Beryl bounced once in the old days
rebounded for a second, third,
this final time upon the board
outstretching her muscular arms,
lengthening her growing body,
she flew upward and out into
the April air tucking her knees
to her chest tightly embracing
legs frequently tumbling over,
straightening her body at the
final moment the trajectory
curled toward the water in the
local swimming pool. Dr Davies watched
her gracefully enter the hole
she drilled deep in the blue aqua.
As coach, he suggested points to
consider on her climb to the
plank for her fourteenth encore.
The diver and the boy cadet
were fifteen years — separated
by maturing youthful grace.
The grudge match was settled from the church choir loft.
It had brewed for days — who made the better flier?
We required regular writing paper.
John folded his piece in half and length ways.
He took the right and left top corners
and folded them to the centreline
Increasing the angle he folded each side again
Until he had fashioned a dart with acute angles
He was satisfied when he gave a twist to the paper
and two wings shot out at right angles from the centrefold.
I chose to tear the paper on the fold
where the larger portion became a square
With deft origami moves I folded it in two
to make a rectangle half the original size.
Folding that into two smaller squares I flattened
Those and bought the outside corners to the centreline
Until it was the shape of a delta wing. I slipped the
discarded piece and slid it in between the delta folds
to make a tail. We stood, side by side
and threw our planes into the void.
John’s arrow shaped plane flew true — diagonally to the floor.
My ancient design flew up, dived sharply and gracefully
glided above the church pews toward the pulpit
where it came to complete rest. Mission accomplished.
Proof that the shortest space between two points,
pilots know, Is not always a straight line.
A change in the air reminds me of twenty minutes lost,
alert to the waltz a virtuous murmuration of starlings gave.
A fabulous swirling smoke of beating, iridescent wings, and assuring cries.
The ubiquitous birds hopping after insects, rising as one mass from the lawn
that evening became a swoosh, a concert, a dance rising and falling, a twisting
and turning of synchronised swimming on the fluid
broiling air. A smoke curling above the dark tree-line their flight of fancy.
Currently, a vicious parliament rings to a decade of got-you’s.
The debate, a pixilated landscape of noise
swirling through digital platforms, flying upward
toward a vector of warbling publishers
to meet more misdirection and gaslighting.
Media gathers there, for debate curling over
and through sensibility, yet loses nothing
of the awful, fascinating, and ceaseless filibuster
of truth lived by half the population denied a roost,
swooping toward a light shining upon raw truth,
now a boisterous law of prevailing opinion circles Canberra .
A wrecking ball of justice might just smash the Canberra Bubble this term.
See new Tweets
Play for keeps!
A dusty rut marks the circle
where animated boys ring the orbit
for play, to cry,
Egged on by allies, they shoot,
Aggies, Cat’s Eye, Milk glass,
hunkered down, fist on ground,
a Lemonade Taw knocks out the Glassie,
et shot tour de force.
threepence at most,
all Spud needed
to fill his drawstring bag at lunchtime
when rules, ruled.
Billy McMahon’s marble fell,
Marlene’s groom Ian
marched, measured, militarised,
fit to kill
fell on a foreign paddy,
from the action.
The town turned out
marched home, alone
on a fancy gun carriage.
Rulers decreed — Regimental rules applied
A roulette marble drops,
winners play on,
or lose the house.
The game played for a government’s budget has,
or ocean blue chips,
or thousand, each represents
because no one needs a drawstring bag
in a cashless world.
Rules, rule in the house,
“not fit to hold a licence.”
photo. Rattle Poetry Ekphrastic Challenge : Claire Ibarra Photography
Overhead a Rorschach test of brambles
Cast shadows across my pool.
There, fat goldfish beckoned the sky fall
and secret them in the amniotic fluid.
Birds, soaring over the pond,
returned to spear an exhausted fish,
floating belly up, as the in-waiting
swimming thing gasped its last palliative breath.
A fish net soon crisscrossed the pool
and stymied — natural selection.
Testily a bird rebelled. Wildly plucking at the screen
until, flying light, away it flew as
the horizon flagged the sun to rest.
The painter’s brush of lattice web
instructs viewers to remember
Fraser’s words, “Life is not meant to be easy.”
or, being yourself requires tactical grit.
In five hundred languages
Dancing dreamtime song-lines
Millenniums before folk in
Sent men across seven seas
To plunder, rape, and murder
For a King
Claiming fauna, flora, soil
Enslaving all as labour.
Marked its end?
In the lived experience
Of wary warriors
In television studios
Knowing hatred is learnt
In burnt cork antics
Look in the mirror
And see your act
Is not the colour of
And no excuse
Will soothe the wounds
Caused to people
Of ancient grace
Ill from your cold lessons of bigotry
It was in the news months ago. Something about Netflix. I cannot fix it because my words are insufficient but we can.
This sober anniversary
Marks the first reported
Transfer of the mysterious disease,
Coronavirus. This unwelcome case was first reported
Here. Few paid any real attention initially.
“Don’t know about you”, said the Prime Minister.
“I am off to watch my Sharkies play football”
“I think you misunderstand the point of what we’re doing …”
Devoted Australian family man, James Kwan, died in Perth, February 28 2020.
The retired travel agent was a passenger on the ship, Diamond Princess
Quarantine Isolation policies, couldn’t stop Ruby Princess folk spreading the virus nation-wide
Intermittent border closures lead to crazy disruptions to daily lives for everyone
This crazy pattern has continued for 365 days. Of sorts, corralled, we mourn all dead.
My thoughts go to all the first responders (and those who act as the last responders) and to all caught in the Covid 19 pandemic.
To us all: wear a mask, wash your hands, practise social distancing, and help everyone stay safe.
Amanda Gorman purposely lit America’s spirit.
As passed me by
An unknown sight,
With flashing lights,
A debutante queen
Draped in crinoline.
As black-tied men
Pretend to care
From formal wear.
When we all know
A line of print
When words remain crisp,
Or seem confusing
If short twisted tones
Really haughtily give,
“She passed me by”,
The perfect subject
From way back when
As opening lines —
Such nonsense sprang —
“I turned as passed
Me by”, and love
Was yet an alien.
I met with “H” again this week. He asked if I was still blogging. On learning I still type he recited these words he wrote about 15 year old Lynette 70 years ago.
“I turned as passed me by an unknown sight”.
He said he had started an Ode to Lynette and never finished it and asked I could. I have tried. Now friends it is your turn. This is my challenge. Can you finish the lines “H” started back in 1951? It can be your gift to give him another idea of how his lines should end.
“I turned as passed me by an unknown sight”
Print your poem on your page and send me your link in the reply box. It will make “H” young again to see what you can do.
How mellifluously did the fiddle play?
Bought in Horsham a century ago
From W Sack, Watchmaker of Firebrace Street,
Horsham, Importer of fine instruments.
Was R Blake, the buyer, a musical prodigy?
Or was the play to amuse oneself by
the fireside, on chilly winter nights?
The musicians choice, “Sanctus Seraphin”
A violin with a name famous for
All the attributes that soloists are
Continually hankering after.
I know it is cruel to mute all notes
Of such beautiful wooden craftsmanship
Yet musical shortcoming dooms it lie
In a black wooden box on soft green baize
Silent as the maple in a snow field.
This copy of a violin from the famous Italian maker of the sixteenth century has been silent since I bought it. (Our children have taken it out of its case and abused its sound, from time to time.) But mostly I admire the majesty of its unknown history, and the luthier’s skill.