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

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

1156

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

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

1155

the night everyone dreamt about Cardinal Pell

26.2.19

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

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

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

swerved

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

dissolve

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