Friday, May 31, 2019

Kit Kelen #1246 - flow


the random and the written 
afloat and under, pressing 
the up with often pointed 
a perpendicular horizon 
print shown through
ink over drop blot falling now 
rain smudge in leaf to leaf pressed
crowd of characters as figured 
act and know themselves 
as if for a need 
systems in each other’s care 
the tightwire and the cloud caught falling 
standing the lip service 
the knowing and the not 
darkening hunch 
and let’s say prejudice 
over ongoing 
last drinks 
last meal 
hard scribing 
tomb so stone 
bright of beginning 

the one life and another 

my time cannot be wasted 
I inhabit the one mind 

a casual performance 
such as was life 

merrily merrily merrily merrily

this much as uncertain 
the nothing we can hide 

Frances Carleton #4 - Virtually

at the lights, she
light jeans uggs squished
soggier than known
head tilted, focused
object in her right
left scratching deeply

waiting for her
      beeping traffic
      bus turning
      rolled eyes
      swooping bird
      slowed walkers
      passing cloud
      the falling rain

she is swallowed
by a virtual world


Rob Schackne #956 - To Bees and Bee-Talkers

To Bees and Bee-Talkers

So let be to bees and bee-talkers
their special portion of the sun
their full amount of rain
while we murmur secrets
both good and not-so-good
so let be too the joys we find
our souls and honey at the end

                        (thanks to Kate L. McNamara for the first line)

Thursday, May 30, 2019

Frances Carleton #3 - A/Part

After years
exclusion, side lined

I've been invited
to be a part
a member
of something bigger
than myself

to be included
after years
it’s was just me
now I say

Kit Kelen #1245 - losing tracks in the mountains

losing tracks in the mountains

and finding a bear
a mistranslation

to wave through the window
the trembling words

tricks of the tongue
of the fur

rest on a rock
unhoney the log

or under a ledge
from rain

a world of glass
the weather comes

and when the voices are unseen
safer to take mist for smoke

go back over this ground
all up with the worlding

still finding
my feet

if I had another life
here’s where I would go

a bear is blur
clouds are stone

to be carried

colour of snow
I am melting

all are less than
just one night

I scent to stain
where the mountain is me

branches are over
am I now near to the midst?

years behind finding oneself
where everyone was singing once

taunt until all one breath

and finding oneself a bear

call sunshine a little dance

come out of the clock
at the top of the hour

you can call it a waltz

Tug Dumbly - Two Lifts

Two Lifts

I drew you like a breath
I tried to keep the sketch
it wasn’t mine to keep
you crumpled it

and threw it on a heap.
You grew, I shrank.
We met midway for a while
two elevators  

momentarily aligned.
Then bye bye
you go your way
I go mine.

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

Kit Kelen #1244 - here I am

here I am

thick in the facts
just where you’d expect

the someone singing
has to have been

and in my little pages
often taken as read

was to the one-ness once
but all that fell apart

they’ve caught me
asleep in the dream
where else?

and gave a little leap
one does

later saw the light of day
a nakedness each way

hours days piled
I was somewhere else as well

then washed up
made a stain of seeing
lit once more to the breach

it was all I could do
I was on the scene
and here I am
right now

you and me
not so different
see neither beginning or end
nor would one wish to look …
modesty yet

fired the arrow
caught it too

and ready or not
I’m coming

here I am
and just in time 

Rob Schackne #955 - "Four days"

Four days
I resist
mood swing
and write
a poem
about the sun

Frances Carleton #2 - Trigger Warning

Shepard stands before his flock
A reaction 
‘Trigger Warning!’

The grief, abuse, misogyny
tales of crimson flow 
lands uneasy
testing topic aired
in a climate ready to discuss
Open to discomfort
ripe for digestion

sheep continue to dine
no longer lifting heads
when the shepherd cries
Homily wasted

The words will be uttered
One day
meaningful to no one. 

Tuesday, May 28, 2019

Kit Kelen #1243 - finding myself in this skin

finding myself in this skin

very particular thing others have

hippopotamus thick
thinning to itch

really ourselves
wonderful naked
the thing fleshed out

spring and the leaf comes
hear dusk fall
make a note of this

translucent fog I hold

ink runs out
work not to care

fold a self in so
rain too high for us here
is all that the forest can catch

someone in the top nest
gets a wash for free

and some days tumble into the words
tuck up to call quilts

ducks all picture for the rain
gather and what to expect?

it’s wind as well
stirring these woods
and did I mention green?

far footfall
behind me

puddle in the page
I’ll make mud

you see because the sky’s like this

comes and goes and comes again
and the earth is a skin as well

layer and layer
like the weather piled on
definite article
until you swim
in these last of clothes

everything growing
is rising to meet

out of our skins
everyone jumps

will I find you
in yours?

