Sunday Trees

Please indulge my passion for trees.  After the fridge magnet saga I thought perhaps I should reveal a more, um, er, mature? nature-loving? civilised? side of my character.  

So far, I haven't written a poem to accompany my small forest.  I know one that was embroidered on a sampler created by one of my great-aunts ('Trees' by Joyce Kilmer) but I do not feel it quite captures the heart of the wood for me.  One of the best I have read is by Dave King and can be found here (I'm sure Mr King will not mind you reading it).

My favourite tree line is from the playwright sometimes known as Shakespeare.  Sonnet 73 (or in my collection 42):

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

I have often tried to draw this line but have never satisfied myself.





Freedom in Chains

Freedom in Chains

The free man knows where the keys to all the padlocks are:

He chooses which to open with care;

The free man keeps his eyes on his thoughts knowing where freedom lies;

The free man knows enough is wealth;

The free man accepts the yoke knowing the master is the slave:

It is not walls and bars that make prisoners.

Body-surfing

I want to stand on your chest

and say “mine all mine”

“impossible” you say

“there is life, there are obligations, regulations,

the world”

x

The Large Crumb

 

I wonder where that pair of ants will go with their large crumb? 

Here is another crumb, or possibly the same one:

struggled over by one large ant and one small ant, 

now joined by another small ant: 

they won and are dragging away their prize. 

The large ant shrugs several shoulders and saunters off. 

The ants must be able to smell my banana bread leftovers:

they are doing a diddly dance on the pavers.

xxx

The cat on the doorstep

The cat on the doorstep

Pink Floyd is back,

taken up residence on our mat,

can’t go out, can’t come in,

without a tangle of paws and tails:

of the ones inside trying to get out

and the one outside trying to get in.

I can’t take a picture of Floyd on the mat,

if I am out, he is around my ankles,

calling and purring; 

he comes for walks in the evening and the morning,

my feline escort.

He lives on the mat otherwise.

x

RTA - Mag 63

R-T-A

I

wet road

street lamps turn to paint:

red, green and amber

smeared across tarmac

II

black moon texture at eye level

sucking heat

etching stone, face and heart

III

blue lights flash off

post and tree, glass leaps

from black to white to black dazzle

IV

the siren caws: too late too late

quiet now

the knock at someone’s door

prompt from Magpie Tales 63:  http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

For ANZAC DAY

On the Vietnam War Memorial

the dead in ruins now

war cemeteries   rocks   stones

memories of summer vacations

lying on the grass looking at the sky

now they’re looking at the underside of roots

trees growing through

apples blooming in their chests

            we think we can still talk on the phone

            on TV, send letters or emails

but they are not listening behind the wall

the roots and grass are all they hear

                                           

Abundant Vegemite

Vegemite Replies

that imposter-poet

who sang of missing Marmite

and lost soap-bubble-dreams

and abandoned dresses

forgotten hallways

clutter and treasure and all manner of junk

she is a mis-fit, a mis-take, a mis-belong

homeless, wanderer: heart in a shoebox

but forgive her

she keeps a locker stuffed with

Vegemite

love letters and lipstick stains

lost voices, sepia snaps

and tangled laces:

the perfume of wintering geraniums

dank basement concrete

and worn rubber boots

become her

the shoebox overflows

x

Secret Transports

image from edupics.com

Secret Transports

How do you measure the velocity of love?

The ancients used the flight of Cupid’s arrow

from bow to target in two heartbeats.

Chaucer said the flutter of a wing

 when fowls chose their mates.

Elizabethan seductions passed by hand,

swept up a sleeve, tucked in a bodice, 

and loved danced a madrigal square.

Later Miss Austen took love’s temperature

declaring estates and carriages the measure,

until Brunel powered love by steam engine,

Orville and Wilbur made it fly

and Campbell tried love on land and water.

What is the velocity of love? 

The high speed rail link between hearts?

The hovercraft of desire?

The rocket-ship of lust?

Nothing has changed: the velocity of love is light over you.



image from britainexpress.com



for Poet's United prompt 'Secrets'

The Last Jar

What if this were the last jar of Marmite in the World?

I confess I mourn the passing of Pear’s soap

rich with rosemary and the baths of childhood

But what if this were the last jar of Marmite in the World?

Clothes decades un-seen,

revealed from trunks and boxes are tangible memories,

denied to relentless tidiers

But what if this were the last jar of Marmite in the World?

Madeleines worked for Marcel,

giving taste to his rememberances

But what if this were the last jar of Marmite in the World?

