The Morepork


The morepork calls
after dusk sets the day.
Night trails open for snails

to make their way, silver threads
their map, outlines their journey
from lawn to moon-glazed window.

Beyond the wind
where lack of sleep twists
the sheet of night, binds
us beneath the roots of day, beyond

the spider webs cast across black trees,
beyond the crush of waves
that turns rock to sand,

the morepork gives life
to the coffined edges of night.

San Francisco - Treasure Hunters

Rubbish plies the street edges,
spills from the bins
and they work it over

quickly, thoroughly,
collecting any useful object -
half a sandwich, or

a Starbucks cup
they can shake two copper coins in
when the theatre crowds
move in for the evening.

They move on to the next bin,
and the next,
and drag their shopping trolley
hope chests with them.

click to view

San Francisco - the newspaper stand on the footpath


In a round room sits a man
surrounded by daily newspapers.
He doesn't smile
and I think Christmas
cannot be carried
on his shoulders.

I ask if he would mind
my taking his picture
and he grunts 'No,
too many have taken it.'

So I smile, and thank him.
But I have taken
the memory of his carved face,
a frown with weariness in eyes
that have read enough,

a body bent to fit
the tiny round room
lined with its new thousand words
each day.

You Left Winter Behind

When the autumn breeze cools
I will hear peace in leaf rustle,
a quiet, strange calmness
that flows between near-barren boughs.
I will feel the breeze on my skin
blowing and blowing and blowing
layering me in promises
that tomorrow holds, layering
me in memories from yesterday.
I will wrap the wind about me,
keep it as close as a blanket
in the coolest of Winter's eves,
held tight in my white knuckled fists
that refuse to believe you have left
me here, to make a lone stand
among dormant trees.

For a friend and mentor. Rest in peace Jarry, you've earned the journey tenfold.




double click to view.

Removing the Chaff

The wind blew yesterday.
Cherry blossom petals left
their boughs and flew across
to land on the grass
as if there was little care
that others would want to see
the gift of pink bursting
open, brightening the edge
of the deck like lanterns.
In the wet their landed colours
were muted, they held raindrops
as if cradling the tears
our aging bodies could not cry.

Morning

mist
on weeping willow leaves
river flood

Seasonal Shift

Under the blossoms moonlight plays
shadow sculpture with silver grass blades
taller there, near the thick tree trunk
that lifts life from the ground.

Shadows still.

The morepork's battle cry is carried
from the river trees to here,
where we toss and turn
in the thickened air,
carried to collide
with our heat-dulled minds,
carried to remind us
Spring has returned.

One of Those Days

Yesterday was like an abstract painting
where tree bark was splashed
up one side of the canvas, a silver eel
wriggled in the sky, an eye stared
from behind vertical blinds
that separated us
from the crisp air of Spring
and tomorrow. Colours splattered
in the way children's art splodges -
green patches polka dotted yellow,
bruised stars stabbed the grass, a cow
black and white, bent over the barbed back fence
tap danced in time with the restless cicadas.

Grandmother

There is a photo of her on the sideboard.
A black and white image, framed
with cardboard covered in brown age spots.
She was always old, weathered,

carrying the look of a farmer's wife
dressed for best. She has no foretelling
on her face of the potent mix of her mind,
no future hint of the mud flinging madness

that came before the white jacket
and the echoy corridors of Kingseat, the keys
that locked her away, the drugs
that stole the spark from her eyes

and limped her hand so it could not swipe
at some imagined wrongdoing.
She was a matriarch, a powerful woman

who years after the death of her love,
after the cracking of her mind,
passed away in a ward with a small bed
and a bedside table that held her glasses.

A Southern Spring

It is October and the morepork
seems to know Spring has drifted in.

He does not wait for the shadow
of night to graze the land,

he calls from the river trees
loud enough to be heard

over evening traffic, still enough
to be a lost silhouette

in the mess of twigs
that worship the first full moon.

Granddad Took Big Strides

I remember running alongside him
as he crossed paddocks,
my face trying to get in front of his,
my legs hitting the ground
four times for every step
of his boots. He would talk,
flail his arms, tell me
what was next, and I'd listen, answer
with that out of breath stilted speech
often my affliction,
until he'd stop. Abruptly.
And we'd collide
or we would be there,
at the next job.
We would be there, he and I and Tip,
the black and white sheep dog
whose tongue hung out
and tail curled around Granddad's boot,
until it was time to race again.

A Personal Pyre

I do death well. In public
I smile and wrap my mouth
around the words of psalms
until calm cools the pool
of hot tears lying in wait
for some forgotten freedom.

I suck up the grief,
snort it unsteralised
and live on the defiled scent
that designs the path
of my emotions,
hungering only for sleep.

Songs sustain me,
sung on stereo
in surround sound.

I pray for rain,
for the clouds that cling to the sky
waiting for me to choke
on pleasantries,
those inane gossipy gems
that swirl around
the black-winged crowd.

I forget to ask for peace.

When the dead are not forgotten

I felt their presence,
the way they stood behind
or in front of me, the looks
they'd give me as if one wrinkle
on a forehead would save me
from tumbling head long
down those weedless roads
that twisted and turned
on seemingly endless whims.
They gave me food for thought,
made me second guess
my first instincts, made me wonder
in the power of the past.

Tail-ender of the X Generation

I suggested walking,
noses brushed the blue air
we've done that

and I was stumped
to suggest more.

How could they walk a city
in a week? there's so much to see -

buskers hunkered
in closed shop corners,
gays wandering, arms linked,
punks glittering like fallen Christmas angels
and speaking of that,

do you notice how night neons
hide the gum stuck pavement,
how those coloured lights
excite piss scented alleys,
how those coloured bulbs glow
to promote their wares
to the night gods?

I wonder how they have seen all this
and yet their bodies slouch
as if they are bored,
as if such things are common place,
as if they've grown
beyond the city limits
in a week.

Jumped from the nest

There is more than a hint of him
left in the room. Almost empty
it still carries his scent,
that particular nose
of sweat and soap
that seems to have seeped
into the walls, the carpet,
the corners now free of furniture.
It is almost as if he hasn't left.

The Dawn of Darkness

On this day of all days
I should stride into the ocean
let it wash up my body
in a final cleansing,
a last white washing
that will see all my sins
seep back into the sea,
fall between the cracks
and soak deep into the earth's core
where my birthing began.

On this day of all days
I should say goodbye
to the mists that threaten
to conceal my existence,
that warp my outstretched arms
ignoring my light, my warmth
my dedication to day.
Would I be missed,
or would you welcome
the extra hours of dark?

Winter Dawn

Each morning I search,
condensation wiped on my sleeve
nose pressed to the pane,
to see if gems have grown
in my garden.

The maple stands tall,
bare limbs stretched across blue,
hugs offered to angels.

Heraldry lines its bark.
In every vein and valley
a crest, history etched
and on the tips of each twig
dangles a diamond.