Poetry

Neo hunter gatherers

/ Robert / 1 Comment
Amazon purchase, pop-up food covers

Whirring, click, clonk, whirring, click, clonk, whirring, click, clonk, swoosh.

Gaggle of package holiday makers jostling, crowding,
Scrutinising each other’s use of tongs:
Selecting from thin white, seeded, wholemeal;
Feeding into the top of the machine;
Replacing tongs; and
Uncertainly, shuffling away.

Not too far!

Whirring, click, clonk, whirring, click, clonk, whirring, click, clonk, swoosh.

Impatiently, standing vigil, avoiding eye contact; enviously observing the takers.

Whirring, click, clonk, whirring, click, clonk, whirring, click, clonk, swoosh.

Queuing participants noting; who’s before, who’s next.

Finally!

Grab butter or Flora?
I should have decided while waiting!
Honey, jam, marmalade, Vegemite, and or peanut butter?

Whirring, click, clonk, whirring, click, clonk, whirring, click, clonk, swoosh.

Those still standing by silently watch the victorious hunter gatherer strut to their table.

Getting back

/ Robert / 2 Comments

Having a subconscious tie tugging me to a phantom, idealised bucolic life led me to believe this was my destiny.

Because of their scale, towns and cities have the appeal of inclusivity and freedom. In reality, more residents are squashed into a smaller area.

The increasing cost of living is so high that a weekly night out on the tiles is beyond the grasp of those with modest means.

Around a decade ago, I looked into buying a block of land in the Sunshine Coast, Queensland hinterland. It was large enough to build our own home. Unfortunately, the distance from a large urban area and requisite workplace remained too far away.

We purchase the ‘swan’ chairs on a whim in 1999 from an over the top furniture shop on the fringe of Double Bay, Sydney. They have gold finished frames, Sensuede seats and Teflon coated French silk backs. Like most things in our life they have patina. Reminding us of happy gatherings of friends and family.

Instead we opted for somewhere within one hour public transport commuting distance of Brisbane. There is an added bonus of a huge nature conservation area literally across the road.

Within our humble dwelling, a long held grandiose idea of a French Empire themed dining room has miraculously manifested in a not too shabby area of the kitchen.

The table extends to seat eight to ten people. Prior to the move it stood on end sans legs for five years on the landing of the townhouse.

While searching, one of the requirements of the new house was space enough to accommodate the dining table.

Darkness

/ Robert / Leave a comment

Soft, drowning, slipping; darkness
Of heavy lidded slumber
Creeping up to steal the light.
Eyes closed, relaxing in to
Drowsy, down plunging, black hole.

Loosing, grip, realness, draining.

Mirtanza warning; ‘may cause,
Drowsiness and may increase
The effects of alcohol.
If affected, do not drive
A motor vehicle or
Operate heavy machinery. ’

Heartfelt bird tributes

/ Robert / 5 Comments

Caribbean flamingoes
Standing, wading, feeding
Oblong, 2020,
Kringle prezzy, cushion.

Pink and grey, tin galah,
Gaze fixedly at all.
Cherished birthday gift from
My love with love to me.

Framed lesser flamingo
Drawn in solitary stance.
Commemorating five
And twenty years as one.

Pink plastic flamingoes
Planted on long steel legs.
Christmas token of love;
Future, past, and present.

If

/ Robert / 8 Comments

The past tense of dig is dug, surely jig and jug follow the same rule. The basis of the English language is far more complex.

The verse below is extreme frippery. Reflections of musings of three letter words ending in ‘ig’ that have a corresponding ‘ug’ ending word.

Big bug in the fug
did not dig the fig
He dug the Mig on
A rig.

Pig the pug plays tig
On a rug and does
Jig in a jug on
A tug

The first draft was constrained by four single syllable words per line, the first letter of the three letter words, alphabetically, dictated the order of the lines, and ug after ig.

A big bug did
Dig and dug not
A fig in the fug
Nor jig in a jug

Mig on a mug
Pig the pug goes
To rig a rug
For tig and tug

Daylight phantom

/ Robert / Leave a comment

There stands an old gum tree, it’s immense;
Next to land, ringed by a solid fence.
Embedded in the trunk very deep,
Black metal cashbox, safely to keep.

