Australian Masked Lapwing (Plover)
quick steps, quick steps
masked lapwings two, in concert brisk
like law lords at court, in deep
conversation, natter, natter, natter
what’s the matter?
guilty I say
what say you?
natter, natter, natter,
doubly resplendent, in feathered robes,
the legal garb,
with hands clasped, in arrears
dress pinned, perhaps
busy day, busy day
must be on our quick step way
kak, kak, kak
For Selma in the City :D – we talked about the plover legal fraternity some years ago (finally I got around to writing the poem).
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
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).
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
By night he dreams of three exotic ladies in harem pants, adorned with beads and misty coins, whirling together in a heady dance.
The dance of the three ladies, beginning with the light touch of one that awakens his senses to the fleeting now, shimmy from the top; then the heart and body of the second dancer snaking and shivering with the middle notes, the music punching the air, staccato hips; joined by the final dancer, who lingers over rich, base notes, infused in the atmosphere, undulating torso.
Arms and bodies fuse in a confluence of silk, flesh and hazy smoke, forming a pyramid of inspiration burning in his
Note: the fragrance pyramid consists of top notes, middle notes and base notes to create the perfume, that the perfumer will create
Nuddernote: wake up and smell the perfume ;)
Nuddernuddernote: a repost