Best Outcrops Poems
A violent scene lay before me
Huddled in death, there’s Ella, Mary-belle, everywhere I could see
Swollen tongues, sunken eyes, frail bodies strewn in the hot powdery dirt,
I sniff the sharp stench of death, I catch my breath, swallow, stomach clenched, alert
Stark rocky outcrops, blister amongst the sharp needles of spinifex grass
Stones, sand and mica glints, ants scurry about their tasks
Red dirt, blue sky, sun bears down relentless upon the tin roof of the Station
Majestic hills, once coral reefs, the Chinamen pushed wheelbarrows up them, Dinosaurs, Indigenous people walked here long ago in my imagination
Soft bursts of purple feathery flowers of Mulla Mulla joyfully sway in the crisp air this morning, locked in the silent perennial embrace of that blue blue sky
Frivolous, dollies those desert girls, with their sweet smell and blush as I walk by
I think I’ll put a bullet in my head in that very spot
To die in such fine company, you make those tough choices on the land, easy as, why not
5,000 cattle dead, I’d cry, but there’s no more water in my eyes, in a blink, all gone so terribly wrong
I’ll sleep with my cows tonight, Ella, Mary-belle in the Mulla Mulla desert dreaming, on the land is where I was born and where I belong
Fingers of light pierced the clouds caressing the moors
with life giving warmth, purples, browns and greens of
heathers mingled, blended, in a union of beauty. Yellow
of gorse splashed in the sultry, hazy spectre of natures
superb canvas. The dry stone walling lay sporadic, lost,
decaying in time and memory, the hardy moorland sheep
stumbled from blade to blade, in the breeze they used the
walls as shade. Golden plovers dipped and dived the call
of pee weet pee weet echoed in the stillness, the Peregrine
hovered with silent wings and sunlit eye. Those fingers of
light walked the hillside highlighting the chalk outcrops
on craggy reaches as if new laden snow. Black pools of
peaty water dot themselves borne of winters starkness,
it is a beauty that holds both eye and heart, a picture
painted for the soul. A place where all blends and the
crofter wears no watch only the sun and moon to follow
and the footsteps of the rambler sleeps in the fragrance
of the heather.
How I love the Wuthering heights rugged landscape
Of the wild savage moor
As I stand upon a rocky outcrops
High on a windswept Tor.
Under the blue sky canopy before me
Lies sweeping lush green and tawny vales and rolling hills
Land so wild and unforgiving
As the cold wind begins to bite and chill
Carpets of lilac heather providing shelter
For grouse rabbit and mouse
Somewhere in the distance
I catch the site of an old dilapidated stone farm house
Battered and in decay by the harsh temperamental weather
Every day.
Silver ribboned streams gushing and rushing ever flowing
Sparkling in the sun as lazy trout swim and pout
Trying to kiss the sky.
Little white woolly dots majestically graze on idle days
As the ravens take pieces of wool for nesting away
Suddenly the sky turns black and the icy rain begins to pound
And somewhere in the far distance I hear a deep rumbling sound
Cracks of light flash in the sky and the thunder now close by
Gives out a mighty roar
I feel the power shake the ground where I stand
And it shakes me to the core
A mixture of fear and acceleration sweeps over me
As I watch far from safety in awe.
Suddenly as it started the thunder stops and the sky begins to clear
A rainbow crescent appears and the lark twitters once moor
As the started wild ponies and heads of deer reappear
The overpowering smell of damp earth
I'm soaking wet my cheeks red and aglow
I'm lost in the wild untameable timeless beauty
That I have come to love and know
In my isolation I find peace of mind so serine
I am not just a visitor
But at one with nature and part of the scene.
Peter Dome.Copyright.2015. June.
Swaths of purple ripple, breeze blown,
down the hillside to the water's edge
as the early morning sunlight splatters
her span with scattered diamonds.
Majestic, as old as the granite outcrops
surrounding her, she shimmers,
'til the weather takes a downturn.
Afternoon thunder and heavy gusts
whip her to a frenzy, as the mountain
goats and hikers hurry to take shelter,
her complexion now grim and forbidding.
The storms disintegrate, the evening sky
turns red and gold, and peace resumes its reign.
This princess, both petulant and calm,
assumes a sheen like polished glass,
a stillness, a silence, in absolute darkness,
just waiting for sunrise to sparkle again.
BOUGAINVILLEA CITY
The city that enjoyed the floral name
Is now a transformed spectre of its past
A semi-graced decline has changed its mien
Like comely lady reaching certain age
But still today the Bougainvillea blooms
'Bougainvillea City' blossoms would abound
In graceful streets of affluence and pride
Bank halls baroque attested wealth enjoyed
But last days of boom brought vanity and fall
Yet still today the Bougainvillea blooms
Venal rulers chose antiquity disdain
Deflowered many an elegant urban scene
Tasteless vulgar outcrops broke the symmetry
Yet there remains a fading lustre at its heart
And still today the Bougainvillea blooms
With graceful flaming blossoms that conceal
Sharp prickles that will pierce unwary skin
To match the scarlet petals that abound
On streets and gardens riverside and verge
Yes still today the Bougainvillea blooms
The swell and surge of surf
whispers tinnitus conched
on titanium sunken tankers
that rock restlessly on far reef,
as children play unheeded
building imagined bastions,
nursery rhymes drown
turning back cnut tides.