Behind a bench, a slight figure forms,
Drawn face, cold grey eyes begin to warm.
‘The grip, scrumpox, burns, warts, sores, or chills?
I’ve tonics, lotions, pills for all ills!’

‘Cure’s on hand for aches, pains, blisters, gout.
Best int’all land,’ voice raises to shout.
‘Tinctures, potions, ointments, aplenty.
Discount to you when buying twenty.’

On emaciated frame hangs down,
A tattered and faded teal plaid gown.
‘Hark my words, come on over’, she sings.
Meanwhile, an unseen bell faintly rings.

A visual echo of eons ago
Of wise woman’s travelling, healing show.
Demise foretold at birth by a seer,
Jealous fakes will spake lies about here.

She’ll die unwed, two score years and ten.
Deed to be done by ignorant men,
Committed to burn without a trial.
People to watch come many a mile.

The solemn gloom filled day came to pass.
Remains interred below the scorched grass.
Mage’s cashbox lay in restless sleep.
‘Til life from death, a tree grew to keep.

Townsfolk give the woman, widest berth.
‘No place for phantoms on this green earth!’
Together, moon, sun shine; Winter sky.
Apparition fades at death knell’s lie.

There stands an old gum tree, it’s immense;
Next to land, ringed by a solid fence.
Embedded in the trunk very deep,
Black metal cashbox, mem’ries to keep.

The above is the second and final draft of last week’s post Black metal cashbox poem.

Black metal cashbox

/ Robert / 3 Comments

There stands an old gum tree, it’s immense;
Next to land ringed by a solid fence.
Embedded in the trunk very deep,
Black metal cashbox, safely to keep.

Behind a bench, a slight figure forms,
Drawn face, cold grey eyes begin to warm.
‘The grip, scrumpox, burns, warts, sores, or chills?
I’ve tonics, lotions, pills for all ills!’

‘Cure’s on hand for aches, pains, blisters, gout.
Best int’all land,’ voice raises to shout.
‘Tinctures, potions, ointments, aplenty.
Discount to you when buying twenty.’

On emaciated frame hangs down,
A tattered and faded teal plaid gown.
‘Hark my words, come on over’, she sings.
Meanwhile, an unseen bell faintly rings.

Townsfolk give the woman, widest berth.
‘No place for phantoms on this green earth’.
Together, Moon, Sun shine; Winter sky.
Apparition fades at death knell’s sound.

There stands an old gum tree, it’s immense;
Next to land ringed by a solid fence.
Embedded in the trunk very deep,
Black metal cashbox, safely to keep.

humanity

/ Robert / 4 Comments

encouragement and kinship; life’s gifts


passing; mortality’s reminder


laughter foretime, subsequent silence


heart-strung connections, now memories


warm reminiscing; cold light of day

Recurring dream

/ Robert / 6 Comments

Spanning decades, fear’s icy ectoplasm shocks my heart. Destination scene’s known as lucid dream materialises, only the route varies.

Deep within a dwelling, an unobtrusive timber shuttered room. A postern door opens to an unremarkable tree crammed yard. Overgrown spiky, entangled stems, ramble. Daylight barely penetrates the gloom. A sodden carpet of mildewed leaves, twigs and decay smother the ground.

Heady damp earth scent permeates my being as unseen hands claw, scrape, shovel, revealing a petrified hatch.

Dark downward sloping subterranean passage snakes forks, twists. Roughly hewn stone echoes footsteps, breath, rustle of clothing. Stepfather’s flaccid luminescent presence lumbers alongside.

Ever further trudging through the sordid depths. Always aware of being followed, no sight nor sound. At last, cavernous space reveals an ovoid mound. Knowing it’s secret, I turn to leave the cadaver, never will she make thirteen.

If I am not guilty of wrongdoing, why the anxiety of being found out?

Reflecting while writing; perhaps this is the resting place of my innocence and suppressed femininity.