitat gets improved as well. And who doesn’t want such a desirable set of outcomes from the simple act of taking some time out in the forest?
Tableland Talk, November 2021
A bit late to the blog, I almost forgot. Apologies to those few who like to have a look at TT.
The beginning of a life together
We first lived together below Tawonga Gap beneath mountains capped with snow In a Happy Valley cottage by a valley threading creek, the Happy Valley flow Where trout could be watched hunting or basking below the surface And rocks were smoothed and sandy beds were lit by sunny luminance It met the Ovens River at the bottom of our hills Joining other tributary waters of mountain rivers, creeks and rills Where the crystal waters ran clean, clear and bright Where the snow melt chilled the river deep to summer’s great delight We shared an abandoned cottage dusted off for our loving residence After approaching the farmer about its rental and to make his acquaintance That small cottage at the bottom of a gully became our first home With surrounding hills and mountains our romantic place to roam Where the land about us and its occupants were both so ancient and so old And the farmer who was born there had so many stories to be told The days were long our backs were strong as we stepped outside the door And the fruits of our labour on the block fed us more and more We took the offered chook manure from the empty runs out back Enriched the soil, dug the beds, sowed farmer’s seeds, we did not lack The planted seedlings turned to vegetables as if by magic overnight Their abundance when we harvested fed us and friends heartily every night The dairy herd had long since gone and beef were the local stock But one house cow remained for butter and milk beside the dairy block Daily hand squeezed from her teats was milk so creamy and rich It was hard to drink, and harder to say we thought we couldn’t stomach it We had to tell the farmer not to deliver each and every morn But he was good he understood stopped delivering without scorn At days end an historic long tin bath bathed us once water was heated hot Soothing us and cleaning us of grime and sweat gathered on the plot The back step was the place to sit for weaving, sewing and repair The hammock was the place to hang and relax either alone or as a pair To hear the wind, to feel the still, to think and to contemplate To reflect on the newness of life together, the pleasures to appreciate And now forty years on I still think back gratefully to that time With certainty of knowing here were the foundations of a life together This life of yours and mine
Today’s d’verse prompt came from Laura, to write a pome recalling some specific thing or things from the past. https://dversepoets.com/2021/11/09/poetics-in-the-light-of-other-days/
Yakking
Yakking yakking on the phone they’re lacking basic social grace they are in your face if wanted or not their conversation is everywhere like a worm that twists deep inside your ear Yakking yakking shared across public space on public transport in public parkland throughout Halloween with not a thought to public courtesy private calls aired I do not care to share
Today’s dVerse prompt is from Lisa. She asks us to present a Quatorzain poem (a 14 line poem not necessarily a sonnet) in Duodora form as follows: 2 septets for which Line 1 repeats. Syllable counts per line are 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 10, 10. Quite tricky! The subject is to speak to a human attribute that is particularly irritating to you with a Halloween or Samhain theme.
End of discussion
It’s done It’s over The matter is closed The issue resolved Before it arose No more talk about it Because there’s no more to say I’ll bid you good bye I’ll be on my way
What are the simple pleasures?
The simple pleasures are the experiences you appreciate with minimal external inputs.
Good Things Only #13
Oh happy day, coming out of lockdown to gather for the first time with three generations of our newly extended immediate family. Seeing the fatigued but over the moon parents adoring and learning every minute something new about their days old daughter. Witnessing the unbridled happiness of the new Grandma and Aunties as they emotionally engage with our immaculate new cherub.
We all hold her and smile at her and laugh at how fresh and sometimes awkward and beautiful we are with this tiny new presence amongst us as we make funny faces and soft cooing and baby talk noises and hold her out and hold her in looking her up looking her down oohing and aahing with blissful amazement.
And she takes it all on her own terms dozing, occasionally peering into our faces (we like to think), practicing various facial expressions for future reference, gracing us with something we like to call a smile, mouthing for the breast when she is ready and crying if delivery isn’t fast enough.
Seeing our children with a grandchild, their mother and their partners happily together after what feels like an age apart, talking, smiling, laughing, just loving each other all over again. I smile on the outside, smile on the inside, my very pores turn into micro smiles.
Good Things Only #11
Peer Gynt Suite: Prelude to Act IV (Morning mood), Edvard Grieg (1843 -1907). This mesmerising classical music masterpiece captures the romantic aesthetic of a sunrise so completely it interrupts whatever I am doing when I hear it. Immediately the flute begins I experience the beginning of an aural dawning as if present. This calming, tranquil expression of the golden period in a new day is profound.
Good Things Only #10
Nursing a days old baby in my arms as she practices for the perfect sleep to come. Her pastel skin small nose soft lashes and milk mouth filling my eyes with intermittent tears of joy and wonder. Her irregular breathing coming in short rapid shallow bursts followed by deep sighs of contentment as she snuffles and ruffles and stretches back and reaches out and flexes fingers and kicks legs and crinkles her nose and dreams baby dreams with eyelids aflutter while her eyes move this way and that underneath. Her lapping tongue unconsciously works at nipple traction in automatic rehearsal. The little lips open and shut pucker and pout refining the sucking technique in readiness for the next lactation latching that will draw milky nourishment and unqualified love from her besotted mother supported by her smitten father and adored by the rest of us in this small family bubble. Her smooth brow un-furrowed by concern or worry she is the very picture of innocence.
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