Friday Poem 3: Map of the Uneaten

The kitchen has all the evidence

of breakfast balanced in exact disorder;

the egg shells spills of milk

fresh grains of crumpled weetbix

finely ground by hand

and honey strands arranged from

jar to lip and back to jar.

 

I am armed with a cloth

about to wipe it clean and delete the morning’s ritual

divide the crusts among the chickens

water down the dust and spray

sand away the places you carved your names

the indelible crayon that travels

beyond the paper and onto the wood.

 

But there, in the slant of the morning

my will, my wishbone shatters.

It is now mixed with the milky map of the uneaten,

I watch it congeal next to the toast

which is exactly as you left it

and travels from past to present and back again.

 

There will not be another morning

with clamour and mixing of this honey and this time;

the children have left

there is no returning

even from lip to lip

no more milky traces to follow home.

 

Friday Poem 2 – Stains

the smooth sky is rapid with wind
air that smacks heat and belts the trees with it
until they bend into sulky mouths

the slap-down heat of the iron hot hands
melts bitumen with the constant light
all along the famished grass

flicking and bloodless clouds
mock shadow under the eye
the covered stains beneath skin

scales as it heals and dries
to stormcloud edging as hidden
as pollution and as rife.

Friday Poem 1 – Currawong

The villain currawong owns the whole garden;
on cusp of morning the swoop of his voice
corrugates the quiet
the flute and twist
of the future
nest and swoop
mimic his yellow speckled eye.

His black intention
intuits the sun
pricks the light from shadow
flies into the house
and collects up the morsels
leftover laughter
cut-offs of thought
that tremble under the table.

His scimitar beak will load them all
his throat tickled by that last thread of your dream
that pendant of your longing
and he flies it home
to the white manifora
after he feeds some to his young
swallows the rest whole.

Fire Wood

The tongue lick splits it into perfect fragments

a grid of itself to map how it grew

cell after cell

the daylight called it all the words for green

and at night the open push of it upwards.

 

We can’t watch it enough

how it divides equal

the heat and light the hot central breath of it

the tang of its return to simple form

another type of column

another word for gone.

The Shiraz Tree

A wind blows cold kisses

all over the place

fools littered leaves

swinging with sun

the wine dark tree

leaves that plum maroon

are over-hung ultra-violet

sweet leather with a hint of oak

dark cherry deepening to finish

in the sky

where tastebuds are lost

against the wind’s

own dry tongue-kiss

branching up beyond

the senses rolling up these

solid expectations for

the tinge of green

into the velvet sweet and heady.

 

 

 

Absence (final NaPoWriMo poem 2014)

There’s been too much exiting

too many absences

the summer’s flutter

tinkles of heat those

sighing nights so full of

sinking stars, gone.

 

There has been leave-taking

those collapsing far-away

heat encrusted suns

that spatter the night

fall and implode

flowers of fusion

 

wrinkle and die

crumple and fade

from yellow and blue

to lack of light, blank so deep

that they are nothing

no smoke, no dust

just absence,

 

like now.