sings with changing notes in spring,
chicks are growing fast
The magpie quavers
and trills in the warm spring sun,
the flowing stream
protects her young in spring,
cyclists duck and weave
1st Sept 2014
A Tree to Remember
1st of September,
Spring in Australia
thinks it’s summer.
sapling Norfolk Island Pine
begins the journey
my late mother,
treasure in my eyes.
Rain, wind, salt and heat
pray on hard scaly leaves,
majesty in growth.
Today is the first day of spring (and my late mother’s birthday) here in the sub-tropics of Australia.
Last year I planted a conifer for her, a Norfolk Island Pine – a tree that gets huge if the conditions are right. It has tripled in size – growing well (unlike most of the plants around here – the drought is taking it’s toll).
Happy birthday Mum xxxx
Here is the tree last year (when I planted it).
1st Sept 2013
Mum’s Norfolk Island Pine
The baker wakes so very early
to bake his daily bread,
toasty blankets cast adrift,
he laments the rift from bed.
But once the loaves are rising,
his nose begins to fill
with smells so appetising,
he marvels at his skill.
His brioche is to die for,
jam donuts light and fluffy,
the high top loaf is standing tall,
the sausage rolls are puffy.
His fairy cakes are delicate,
soft mouthfuls are transcendent,
with butter cream of every tint,
the frosting is resplendent.
His pies have all the best of fillings,
juiciest steak and chicken,
the gravy is delectably rich,
he’s a secret way to thicken.
His flaky pastry takes the cake,
the perfect wrap for pie,
the warm light pasties make the grade
and all the mouths will sigh
and sing his praise, gustatory
king of the bakery world,
his pastries always take the prize,
his fervour is unfurled.
This is another of my close shave poems (but when I think about it the shave was too close – more like a fatal shave). This poem is about a friend of mine who died a long time ago now – strange how people always think they will get a second chance at life.
His inebriated reverie
featured a change in fortune,
materialising, in the nick of time,
as he teetered on the edge.
He had visions of narcan for an overdosed lifestyle,
something to snap himself back from the effects
of a depressed, nervous system.
an angelic stranger, providing resuscitation.
Chest compressions sparking a cracked heart,
warm breath of someone else’s life
galvanizing his lungs for another go,
but the light in his eyes was skeletal,
and his timing was out.
His time had run out.
I haven’t received any Close Shave subs (though it’s not too late folks). Never mind – it is a peculiar subject (probably a theme that I relate to more than others). But I can dust off a couple of poems that I have written on the subject.
So below is The Volcanologist (Mr X).
Years ago I read an article about a Volcanologist who became so obsessed with lava flows that he made a boat and tried to float in the river of lava – the ending wasn’t happy.
I tried to track down that story but had no success (so if anyone knows the original story I would love to find the source).
You’ll have to read my poem to find out what happens to my Mr X, another obsessed Volcanologist (they’re everywhere ;) )
puppy sleeps -
the discarded slipper
holds onto the warmth
~ Continue reading
a rooftop view
is the lone duck’s comrade,
clear Autumn skies
a rooftop view
when the autumn skies are clear,
the contented duck
the duck observes
a clear sky in autumn,
there are no regrets