Time is Ticking

‘Time is Relative’ clock made by Tessa Bryden

clock is ticking,

blue notes of winter play

a sombre song

 

‘Blue Note’ clock made by Michael Bryden

 

Note: Tessa and Michael made these clocks at school in Design Technology (he made his 2 years ago, and she made hers this year)

Orca

Intelligent air breather immersed in the sea

‘My head is full of killer whales
and they are trying to get out!’ he said
face bloated
eyes popping under pressure of orcas
the mettle of deep spirit forces.

The incarnations of orca are many.

Spyhopping in cold ocean water
with warm blood and majesty
brutality cloaked by ethereal beauty,
tear-like haze covering black eyes that grapple my soul.

Showing off – porpoising in dark waters
breaching to good effect
displaying a strong, white chest like a silverback gorilla
black glossy back disappears into the depths
reappearing to display again.
I am mesmerised but not afraid.

Don’t get too close!
the force might suck you in
momentum
mass of savage flesh creating dire chasms in the water
juxtaposition of fascination and fear.

Then, hunting in pods like packs of wolves
speed, ferocity, synchronicity
wolves of the sea
following the bleating of lambs
a blanket of fear smothers my warm breath.

Conscious mind immersed in dream.

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‘Orca’ was published in the Third Eye journal (Vol 1, Ed 2, Dec 2009)

* photo by Gabrielle Bryden

the show must go on,

Now I know how Dorothy felt when the tornado picked her up in Kansas and whoooossshed her to the fantastical land of Oz to be with a bunch of witches, the scarecrow, tin man and cowardly lion. Now I know how a cork from a bottle of rum feels when thrown overboard by a pirate (concentrating on the melody of what shall we do with a drunken sailor while scratching his itchyaaarse and dancing with a mermaid of his fantasy), tossed up, down and sideways on the black, tumultuous seas, longing to be safely back in the dry ship cabin. I must be hallucinating, I’m sea-ing a pink snail floating on fairy floss or is it slithering along a shimmering martini, too many incantantations to digest,
never mind that, I can see the washing machine waters beginning to settle, a little, and the sky tonight is red so another day will bring a sailor’s delight of calming seas, for sure
peppermint tea anyone …

he would have it no other way
the show must go on,

gold (haiku)

no pot of gold,
but there are treasures
at rainbow’s end

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Doing the jitterbug (haiku)

Australian Masked Lapwing (Plover)

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,
parading grandeur,
doubly resplendent, in feathered robes,
the legal garb,
with hands clasped, in arrears
handcuffed,
dress pinned, perhaps
busy day, busy day
must be on our quick step way
kak, kak
kak, kak, kak

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For Selma in the City 😀 – we talked about the plover legal fraternity some years ago (finally I got around to writing the poem).

The Magpie (3 Haiku)

Warbling magpie
sings with changing notes in spring,
chicks are growing fast
~
The magpie quavers
and trills in the warm spring sun,
the flowing stream
~
Swooping magpie
protects her young in spring,
cyclists duck and weave

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Happy birthday Mum

1st Sept 2014

A Tree to Remember

1st of September,
Spring in Australia
thinks it’s summer.

Birthday tree,
sapling Norfolk Island Pine
begins the journey

to remember
my late mother,
treasure in my eyes.

Rain, wind, salt and heat
pray on hard scaly leaves,
majesty in growth.

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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

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The Baker

The Baker

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.

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Timing

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.

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Timing

His inebriated reverie
featured a change in fortune,
a magical
pivot
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 apparition,
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.

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