Inevitably,
sand shifts in an hourglass
that plumb the memory's depth
with rosy pictures in ruby flourescence
like monochrome holiday snaps
stored in old bashed biscuit tins
that mother would open on grey
overcast November soaked Sundays.
All oceans are drowned
by the sea's past dregs,as cerulean and cobalt waves
steer towards safe harbors,
tantalized by tinto tinted sunrises
like a rocking pendulum
that plays a metronome symphony,
playing lullabies, rhythms sound
when der holle rache sings
and the nocturnal queen echoes as the dawn breaks.
Translucently, ephemeral light
glistens on children's limbs,water singing as they play,
momentarily soaked in perfection
as delicate beams dance over their fragile bones.
Now amber-crafted moments, Capri's crimson breasts
waves, nestles close to succour infant swells.
Yet magenta lips pout in rock pools,
the breaking and wombing
of waters now birth new journeys
that drive towards a vortex rush.
Defiant boats chase, turning tides in lucent rays,
navigate between lava laced volcanic outcrops
into distant remembered horizons.
Overwhelmed by dire thirst
Oppressed without water
Over the next sand dune
Offered in a vision
Optical illusions
Outcrops of tall date palms
Oasis; a mirage
The land is bare;
hard rock and exposed outcrops
lay open, like the pages of
an unread book for the story
of time is beheld by every
grain contained within.
Time passes slowly and the
land remains the same but
seeds of invaders are slowly
being transported into this
barren land.
The seeds embed themselves
into this dark and sombre
rock that was created when
the Earth was young.
Rain falls onto the dry and
lonesome rock causing the
seeds to transform into
sprouts that begin to widen
the tiniest of cracks as their
roots extend.
Every spring the sprouts become
plants that flower, catching
the essence of irony; even the
gloomiest places can capture
beauty.
Slowly the land becomes
invaded by many others but
still remain the smallest of
creations for the earth itself
is not to everyone’s taste.
As the plants grow and die the
ragged earth becomes blackened
with the very chemistry of life.
Gradually the plants become
bigger overshadowing the primary
invaders but still they rule the
very earth for without them the
soil of the earth would only
provide for little time.
As height increases so does the
need for food and light for the
building blocks of simple sugars
are created by the elements of
the cosmos.
As time passes the soil becomes
thickened by past life and thus
trees take root, extending their
worm-like systems deep into the
earth in search of water and
earthly gases to feed their
inner workings.
This is the process of succession
rarely seen for it is overlooked
by many; a whole new world lies
beyond our line of sight,
releasing the very essence of
life itself.
As dawn peers over the edge of the sky,
In a space of the lonely kopjes and cacti.
Where God roamed to the edge of a scorched wilderness,
and stared into the vast land of nothingness.
HERE, STANDS A PLACE ARID AND BONE DRY
WHERE ROOT AND SHOOT SHRIVEL AND DIE.
HERE IS WHERE HE FORMED ROCKY OUTCROPS AND SANDY STRANDS
TULI IS IT’S NAME.
IN THIS FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE, WHERE WIND ROLES A GUST
FORMATION OF BOULDERS, PEBBLES, AND DUST.
The springs of vitality forced from the ground below
Sweet honey dew, taste of life, transforms this dusty bowl
Where quenched thirsts were satisfied,
Hunger for food became starvation and slowly crippled the dreary
Only the toughest would survive, no room for the weary
As time pasted, it forgot this flat open bush
where grass and shrub became razor sharp and prickly scrub.
harsh and foreboding.
The Shashe river snaking through the sandy ground
with dust and rubble on the fortress mound
So men came to conquer and forge his own path,
What madness is this, why was he so daft.
But, when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object
History is written.
Wheels of progress move steadily forward
Rocks being used to build roads, bridges, houses, and prisons
So hard, tough, and cold these objects are to house the idea of future dreams and missions.
The stubborn will to settle,
made peoples focus rock solid.
But as time marches out and onward,
the memories and sentiments pasted through like a gentle breeze.
All that is left is the forgotten memories, graves, and relics of buildings old,
Hunters, Riders, and Voortrekkers cry out from the dust and sand,
that fortress of Pioneers, Tuli.
Gazing unconsciously through smoked glass,
Encased ten flights above the asphalt,
Insignificant within this obscure tower.
Similar to a revelation, he soars majestically,
Circling on undercurrents beneath his span,
Waltzing on the wind in a leisurely minuet.
