Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Tuesday Poem: Eruption

volcanic, pyroclastic, cataclysmic, of lava,
toxic gas, lahars (flows of plastic mud),
magma (molten rivers), plumes of pumice,
ballistic boulders (as big as cars and trucks),
floods of acid water (from broken crater lakes),
petrified trees, from domes, cones, calderas,
explosive, massive, dramatic, with warning
from a mountain's rumbling stomach, flare up
of spots, pimples, acne, anger, protest, temper,
of sentiment, a break out, recrudescence,
effervescence, on the ring of fire, activity in
slumbering volcanoes and others not yet extinct,
Taupo, Krakatoa, Popocatapetyl - which kill with
catapulting rocks, asphyxiating ash, burial alive.


Another poem in my 'Mortal perils' series.

Visit Tuesday Poem for more great poetry.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Tuesday Poem: Slip

slump, subside, slew, skid, sideways, slow
downwards slide of whole hillside (Abbotsford)
of rocks on road, earth in gully, scree on slope,
in (unnoticed), cordon - first, second, third,
down, or up (badly), over or out (surreptitiously)
below decks, beneath the radar, round the
corner (for a quick one), of a girl, of paper,
on some clothes (or a banana skin), away,
one's mind, out of sight or reach, of the tongue,
through one's fingers, grasp, into something
more comfortable, the clutch, a stitch, a latch,
half, pillow, knot, the leash, 'twixt cup and lip,
pad (for launching ships), life's moorings,
gently (or not), into the quiet of that good night.


I wrote this poem last year as one of a series on 'Mortal perils'. Inspiration for the series came from the poem 'Fault' by Joanna Preston.

Visit Tuesday Poem for more great poetry.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Tuesday Poem: The parentless child

On Mothers Day
and Fathers Day
septs of orphans
slip thistle sepals
through their lapels,
tally the days
since partition,
taste the halite
in their lesions,
till the sepia past
for lisles that bind,
but find only silt, ash,
septal defects, pistils,
spathes and stipes
of withered lillies,
and haspless staples
with which to tile
their hills of hell
on Mothers Day
and Fathers Day


A 'sound' poem. Visit Tuesday Poem for more great poetry.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Tuesday Poem: The poor child

had she shoes they would have holes
had she a satchel it would be plastic
had she sheets she would have shelter
had she a closet she might have clothes

oh the state it wrings it hands
oh the state it contemplates its navel
oh the state it blames its predecessors
oh the state it shames her parents
oh the state it prevaricates
oh the state it waits and waits
oh the state it denies that she exists
oh the state it feigns to care about her fate
oh the state it shuts the gate

oh the state it wants the waif to go away

sometimes she goes to school to sleep
sometimes she goes for heat
sometimes she goes to school to eat
sometimes she goes to school



Poverty, inequality, and a lack of political will to do anything about them are still needling my writing skin. Visit Tuesday Poem for more great poetry.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Tuesday Poem: The bag lady


she decants each day in cans
scans the drains for plastic treasure
trades lice and rats with lepers
raids the ruins for pins and tapers

clears the bins of tripe and crabs
plaits ducted cable to her tresses
drapes her scabs in spats of peat
scrubs the crud from her dresses

daubs the seats with lunar runes
taps public stipends from the streets
spiels and reels a descant tune
laces tea with beer and acid

her nightly sleep is lanced with pain
when spiders' bites redact her brain
and render essence of a past
so redolent of yours or mine



Poverty, impoverishment, the precariousness of continuity of access to livable incomes - these have been uppermost of mind recently. Visit Tuesday Poem for more great poetry.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Tuesday Poem: Cloth Cap Commutes - the freeloaders

Cloth Cap was looking out the window, string-phoned, contemplating. Today's fellow travellers were the usual salmagundi. Sonia - she cultivated people knowing her name - was sitting next to Walking Stick, who earlier had done her assisted sprint from the feeder bus to board this one. The Crusher had found a seat to himself, to everyone's relief. Placemaker Man was sitting behind the driver, as he always did. Blue Coat (who actually hadn't worn it for a year) had chosen Cloth Cap to sit next to today - she never sat next to the same person two day's running. Other passengers from the later stops seized the remaining seats. It was if the freeloaders had been waiting for this to happen, or because the air in the bus had reached wing-muscle temperature. Or maybe, with their acute sense of hearing, they had heard Iggy Pop singing through Cloth Cap's string phones. Whatever it was, when the cicadas started stirring on the floor of the bus the effect was electric. The Crusher turned pale and gripped his knees, conversations erupted between previously mute companions, men and women lowered their faces in consternation and tried to brush any flying freeloaders away. 
Blue Coat calmly pulled a tissue from her purse, leant down and gathered up a couple of crawlers. She handed it to Cloth Cap and pointed at the open top window. Eventually all were dispatched one way or another. Iggy Pop, the iconic rocker who sometimes sang live dressed only in his undies, was still singing his punk anthem - The Passenger. "Oh the passenger, He rides and He rides, He looks through his window, what does he see?" belted through Cloth Cap's string phones. He was sure now the cicadas had only wanted to join in the riff. Iggy Pop and the Cicadas, now that would have been something.


Another poem from my University of Iowa MOOC writing experience. Visit Tuesday Poem for more great poetry.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Tuesday Poem: Old paper

They stood forgotten
backs against the wall
waiting to be hung –
seven pictures,
remnants, ephemera,
a pastiche from the attics
of his life.

When his office was repainted
(‘papyrus’ - years ago)
he relegated them to a corner,
promising resurrection
later.

After the reunion that refracted
fifty years from their first shackling
to a volcano's shadow,
he warmed to palimpsests
of paintings
on parchment walls.

He would begin with the mountain –
it wears a freezing-worker's white bonnet
and tussock apron...
though absent the feather of menace
that always plumed its crater.

Yes, the volcano would be first.
He knew now which memories

might recrudesce.



Yet another poem from my University of Iowa MOOC writing experience. Visit Tuesday Poem for for a great poem by Pascale Petit: Fauverie - Emmanuel.
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