My Town

 

In my town, silence

deepens as the night

slows to late.

From my hill, I observe

streets and houses 

settling down to bed.

An occasional dog.

A passing night bird.

One or two homing cars.

Then it belongs

to me and poetry

alone. Mine.

A second Quadrille about silence (inspired by dVerse) in response to a request from one of the others who answered the prompt, who wrote of his town and wondered what others might say of theirs in 44 words. (I'm not sharing this with the dVerse group as a whole, as we were only asked for one Quadrille to address the prompt, and mine is the poem I posted here just before this one. But it's fine of course if they happen across it.)

Poetry and Duty

 

Conscience tells me 

not to be silent.

When poetry is duty

is it still a poem?

But in these times, 

being human 

gives everyone the duty

the imperative 

to speak against

all the kinds of destruction

by which 

we are taking 

ourselves 

into silence.

A Quadrille written for Shhhhhhh.......Quiet, Please!  at dVerse. 

(Quadrille: 44 words excluding title – which in this instance must include some form of the word 'silent'.)

Coping with the World

 

Listening to the thin squeak 

of my radio turned low

playing non-stop jazz 

all day and night, but not

to disturb the neighbours … 

I fill my dark with

other people’s dreams.

I read, too – stories that all 

end happily, they are all alike. 

Afterwards, I forget them.

Looking Back

 

I see me small, on a vast lawn – a smooth green lawn surrounded by bushes, some of them berry bushes, others flowers. There are two huge weeping willows further down the yard, one on either side of the vegetable garden past the end of the lawn, beyond the wooden trellis summer-house.

I am all alone. The two-storey back of the house looms large and flat. My mother, upstairs, sometimes looks out the distant kitchen window to check on me. Her face is tiny, far away and pale, ghost-like.

Yet I don’t feel lonely. All around me the garden throbs with life. Insects are drawn to the flowers, small birds to the berries. The willow leaves, on their long dangling fronds that sweep the ground, rustle and toss, lightly and gently, in intermittent breeze.

I talk in my mind to clouds, to birds, to insects, to berries … to the rising trunks and curtaining fronds of both the soft green willows. I talk to the listeners under the ground and the watchers behind the sky.

When they reply, it is not as if to a small child. They answer all my questions, calmly. I feel rather than hear their answers. I feel, too, their assurance of my understanding.

My young mother, enclosed in the house, does, I think (I think in hindsight) feel fearfully alone … lonely …

Written for Poets and Storytellers United, Friday Writings #219.

The World Is Burning, But ...

 

The world is burning, but

in a day or two the fires will be out.

They’re being water-bombed right now.

The houses and paddocks 

and the poor, trapped stock

will all be destroyed. But the fire

will be out. Only the blackened earth

will map its dimensions 

for a while. 

Some will leave and some

will stay to rebuild. The same 

as they do when it’s water wrecking

home, livelihood, landscape – when 

the big floods thunder, battering our walls, 

drowning whole towns, obliterating the land.

Turn up the aircon, these days

when Summers get longer, hotter.

They’ll figure out something before …

The world is burning, but

it’s over there in Europe, it’s

over there in the Middle East. Not here.

Turn off the news! Don’t watch!

All that maiming and starving, I know

you can’t bear, and the cities of bombed rubble.

It’s over there, it’s all over there.

It’s all over, there … The world is burning, but

go to sleep; there is nothing you can do. 

Written for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #218.

Bird, in This World

 

Bird, in this world, this

world of today, becomes

a symbol of escape – 

if only we could

take flight, soaring

into high air, away 

from war, starvation,

terrorist attacks and

homelessness …

our green home no longer

safe. If the economy

don’t get you, 

climate

Written for Quadrille #243: Bird is the Word, at dVerse.

(Quadrille: exactly 44 words excluding title, and including a given word, in this instance 'bird'.)

Longing for Dance, 16-20

 

16. 

Young me wanted the Pied Piper

to come one night to our town, 

play sweetest notes on his magic flute

and call us all away – we children

who longed to escape the adult world.

What lands would he lead us to, dancing?

What fairytale surprises had always awaited

down past the end of the lane, out and away

across the fields and into the far forest? 

I knew I would never come dancing back.

17. 

The Seventh Seal 

ends – or begins? 

Death leads a line 

of following figures 

stretching raggedly 

along the hilly horizon:

black silhouettes

against white sky.

They are holding hands.

They appear to be dancing.

18.

When I was a little kid, dancing

was what I did for joy. I didn’t

even need music. I twirled and 

jumped and threw my arms up,

and went round and round and

kicked my legs and spun on my 

tiptoes, and of course there was 

always delicious squealing. Oh,

when I was little, I knew nothing 

at all about dancing, I simply did.

19.

She calls to me, my tiny cat,

insistently, with loud and 

strident voice. I pick her up, 

I rock her in my arms. She purrs. 

Her small paws flex, 

ecstatic. I dance with her

around and around the room.

Oh, I croon, the things we do!

The things we do, the things we do,

the things we do for love.

20.

What happens when the dancing stops?

Ring-a-ring-a-rosy, all fall down?

‘Thank you,’ politely and go separate ways?

Or, shall this be a new romance?

After the ball, do those likely lads

straighten their uniforms and march off to war?

(That has been known to happen. Think Waterloo.)

Or do we wind down quietly in the old church hall

while the musos pack up their tired instruments, 

and then all toddle home to a nice, calm bed?

See also Poems 1-5, Poems 6-10, and Poems 11-15.

The whole sequence is now available as a free ebook. To access it (and others) first go here.