whitesmoke vapours
slither from a silver exhaust
drifting crystals churn
to a distant wind chime tune
secret fireflies dance
in a maelstrom of moonrain
gardens sparkle in champagne
while rent ghosts roam
dazzled by periwinkles
fractured on bisque pots
cutout whisper motes
float in between
mint and lady bugs
a red kerchief
waves from a tired
anchor chain
sunlight paints
weary warehouse walls
cameos of leaves and butterflies
jagged glass
glints in a puddle
edged with green
on silvered wood
he sits dangling
a slender line
iridescent dragonflies
dart apaches above
a senna river
the line dips low
the red kerchief
applauds
another supper caught
For
Filaments stretch invisibly
holding clouds high above the sea
an albatross weaves between
Ferry lights pulse dit-dit dit-dit
earth’s shadow’s reflected
in the gradient sky
On the promenade
strollers pull coats closer
sails catch the wind defiantly
The albatross lands
on a mooring rope
as people go ashore.
Moonlight catches a cobweb
in the orbs of your eyes.
Wistful memories lurk
on intersections.
Someone else’s thoughts
waft between the clouds.
Cats sigh as delicious dark
oozes through screen doors.
The sound of counterfeit rain,
the hose makes streetlight rainbows.
Grass blades tickle toe whorls
as they spring up after each step.
The concrete footpath is cool
and smooth beneath the soles.
A tree rustles, a paw, a nose,
a possum munches guava flowers.
A young woman gets in her car
complaining on her mobile phone.
A moment later, she squeals the tires,
on the wires above, a possum crosses.
The moon has risen high
above the roofs, glinting on the tiles.
Glass Houses by Mobius Faith
It remains with dreams
of luscious greens
in a far off place,
not in this space or time;
open the door,
listen to the squeak
of metal sticking
a slight adjustment
and its old bones
slide – cr cr cr cr creak.
Warm moist air
billows through your body,
the scent of a laundry
slides up nostrils
bringing a pigeon coo
of a memory,
gone before it’s caught…
Slide the door
shut behind you,
keep the warmth
contained within
against the bleak
no man’s land outside.
Spanish moss
eases your creased forehead,
orchids dance like
butterflies,
in a corner
fragrant pods
ooze the scent of vanilla,
snap one off,
sneak it in your pocket;
remember when
you stood upon chair
to reach the kitchen table
scrapping precious
fragrant black paste
with a blunted knife
and then the churning of
the cream, breaking eggs
to collect the suns inside,
and the black paste
made speckles
in golden ice-cream
one endless summer’s day.
Two tears form
in the corners of each eye
and race to drip
off your chin,
you blow your nose and shrug,
you turn to leave,
the door’s creaks
recite an ode
to the vanilla pod
nestled safe
inside a roomy pocket.
A desolate glare outside,
you quint as the cold air
shakes your scalp;
again you blow your nose,
a defiant trumpet call,
you walk past broken bottles,
grey clay sticking to your shoes,
the ridges of the pod
feel warm as your finger tips
recollect tracing grandma’s wrinkles.
unbound horizons
free of human noise
conversations stop
in still air
silence
punctuated by
footsteps
stopping
somewhere in the Pilbara
a lizard lurks
I hear my heartbeat
and the air
touching
my throat
Today the challenge is to explore silence
at New World Creative Union’s
Wednesday Wake-Up Call
A reflection on what it means to be at Millstream Pond in the Millstream Chichester National Part in Yindjibarndi Country in the Pilbara.
You can watch the video poem here
Dragonflies break
the skin of stillness
disrupting inertia.
Tadpoles drop tails,
clamber on rocks
lungs screaming
for the place
where the sky
meets water.
A moving miasma,
mosquitos and midges
flee diaphanous wings.
Green lotus leaves
ride rippled shadows,
frogs whistle to the sun,
a water rat sparkles
feasting on pollywogs
and tales left behind.
Me on Twitpic
