Category Archives: poem

waiting for Persephone

For the dVerse Tuesday poetics prompt “Persephone“: 

 

The birds know she is coming.
They are staking out their territory,
marking the boundaries with song.
The sheep know is she coming.
The tender white lambs crowd
under their mothers’ dull grey fleeces.
The seeds know she is coming.
They are pushing green shoots
through the cold, damp earth.
The kangaroos know she is coming.
Their pouches bulge and stir
with impatiently folded joeys.
The trees know she is coming.
The wattles are dressed in
their best golden gowns,
ready to greet her.

Though the wind is so cold it bites,
it carries with it her sweet kiss.
Tasting of pomegranate seeds.

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night swimmer

I am not a snowflake
nor a goddess
nor something between.
I am…
inordinate,
incommensurate
on that scale.

I am…
a swimmer in the darkness
not drowning (yet)
not waving (ever)
just swimming,
further and further into the darkness,
trailing phosphorescence from my fingertips,
like eddies of starlight,
uncertain
as yet
of whether to turn back for shore
or keep swimming.

Inspired by David and Rob.
And I’m intending incommensurate and inordinate here to be read in the old/mathematical sense of disorganised, not fitting properly into an array.

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August

For the dVerse Monday Haibun prompt, “August“:

August is a time of uncertainty, of transition – of winter greys and browns being suddenly speckled with green and yellow as the daffodils in my garden and the wattles in the bush bloom.
One day I wake to find the birdbath frozen over, and huddle in my coat, woolly beanie pulled low as I rush to do my outdoor chores. The next day the sun warms my back so much I shed layers down to a t-shirt – fooling me into forgetting my woolly beanie the next day so my ears freeze.
One day the air carries the sweet dusty scent of the wattles, the next it is so icy all I can smell is the sharp metallic scent of cold, that reddens the nose and makes it run. And then, suddenly, a hint of spring drifts through again.

A tendril of warmthwattle
curls through the air, carrying
scent of earth and growth.

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like a duck to…

Poor little sad confuséd duck,
born to quack but taught to cluck.
your adoptive mother, a broody hen,
never taught you to swim, and then,
taken roughly from the flock,
the humans stand, and point and mock
as you flap and panic in the drink,
wildly fearing that you will sink
and shuffle off this mortal globe,
my poor little ducky hydrophobe.

 

We decided the ducks, who think they’re chickens, needed a wash.  They were coated in muddy muck from the chicken coop after lots of wet weather – Werribee (pictured) was living up to his name. So we threw them in the dam, much to their horror and outrage.  Then one of the kids fell in too…   It’s been a good day.  😀 

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hoohoo haha, hoohoo haha

This is for the dVerse monotetra challenge. A monotetra is :
“*Comprised of quatrains (four-line stanzas) in tetrameter (four metrical feet) for a total of 8 syllables per line
*Each quatrain consists of mono-rhymed lines (so each line in the first stanza has the same type of rhyme, as does each line in the second stanza, etc.)
*The final line of each stanza repeats the same four syllables.”
My rhymes aren’t perfect, and the rhythm’s not quite right… but this is it anyway:

 

Kookaburra laughs at the dawn,
all our night’s fears, banished by scorn.
Start afresh a new day is born.
Laugh for us all, laugh for us all.

Kookaburra laughs at nightfall,
all our day’s woes, gone, big and small.
Gone away, released by your call.
Laugh for us all, laugh for us all.

 

I was running through my magic pudding To Do list for the day while feeding the animals, after cooking breakfast for the kids, and feeling a bit grumpy and put-upon. Then a kookaburra started laughing. It’s just not possible to feel grumpy while listening to a kookaburra – it’s like the universe laughing at itself and everything in it. Unfortunately my free WP plan won’t allow me to post a sound file, but you can listen to a couple here.   I bet you can’t get more than 30s in without at least smiling. 

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walk of shame

Naughty wombat
been up all night,
look where you’re at
in broad daylight!
You’ve none to blame.
This walk of shame
is all your fault.

 

 

Wombats are nocturnal, so I was surprised to see this one crossing the road at about 0800 recently. I think it must have been visiting at the nearby wombat sanctuary.

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experience is a comb

For the dVerse Tuesday prompt “the proverbial“:

Hot water sluices over me
and the scent of roses rises in the steam
as I wash away
the disappointments of the day.
But always a trace remains,
and the lines on my face are a little deeper,
and my soul a little more tarnished
than it was yesterday.
If I stood here long enough,
if I scrubbed hard enough,
could I clean away the years?
And would it be worth it anyway?
If I could go back,
would I just find myself here again,
trying to wash away the day?

 

Inspired by the Chinese proverb “Experience is a comb which nature gives to men when they are bald.”

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morning commute: stream of consciousness

For the dVerse Monday quadrille prompt “stream“:

Dirt and ‘roos -> gravel -> tarmac, one lane -> two lanes -> white lines -> more lanes, highway barricades.
Trees -> fields -> farms -> villages -> outskirts -> suburbs -> cement-grey city towers.
Farm utes -> dusty wagons -> soccer-mums’ four-wheel drives -> city-cars – shiny bubbles of banality on wheels…
all of us joining the stream

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sea cravings

All night the wind has roared
rolling through the trees
with a sound like waves,
and I wake with a sea-craving.
So I pour a handful of cowries
from the abalone shell where they have nestled,
unregarded,
since the last was added two summers ago.
Rubbing my thumb
across a smooth domed back,
the ridges of its aperture,
I remember the touch of salt water,
its smell and taste,
and try to hold it inside me
as it wells in my eyes.

 

I am grateful that we’ve been so little affected by covid compared to others, even in Australia, but I so miss the sea. 

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five red tulips in a white pot II

Five white hearts
wrapped in brittle brown paper,
stir in the dark,
reach out.

Standing in a flurry of snow,
a scatter of hail,
I am torn between eagerness
to see green shoots,
and trepidation at their daring.

 

Five red tulips in a white pot I

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