Thursday, August 29, 2013

Remembrance Day

She knows the names
of the trees
on their walk
through stippled grave stones,
untamed grasses.

Spring sun spears
fat broad leaves
Moreton Bay Fig,

He wonders and wanders,
from tomb to tomb:
the naming of things,
a mythical art
too puzzling for him to scry out.

Oh look! An anchor,”
salvage of ship-wreck,
called in now for memory's mark.

Was it Cutty or Dunbar?”
he used to remember,
worrying now that it's all gone, too far.

It's ok darling,
let's visit your Mother”
nervous of what they called
'undue distress'.

Gently she guides him,
past white mausoleums
small mound,
black cross,
Robyn's nest.

She's dead?”
and he kneels,
Ten years in November”
It doesn't seem possible”
Well it's quite certain now.”

You're angry.”
Just tired. I want to go home.”
Well we shall,
by the butcher's.”

And so they return.

Past Moreton Bay Fig,


Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Do It Yourself

The table waits,
cradling the nail he
meant to hammer in that afternoon, but,
lost, on his way to the fridge, he
never now will fix.

Wasted in waiting,
for a blow that never comes
unexpected falls elsewhere.

The busted leg, its
grain split open waits
to catch every passing friend and
every time reminds
of missing piece.

I just submitted this for workshopping in my poetry class, so thought I'd share it with you all :-)

Sunday, August 11, 2013

word to Derrida

You are a black hole,
whose centre is a vacuum.
I am a solar system,
whose centre is the sun.