Sunday, 22 July 2007

my grande neighbours

Who would wish to sleep like this.
It rattles, feigns a rooftop
and stinks like despots grave
whose gilded mansions,
for the moment,
hide the drizzle.
Still all the same
we sleep it off
still all the same
we die.

Monday, 16 July 2007

protea poet

an old man stands by a grave
reading poetry to his dead sister
the ice on the ground doesn't bother him
nor my glances ....

I stretch my eyes to read his lips .......

tree ferns ripple at the steeple
green ghosts whistle by the cross
marble stone scratches
and protea leaves
lost in a personal loss.
and seedlings remind me
of springtime in roma
and roma reminds me of you.
so I'll plant for tomorrow
in basalt black ridges
elvira my sister for you.

the old man lifts his head
from the leather bound book.
a whip bird breaks the silence.
the old green wooden church
sheds a tear it seeems ....
and I leave.

Friday, 6 July 2007

A kings cross morning

It's busier than usual
and the sunshine looks cold.
Lots of men about with short hair
and short haired dogs with coats.
Some with fluffy hoodies.
I mean ....... really!

An old lady taps her fingers
in time to something
only she can hear.
The wind starts then stops
then starts again.
A seabird hitches a ride.
I think about my lover
and that I should write a new poem.

There's a big ship in town.
and red white and blue balloons
hang from the shopfronts.
A red one frees itself
and I watch it's upward escape.
I remember an old book I once had
called the red balloon.
Some kid spent his day chasing
this balloon about the streets.
I loved that book and I have an idea...

Now .... where'd that balloon go?