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Sometimes

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Sometimes,
we turn away from work,
inhale others’ gardens,
look out at iridescent birds,
shapes cast by the sun

Sometimes, we ignore our chores,
cycle the distant suburbs,
look at how another tenth live,
eat exotic foods on the streets

Sometimes, we forgo the car,
ride the ferries and trains,
look for treasures in labyrinthine shops,
play tourist for a day

Sometimes, we shun the inner life,
chase the little white ball,
look right, look left  (up at that thieving crow),
rarely straight down the middle

Sometimes, we blow the budget,
wine and dine on the Quay,
watch the passing parade,
the city at play

Sometimes, we forget ourselves,
lie outside in the dark,
look up, and beyond
to the edge of the universe

and close our eyes
in peace

Throwing the Switch

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was it the 500,000th
cigarette
that threw the switch,
sent
your light flickering?

i see you bathed in darkness,
no light, no air,
just the rasping
of short-circuitry

Was the timer on before
you were born?
i don’t know…

Maybe the 500,001st
was the nth
of vice,
lights-out for a pulse

If Leibniz were alive, i would
ask him,
but we wouldn’t
share a smoke

Dad IV

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I glimpse

your ghost

in

the sure hands

of a carpenter,

the polished grain

of Oregon pine,

the automatic way I

switch off the light when leaving a room,

the geometric folding of

a newspaper

on the train,

UPPER-CASE EMAILS,

those who talk to

dogs

as if they were human,

to humans

as if they were

joy itself,

the cheerful scatting

of a man in his shed,

brother’s

exasperation when someone goes right

to turn left,

sliced tomato on toast,

and – every morning –

in the shapes

of my

toes

—

BBC – Horizon – The Ghost in Your Genes

Dreams of a Love Gourmand

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He ate Suzi’s paella

and dreamed of Ipanema,

of romance in Marbella

and Rio de Janeiro

–

He ate Fleur’s rindless blue

his dreams were psychedelia

he dreamt he was Theroux,

da Vinci and Ophelia

–

He drank Ping’s green absinthe

and dreamt he was a fairy

with eyes as green as minthe

his wand, a blue canary

–

He ate Fang’s chou dofu

her durian, then balut,

and napped as King Shi Chu

at war with King Canute

–

He ate Ann’s cherry duck

nightmared of Gordon Ramsay

who served confit of muck

with jus of some philandery

–

Then came Maeve’s Irish Stew,

no dreams his sleep disturbed

and as he woke he knew

his food of love’d been served

If a tree falls in the woods…

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I broke my only rule for this blog, which was to never post anything other than poetry here,
and let’s just say (euphemistically so) that it didn’t quite work out.

But, as someone once said –

“One must suffer for one’s art.”
(Or was that, “One must suffer one’s art”?  🙂 )

Poetry does not require an audience but a competition requires a winner  (usually) and, as yet, and maybe forever, this one has none. However, in the interests of fairness and squareness, not to mention officialdom, it must be properly concluded with a closing date,
winner or no.

So, the closing date for the Easter egg hunt (sort of) competition

is midnight 8th May, 2011 (Sydney, Australia time)

Best wishes

bb

and, now, back to what I came here for…

“One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it unless it has all been suffering, nothing but suffering.”

Jane Austen, Persuasion

No Jacket Required

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Cannot

draw, paint, sculpt,
create symphonies, move to
mirth or action,
enthrall,
sing with the voice of angels
(or the sublime Ms Fitzgerald),
cure with digitalis,
build to withstand
the aftershocks of a billion
humans,
yet,

can,

in an instant,

locate true north
of a moral compass,
see the colour of a

beating heart

A History of Fear

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it’s

the dark, those monsters

under the bed, first day

at school – bruce m trying to kiss

you in the sandpit

and hell-to-pay for jumping in every puddle on your way home,

men in hearses and dark

glasses – stranger-danger,

not running solo, nor flying, but

an umbrella on the wind – cruel and unusual,

old man on the street corner –

feathered hat, immaculately

polished shoes, threadbare clothes,

a broken headlamp in the rear-view

and unspeakable things,

and then, you know, the death of a parent,

DNA gone awry,

that your actions caused this –

suffering,

not of your own shadow but

rage, betrayals,

the sound

of your own screaming,

depravity of infant

body-bombs,

spectres – Margaret Hassan, the Falling

Man,

Afghani children smashed

into dirt playgrounds,

the death of dreams, sadness

of others,

hearts beating through walls,

and then,

somehow, nothing

much

at

all

…

least of all

death

The Writing on the Wall

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So, you went to a place you don’t belong,

knew, of course, that it was wrong,

spied troubled waters,  jumped right in

with fatuous thoughts that you could win

Wild force unseen, current strong,

roared out to sea, swept you along,

dragged and drowned you in your whim,

Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin

Arachnida Activitas

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I feel the bounce before the break

I’m entwined…

so strong –

is he trying to trap me in his crucifixed

silence

as I go to water the Tibouchina?

On the back porch, an unknown abseiler

at the penumbra

of sunlight reveries –

Miss Muffet redux,

So, I clean

and re-arrange

the garden furniture, that canvas

of redback cubism

I don’t care much for

City Style

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Midday,

it’s lunching,

suited in boardroom sociopathy

By 3pm, its black sartorial

boredom hangs

in downtown coffee bars

The city, at 6, loosens silk ties, casts lustful

stares across crowded pubs

Its throaty, pashmina’d laughs drift

over footlights at 8,

Around 10, it’s sporting fusion-cuisined

energy and scent of MSG

Overtimed road-crew neon reflects

stumbling stillettoes,

come midnight

And at 2am, it’s pyjama-shuffling

its drug-coma’d streets,

mad-haired, in the darkness

But you’ll find it

just before sunup,

reposed against periwinkle sky,

at its naked

best

 

 

 

Angel of The Gap

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He looks out at the sparkling sea

and drinks his morning cup of tea

But there’s a shadow to his left,

the darkness of a soul distressed

He knows now he must move with haste

to stop a life from going to waste

“This time, this one, perhaps,” he thinks,

“maybe, I ‘ll pull back from the brink”

The Angel of  The Gap, at dawn,

heads out once more across his lawn

to offer balm, a light to see

a way out from their misery,

to coax them not to end it all

and save them from that fatal fall.

 

Lost and Found

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Deep within caliginous soul,

I lost it, broken-hearted,

 

braced against the winter’s chill

of life’s great joys departed

 

And long remained it out of sight,

I could almost it forget,

 

but for dreamscapes late at night,

its engrams in my head

 

But journeys lit that which I lost,

dispersed its shrouding mists

 

If I were to believe in ghosts,

I’d see your hand in this