Petit dejeuner avec Henri

We sit over the sunshine harbour, balcony with view, your table set with a scrap of linen, blue plates and green glass In the square below the farmers offering fresh tomatoes and herbs, the cheese stall piled and the bakery overflowing queues and chatter, shopping baskets knocking against knees

Petit dejeuner avec Henri

Baguette and brioche, pain de compagne to soak up the summer on a plate saucisson and champignons, and a pale glass of rose a bowl of cafe  at your elbow Your pipe jetting sparks and the crisp paper releasing its inky essence The shutters half open, the sea against the sky, mimosa and figs and a cat with geraniums

photo courtesy of Tess:
magpie 62  http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

To KM

KM self-portrait  copyright

To KM

paint brush distilling pure emotion

precise colour

onto canvas

bow conjuring harmony

acoustic architecture

into air

we wrestle across languages

to seek out the

ineffable why

x

To the girl with the walking frame seen in the hospital corridor:

I heard the thump as you moved the frame forward 

and then I noticed your askew ankle and your hanging hip

I saw your scarf, long sleeves, all covered:

an abaya would be impossible

I was glad you chose movement over decorum

And then I saw your face

ablaze with effort

and I looked for your eyes

and smiled in greeting

Hi, I said, I’ve seen you upstairs

and you smiled in return,

Hi, I’ve seen you upstairs too

and then I heard the thump as you moved away

x

First ...

the first was a school chum’s brother,

and terrified,

I avoided the corner of our house closest to theirs

and walked on the other side of the street to school

I was eight, maybe  

all the photos of Philip were hazy, out of focus

I noticed that pattern recurring

in year books and albums:

the ones who die early

cannot be photographed

or maybe that is only my

memory

x

découpage

I have a pair of fine scissors –

silver, découpage

I have snipped all round my heart

it lies open like a flower

I will press this for you

between sheets of tissue paper

so its fragrance lingers

you can keep it with your handkerchiefs

I have no further need

I had technical issues yesterday and was unable to post the photo, corrected now.
x

She

never suffered a day in her life

no wars

only unknown grandparents passing on

no violence

took herself away from her friends

no abuse

reclusive, keeps to herself

no drugs

sheltered – does she shelter herself?

no poverty

always the lucky one, things come easily

no failures

well she left him, he was gay

never suffered

doesn’t know she is alive, unmarked face

not raped

no grey hairs, no wrinkles

not raped

her hands are un-worked, callous-free

not raped

not red and raw from too much washing

not raped

not raped

x

The Gecko

Picture the gecko –

transparent skin:  entrails, dinner and faeces on display

stuck to a Velcro wall or ceiling

tongue a blue flame against insect meals

We picture ourselves –

opaque skin: hiding envy, lust and anger

pinned to our wriggling important lives

tongues of venom against the world

Picture the angels –

radiant in starlight

hovering beyond space and time

tonguing orisons of grace

x

Two Islands

Two Islands

we are two islands in a red sea

drifting in circles, in the glow of the sun

drunk on some potion – call it love, or lust

I prefer to see the Universe arranging us to order

swirling in some galactic wine glass

my lipstick on your rim

your fingers on my stem

they said it wouldn’t last

photo courtesy of http://magpietales.blogspot.com/   (Magpie 61)

Flamenco Boy

flashed his shimmering tail

formed a huge arc of green and blue, gold

plunged his turquoise neck

dipping to the dust

a flamenco whirling

castanets snapping at the ladies

hissing and honking

rippling towards them

frothing back

circling

then like a dowager collapsing her tea-fan of ivory

tapping disapproval on the tray

he swept his train of feathers in the dust

“Oh come, my lovelies, aren’t I fine?”

my lovelies 

            … my loves

x

Should I Disrobe?

Should I undress and reveal my nether regions to you –

the basement dungeons where the ghouls play

and the warders march clockwise with whips?  

Should I show you the mirror – oh we all have one –

where the shame and miseries lurk, hoof against back, paw against throat? 

Should I show you where the bodies are buried,

the discards of life,

the refuse of my heart? 

I prefer to keep it light, dressed in stage paint,  

disguising my voice – I have a funny accent to try,

I could speak   s lo w l y or softly,

but you might turn away, discouraged, and bored.

Lights on or off?

Is that the shibboleth of desire? 

Or what books do you read and have you been assimilated by them? 

Do you prefer Kant? 

Do you prefer lieder? 

Silence? 

Know yourself?  Know me.