Town’s End?

Riverboat gambler coated,

Thin collar fashionably raised,

The familiar windmill

Spins on blue suede pegs.

I wonder, now, why I never saw

The harsh self-doubt, the

Harshest of self mockery,

The dumb recognition of happenstance

In those flamenco matador poses.

Copper lady, right hand filled

With righteous liberty

As the terrible truth, vulnerability and blame

Crash down again; over

Iconic, decibel-lit harbourscape.

The way it actually is and the other way,

Held in memory, of how it was before.

So much to be proud of.

The air stands still,

The big voice calls on and on.

You? You think too much, preoccupied:

“Who will I be seeing this evening?”

I’m more intrigued by

Who I’m going to be.

 

28/6/2013

 

 

Shall We?

Totally lacking confusion,

Simply and without fear,

A little rocky maybe,

But with good heart

With cheer;

Something almost recognised,

Slow diamond sunrise

On the edge of the new

In the territories of the heroes.

High-lord bright skies

Valuable echo’s reprise.

“Well, shall we do it …

Just one more time?”

“Of course, we must;

But as usual,

Not without change;

Not without a flourish.”

Mistaken

From a distance

She was a

dancing girl

I met on a

Bus to Venice.

Finding much in common

And shelter in laughter

On the short journey

We were piazza

Supper partners that evening,

Witnessed the new

San Marco moon

Hand in hand…

Were gentle lovers

By sunrise.

Such memories disturbed

By mistaken identity

And longing.

25/6/2013

Because You Kept It

Feels like the frustrated fury of
Fifty thousand hearts
Fizzing, crackling and buzzing
Like acid hornets in the
Haunted, sulphur-walled  canyons
Of my ringing mind.
I am here, by
Longest days flame.
You are not, and
Echoes of all that street thunder
Going round in circles.
Your absence stings.
You were wise enough to know
It was time to finish
Long before I ever did;
But you said nothing,
Gave no sign,
And, while I hate you
For your silence
I also love you all the more
Because you kept it.

 

21/6/2013

Time, Whisky and Friends

As if overstaying

My fragile welcome

Were not enough

I had to fall

Off the wagon again;

Fall so hard I missed my

Leaving-thunder train

By a pocketful of hours.

Now I’m buying

Time, whisky and friends

In a lock-in bar, while,

Outside, in the sodium lit fog

Two hog-jockeys and

A crooked lawman

Take it out of the

Latest version of my god.

Ghost of the Big man

Blows tears through his

Angel horn, like he always did:

Truth is a pale, poor story.

21/6/2013

One- Phrase Raven

When the name, emerging from

Gothic candle shadows,

Became familiar,

It all started to

Shuffle into place:

A time, a plot, a face.

The garrulous

Be afraid parrot

Becoming the One-phrase raven.

No surprises there.

So … why am I

Going back to that well?

 

20/6/2013

In The Moment

Big red-sun pulley has

Been lowered behind

The stiff horizon;

Last-echo wonder-filled

Songbird-flute phrase

Is held, suspended,

In the still-star air.

Somewhere a cash-johnny train

Rolls away to some distant

Coyote-wail otherworldville.

I am in the  lizzy-thin,

Emerald and cowboy moment:

Listening to companionable

Words from orange, high-flame fire;

The mother-calm breathing of the earth:

In, hold and out.

 

19/6/2013

  • Coyote (raveng7.wordpress.com)
  • Inertia (sevinius.wordpress.com)

Haven’t You Heard?

DSC01329

Ostentatious rhododendron:
Cold June’s barometer;
Showy, self important diva,
Two dawns past glamorous heyday.
Bought down by heavy rain,
She seeks attention by flinging
Gaudy nail-varnish blossoms
To the floor like an
Overlooked strip-queen.
They won’t allow you, tomorrow,
To be what you enjoyed being yesterday.
Haven’t you heard: anonymous suits
And grey noddies are creating
The evidence to prevent it.

18/6/2013

Gondwana’s Opals

“The richest, the rarest of jewels

Were formed in the

Earliest of long-gone seas,

The most chaotic of places …”

The old miner-ghost whispers –

Echo from the desperate-hope past –

Tears so clear in the corners

Of his passion-determined voice.

“My pick was always sharp,

My bucket always empty, but

There are Gondwana‘s opals here,

I just need time to find them.

I would have you believe in me

Until I do.”

opal

17/6/2013

Photo: www.walgett.org.au

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Salt Foot

I am Salt Foot,

Sometimes Kelp Witch,

Known as Bone Picker:

Always the one with

The feather hood.

Rolling gently loch surface

Stroked by the pulses and

Quills of an older time

Presses in against the

Silver-shadow banks

Of a low-sun tide.

Across orca acres

And salt-otter wrack,

Past the wrecks of dreams

Between rock armour links –

As the poured-down

Light changes the

Observed and the observer,

And digs holes in the sky

I am Salt Foot,

Coming home again.

29/5/2013