Bird of prey, what transports you to my world?
Concrete jungle with tainted air,
Nature vacant, paved with synthetic foliage.
Transport me to your stately mountains,
Liberate urgency upon sun-kissed outcrops,
Observing the world through an altered insight.
The beach is peaceful this
Autumn evening, the odd
screech of a seagulls
jealousy as it scraps for
pieces of flotsam.
The soft slap of the tide
as it paws the shell and
shingle, grey slate clouds
lumpy, uneven, as if
someone had stuck egg
trays all over the ceiling.
On the bumps were tinges
of orange and scarlet, the
remnants of a recently
departed sun.
Whispers of sailors lost
and the love of Aphrodite
mingled in the ozone,
borne on breezes that
had kissed foreign shores.
A heartbeat of tranquillity
brings the memories, with
every kiss of the wave, the
walking , holding of hands
the leaning on craggy
outcrops, those never ever
forgotten words passed in
the innocence of love.
And so in the ambience of
whispers and kissing waves
I walk on, knowing this
beach is not as secluded
as I first thought. That tide
may erase the footsteps of
the past, but the sands of
life are there to walk again.
golden grass lies dust
below the dry dead mountain’s
rocky quartz outcrops
that yield such a golden grain
as shame man's cultured pastures.
Swaths of purple ripple, breeze blown,
down the hillsides to the water's edge
as the early morning sunlight splatters
her surface with scattered diamonds.
Majestic, as old as the granite outcrops
surrounding her, she shimmers,
'til the weather takes a downturn.
Afternoon thunder and heavy gusts
whip her to a frenzy, as the mountain
goats and hikers hurry to take shelter,
her complexion now grim and forbidding.
The storms disintegrate, the evening sky
turns red and gold, and peace resumes
its reign. This princess, both petulant and calm,
assumes a sheen like polished glass,
a stillness, a silence, an absolute darkness,
just waiting for sunrise to sparkle again.
My Response To Rumi
A composite man was this Rumi Mystic who penned ‘Spiritual Couplets’ thousands
of magical lines of Persian poetry deep he lives on in simple (?) bites of
three lines condensed confluent cracking proverbial nutshells soft in their core
He’s buried in the Konya of Anatolian wisdom a place I am seeking to visit
on my insider travels and have been compelled from into imagination and spirit of
mind where the tree of life throws seeds on the shadows of tumbling body and soul
~~ Rumi lives on once we destroy what destroys us tear down the partitions ~~
‘Healing by allowing to fall ill’ ‘searching for defenses within’ barriers fortresses
imposing enclosures self built contraptions that prevent love kindness compassion
Dysfunction and illness derive from inside thus we can either attempt to strive
against mere symptoms and torturous outcrops bandage the hurt on the
surface or take a good look at the messages crises fall together for a while reflect
with serene mirrors of honesty reject the temptation futile attempts of aligning
broken shards into yet another fragmentation sinking once more into darkness
Rummaging rumination and running head on into the same walls again and again
never achieved to manage my mangled madness into meaning and peace
but acceptance and searching inside with the purpose of healing following three
~~ simple lines brought Rumi to life and myself back into light and true love~~
27th November 2016
"If you desire healing,
let yourself fall ill
let yourself fall ill."
- Jalaluddin Rumi
In the rugged mountain passes
Of the western Carolinas,
Just west of Hendersonville and east of Kentucky, USA,
In the land of the foothills and steep valleys down,
Exists a remote land forgotten in time.
Steeped in country legends, handed down long ago -
A matchless region the locals, call Christmas Tree Mountain.
Thousands of trees spread, over the lands -
boundless pines, spruces and firs;
Home to mountain families at one with their land.
In these broken foothills in the lands of the mist,
On steep, rocky outcrops, barren but for the pines,
Rising above the lowly, bottomland plains,
Far above pedestrian highways where the grizzly roams free,
And the Winter's freezing cold,
With its fierce winds whipping through the trees.
On the Carolina hillsides is where it all begins;
Conifers contorting in the harsh mountain gusts.
Edging their way skyward one inch at a time;
Twelve inches a year the extent of their growth.
Like emerald clad sentinels oft standing at arms,
Like boundless militia watching o're the valleys below.
Seasoned veterans awaiting, their clarion call,
Their final, fateful, farewell, fore' their Christmas accord.
An all-too-short harvest's complete by Autumn's end;
If yields are bountiful, all cuts will, be bundled and penned.
Warmly dressed buyers trekking these remote mountain farms;
Back country charms tempered by the winding, rugged passes.
In the Fall the Scouts come - heeding a higher call;
Selfless endeavors to help earn much-needed funds
To support an ever growing contingent of troops.
Finding a world of fulfilment in these simple deeds;
They learn the values of good stewardship and all its rewards,
While learning to respect all of God's lands and all His designs.
End of the Season finds the mountain families gathering in prayer;
Thanking their Creator for yet another year.