Thursday, February 28, 2019

Rob Schackne #903 - "A young gorilla"

             (after Kerri Shying)

A young gorilla
thumps himself
in the chest
and falls over
the first kite
crashes into a tree

all that wasn't there
all we didn't see
when our turn
finally comes
we'll reap
what we sow
to know what

the insects know

Kerri Shying R - # 598 - Reap


today I’m moving   gently in the damp
garden   nearly noon and still the dew

of night  is on the blades   there is an aim
I am no arrow    drawn back   with a

muscled arm   I am seeking   the settle
the least conspicuous space   to rest

my eyes  let develop  what is  right
in front of me     if ever the time comes

to be fast
it will miss me

Kit Kelen #1156 - a moment in the garden

a moment in the garden

where the bush looks in
big gold rise
and there are little mountains, floods
we uninvent all sorts

everyone here is from a dream
feathered for the overview
fire is a fear but not at this moment
dead things are rotting our way

that’s soil come likewise alive
come cloud, throw down some dotted line
no one sees the turning
each makes the difference

does the now, walks the worn way
home, as of the heart sat up
surely the moon meant bone to be
but nothing told – there are no years

no seconds, hours, the counting
never began in the bush
but truth crept now occasional
and then we’d have to paint it

fond frond and tendril to the touch
hands in this brew of the fallen rose up
over leaf and under rock
we all of us bend to this shape

our making – every other eye upon
my hubris here
it takes a calling form
consider all this given

outside, the muffled voices
dangerous turn, who’s fallen to fences?
it’s everyone’s own guess
nothing rusts but we have left

between the was and what will be
we lodge like light and glow to know 
a question marks the place

the antidote – to stretch, just be
days and nights and lives let
I keep the lemon happy
I flower, run the swamp hens

ages are in and blow me away
the garden is a history
the bush crept timeless to
take a blade or blunt

the inch down dug, turned
all little worlds, so say
these are the works and days
of here and now

if this is the garden
as never before
you won’t catch me
I’m gone

Wednesday, February 27, 2019

Kit Kelen #1155 - the night everyone dreamt about Cardinal Pell

the night everyone dreamt about Cardinal Pell
for godsbother

a lifetime of public service
one bayonet, one baby
you’re done

can you hear them?
under the murmur of prayer
they are dreaming

that hot breath is at my neck
kiddyfiddler’s, interfering, call it reverie
it was a priest – the filthy beast

the celibate hero of legend
here’s the football face of beery scrumboy
he’s bigger than you are

he was my uncle
my brother, my pa
there was a parish of this

for each there is a personal hell
much muttering with God
have I dreamt this? are we so far?

so very rare it was, ‘out of character’
in one of these many mansions must have been
who told? must get a grip

dilute, delete
dilate with love made rote
as God’s my witness

innocents in their cots all dream
orphan life stretched ahead, unknown
alone, he considers the problem of evil

this is the weakness of one
the diocese all knew, the arch-, the curia
the Queen of Heaven wept for this

he was Editor of Light
and seminary rector, Synod Father
symptom of pagan emptiness

dreamt a way from crib to palace renos
beginning with wisdom a fear of the Lord
no knock on the door, but came in

with best defence the church can afford
never tender knew that touch
lonely in his sinner’s cell

watch out for the followers of Baal
the Order of Australia
repent and seek forgiveness then

eat me and drink me
turn this knob, for heaven
for as long as it takes to never have happened

dilute the lesser charges
delete the shaky proofs
dilate with churchlove in your eyes

must have forgot God loves me
galumph with pagan rights
here he comes – his own mini-series

can you hear them?
they are dreaming
under the murmur of prayer

fiddling and show, mustn’t tell
bend over, pray – do his bully bidding, God’s
never tender knew that touch

this one for the lions
and says his catacomb, sweet solemn
mumble if you true believe

be sheep meek, let me nail you up
riding in a car, head in
tolling hours in a name

flex my denial, putaway Pell
Mr Pell, Prisoner Pell
Rockspider custodial Pell

nuns in their habits all agree
and well, well, well – you’re for it now
he took a pass and ran

a vessel for the spirit was
how low Our Lord was brought
just a few fingers up – make a sign

for each there is a personal hell
can you hear them? under their dreaming
a prayer, no touch

in lofty diction
of the people’s prelate
earthy in prescription

a fisherman at sea will dream him
crackly through brine static
shows up like a bad bead in the rosary

now and in the hour
some of these things have gone on forever
must have been done to him as blokeling

bad dreams! a carpenter at wood
coming for to carry me
the nurse’s dream of the dying too

mass is a celebration
consider the pleasures of power
and where do the hypocrites go?