Jeffree Michael #74 These words

I write these lines 
to speak to you 
as I do 
no other way

connections across time
live streams content and memories
maybe joyful insightful beautiful useful
no matter why 

these words calibrated
insist on their own attention
a simple servant and complicit
stagehand I play my role

without really knowing where
all this will lead
one day tomorrow now somehow 
art's attended

don't judge my other hand
who feels compelled
to write
another story

celebrate ways 
days doings leavings 
mine the oddles 
of meaning

waiting's not a question
no answers stick
echos repeat endlessly
differing voices

nor so-called perfection
so hallelujah too
won't save the next

these words
tumble out
after going round
somewhere else

rested together here
just for a moment
to consider where
to go 


image: reading poetry at Tuggeranong Bus exchange May 2019

Frances Carleton #1 - Intent

Snake move from a to b in search of  food shelter sex no spiteful intent 

Human  moves from a to b to z in search of all it believes it deserves destroys anything in the way 

Tug Dumbly - Dry as a Pom's Towel

Dry as a Pom's Towel    

He wanted to go
but my job to keep him on,
to drive the husk of his body
from his house, to beach and park bench            
to feed the birds, to see the sea,
scenes he could no longer frame with any joy
from the four corners of his walker.

He just wanted home
and the Bermuda Triangle of his ageing –
bed, breakfast table, lounge
and back to oblivion of sheets.
He just wanted to sleep, and sleep.

I’d coax him to the crossword
over his rhubarb and yogurt.
He’d sometimes play along.
Funeral speech. Six letters: Eulogy.
But to force him to any activity,
the rudest scaffolding of life –  
shower, dress, toilet, food – 
seemed a Sisyphean cruelty.  
I’d wheedle, bribe, bully and plea
to oyster him from his ‘settee’,
blast the Toreador Song, from his
beloved Carmen, to get him up
and keep my contract with his family.   

No dignity in ageing.
What did he care?
It was the sheer effort he bucked,
the exhaustion of just contemplating
this gnattish stuff.
I counted it a victory to clean him up,
to change the sodden kilo of his pads
or shave his crenelated face.
To dab and scrape at each sallow gulch
of stubble, to rinse the razor
of his white neck tufts,
was the gloved agony
of saving a ruined painting.  

Stark ears jugged to parchment skull
he was Dobell’s Joshua Smith,
only shrunker, more caricatured.   
His skin wept and bruised like turning fruit,
his teeth a shipwreck you tried to escape.  
Then the weekly battle of the shower
and his howl at the scald of tepid water.
Though once seated he’d give a pleasured moan
as I soaped the dunes of his backbone.   

After this, I’d say, we’ll go for a drive.
But why? he’d say. Why?
I don’t want to go anywhere.
Go to see what – more cars, trees, streets?
Oh goody! …

As I drove him to sarcasm I privately agreed.  
He was so fucken polite it hurt my heart
with questions of where a shoulder ends
and a neck starts, or a mountain,
and when is the climb not worth the while,
and why? And once again why?

I loved him, and he might have loved me,
his companionable torturer.
Hard to fit the remnant I knew  
with the man I met at his White Lady funeral.
The program pictured a stranger’s face
fleshed in vigour, buoyed on food and drink
in Ibiza, or some other brightly bronzed place.
They extolled the orthopaedic genius,
the philanthropist, the carpenter,
the farmer, husband and father. 

His daughter thanked me. I felt a fool
for how I’d treated like a child
this surgeon and sentient being,  
with all his precision, feeling and history     
packed liked dominos inside.
I lined up, put a rose on his box
and apologised. Then filed out
to the tearjerker Time to Say Goodbye.
He got his wish and now he’s gone home  
to his farm in Wales,
to his friends, to his wife,
to his whole other life. 

Monday, May 27, 2019

Kit Kelen #1242 - birdily


all up with
shaky from the air

think firstness
flurry flutter

a sleepless song in halflight
nothing alarming in that
and dream

first bird
invents itself
from same old singing

makes light of it

tip a wing towards

in a yellow patch
now hours
volume up

sunstruck, so amazed
then thread a way through  
now seen

lice hidden in a song
we say

all this practice
selfless selfish

not without urgency
every moment deciding
so calling to question

to light on
little dinosaur
so wordily wordless
dizzy with to watch

in birdiness
all up

later we will envisage laughter
for another crowd

and knowing without thinking
how we mainly get about

this same long lovely day
where everything is first imagined
has to be, how else?

this now the bird
out of the box

then like a cat
mouth full of feathers
garden all mine

I bring you
the bird