find your own circle
take a partner, go
flex your muscular denial

the little ones dreamt
but they won’t remember
glory shone around

this one’s Christmas lovely
that altar wine – a real robe opener
he’s coming for you, pious prince

dream lonely in his cell, faith brazen
retired the old feller too early
and once was someone’s little darling

cradled to the song
will the See strip him?
how lovely defrocked

some kind of a slip
twixt cup and the lip
consider the pleasures of power

how Jesus-humble
he was driving the church
with a crop in his hand

those sinners were stripped
to their scant underthings
no one gets into this heart

it’s sacred
the adoration of the clergy
a brazen faith, as dreamt

eat me and drink me
grow an inch
the news kept pouring out last night

as if the way were long prepared
in prophecy, seven of something
and no, father, no!  

nice cup of tea, Your Grace
we’re honoured, in the good room too
is this your eminence, I see?

come to me in a vision
murmur a formula of words
saintly as our stars

and each his own day comes
climbed to the top of the mountain
lonely last man, not-quite-pope

but counting the indulgences
here’s this last one more, so rare to slip
must have gone bats in the vestry

forgive me o Lord for thinking him so
it’s like a little camping trip
or see you at the pool, you flesh

there was no brake
the ball slipped
all my teeth were gone

it’s minor offending in the great scheme
witness this compelling confession
it’s under seven seals

I catch myself falling, God won’t
how dark the wings, how black the beast
and here comes Tony Abbott – cameo

demons running all round inside
there were seven sociopaths
broke the virgin seals  

how otherwise here?
first hard every morning
dreaming the business at hand

and here’s a picture of Pell’s penis
thrills the waiting crowds
(you have to imagine the rest)

then he was in the bed beside me
it was always forever all about sex
normal, very God-given, natural

no, never knew that love
then what’s the verdict?
right dressing? cut, uncut?

the good news kept pouring out
pooled, filled the Vatican with treasure
it was an Ark afloat

and one dove told us on
come here boy, bend over, Pell
putaway Pell, Pell put it away

there were some dreamt of him every night
so small and flawed
and nowhere to fall

murmur a prayer
and put him away
we only dream our ghosts and saints

weep not, consider the pleasures of power
too terrible to tell – so stum
everyone knows it’s out

in God’s good time
truth sets you free
apotheosis now (or roundabout)

strenuous and vigorous
all these voices I deny
kiss my ring – it’s curry

Tuesday, February 26, 2019

Clark Gormley #97 French Lover

I met a French woman once.
I’m looking for an Anglais lover,
so I can ameliorer my Anglais.
I’m living in London.
But you’re Australie.
I speak English though.
Not tres bien.

Kit Kelen #1154 - opus

for ataraxia

was there ever even
cutting, seed, stock of root
some foreign spore
an unknown word
mere sound or other image

was there?

hammered out the thing
and hung it for a breeze too

great taming and trim
and major with the saws

myself I was a whistled tune

had to be blank to it and dig
an arrow meant one way or both

I was the hermit of kingdom – listing
those daughters dancing up a mountain

trained it on these wires and lines
mad wheelbarrow dash, whose rescue?

with all this armoury
despite because
and best intent

most of a moon still riding on this
in the roundness of a night, the day

noticed the light come through  
I brought soil from the pile

still the metaphor extended

someone must have sung me so

for nurture
whisper it

there I was
weeding the poem
mulching the poem
turning it into compost again

month of Sundays there
blue moon too once in

tried to stare the thing away
it was a bird who spoke
certain words commanding

there were tractor times
and diabolical machinery

in the edges
all turns of earth were mine

where they drink
and in a pond, reflections
deep down as your sky will go

by whim won
my back into it
so shone

the creek was full of rhymes

all thanks I am
and no one for

in my own vanishing
a garden

still the words get away