It happens
as if stirred by some
deep prompting rising up
out of a common soul,
a voice in search of a language
to write its existence
across the pages
of a passing mind.
The soft morning light
pooling beneath hurrying feet,
the cypress trees
along the foreshore time frozen
in their wind bent posture,
the motion of waves
withering into a slow soak
up the beach -
all seem to have something
to say.
I have felt a pen press
upon my mind, struggle
to find a space free
from the cramp of my own self
on which to record
the shape and sounds
of a joy or give form
to a longing freed
from the grip of shadow.
I have felt the cry
of things trapped
in the hollows of words
like empty sea shells held
to the ear and tried faithfully
to transcribe what was said.
In my solitude I have
called out hoping
for a reply only to hear
the sound of my own pulse
punctuate a terrible silence
Learning from various nefarious vermin Hermanns
Discerning the trigger bigger the lies fascism will rise
Spoof uncouth aloof truths won’t even try & disguise
Shermans embers burning remember the Germans
Trump encore will ensure war waged at every door
Implore more what ifs will only see the tariffs soar
Saluting Tangerine and Putin settling their score
Polluting & looting the pure Greenland foreshore
Highfalutin thugs shrugs who deplore rule of law
Russians again crushing Prussians not like before
Developing countries know it will kill the poor
Should we still call this the “Third World” War
Everything tanks in the Yanks new Wild West
China gives EU a shiner from their US diner
Deranged climate change zest was the true test
Damn it the planet we knew’s over & laid to rest
A cold wind has the breath
of Antarctica coming up
from the south. Snow is falling
in the Alps. Small boats
huddle in the sheltered corners
of the Bay as I make my way
towards the foreshore
and the spray swept pier.
In the far distance, gulls wheel
inside a shaft of sunlight
gathering gold on joyous wings.
Suddenly, something leaps up
from out of its wintry solitude
to join them.
I stand on the foreshore
Warm sun touches my face
Cool water laps at my bare feet
In that moment pure pleasure l embrace
From here
I can see the morning ferry
pull out from the wharf
trailing its long tail
of noisy seagulls, a churning
wake catching the sunlight
before healing to a calm.
I too would like to be healed,
to feel that quietening
when resistance is laid down
and repair comes with a still.
It would be good to be
at ease with what is,
to be transparent and not impede
the course of light, to trust
and be at one with a drift
towards the unknown.
Not to push against
the turbid swell of an incoming
tide but to remain motionless
within it and ride its lift.
From here
I can see the trees along
the foreshore quiver in the slight
breath of a breeze.
Things happen.
From here I sense
an incomprehensible still
across which the morning moves
in a vast pantomime.
To be still is to let go
of all that is passing.
Note.
This poem is a counterpoint to
the previous poem “Yesterday”
which treats stillness in largely
negative terms. Here the idea
of stillness is seen as a means
to transcendence and a central
attribute of Being.
"Into the Ultramarine"
barefoot along the path down to the beach
the memories follow me like seagulls
either side the honour guard of scarlet coastal banksia
and the sharp green scent of Bribie Island pine
wave over me
The wide expanse of a life
like the wild side foreshore
now vastly eroded,
the space between, much shorter
the tides in time
have taken
the sands further out
dissolving the childish past
past the dissolving
further out
the Ocean deep
calls me further in
shedding skin
like a Selkie
diving head first
bare feet the body slippery
into the Ultramarine
the Ultramarine
like a possessive lover
takes me
Candide Diderot. ‘24
The morning waited
for me to take my seat
on the foreshore bench to begin
its play, perform the piece
it had scripted just for me.
Opening
with a prelude of waves lifting
until gravity collapsed
their curling height and gulped
down their weight, and,
at stage right, rocks bursting
big watery bags of ocean
into exploding walls of foam.
Then there were magpies
holding chorus
in the nearby trees,
accompanying the moment
with an almost Elizabethan lilt
whilst seagulls hurled their
screeching taunts down
from the galleries above.
Little dogs went chasing balls
and children spun, unwinding
on wound up swings, bike riders
in black lycra passed in a blurr
and on a patch of lawn
beside the pavilion, three women
practicing tai chi.
And so the spectacle ran on
as if the morning was inventing
new sights and sounds
for the sake of drawing out time
to keep me captive in audience there,
the same as I used to do when,
as a child, I held concert
for my grandmother
on cold winter afternoons,
stagelit by a blazing fire
and love.
Leaf
It wasn’t the time to leave,
but stem chewed and gale combined and the leaf fell.
Hairstreak, full green not yet ready,
not curled by summer’s end, crisped by West Coast salt, mottled by frost or holed by Sawfly.
Shadow dancing the lake.
Tumbling, a fairground shuggy, a mother’s touch rest onto the blackness.
The magnetic water pull.
The long float.
Damselfly platform.
Captured on lava foreshore whipped by the fell breath channelled down ice ravaged ghyll.
Purpose complete.
Its forgetful host fed, post prandial.
Unburdened.
Awaiting the awakening.
At day's end, I take in the last light
seeping into the dark waters
across the bay and keep it here.
I gather the sound of departing gulls
smudged on the sky, the quietening
settle of birds in the cypress trees
along the foreshore, the giggle
of a child high on a swing
being pushed by a mothers hand.
I hold here the gentle sweep
of waves soaking into wet sand,
the slow roll of seaweed, bubbles
bursting around shells, wings
low over the water.
I draw in the evening and keep
it close with its lights
sprinkled around the edges
of the headland,
emerging stars hung soundless
in the heavens, the blinking
passage of a southbound airplane
heading into a long night.
From somewhere, the smell
of honeysuckle spilling
into the waiting air.
I make my way home, filled
with all that I have taken in,
having little space left over
to fit myself.
A butterfly's flight,
Lost in the foreshore of the night;
With tears in her eyes,
She hung from the trees and cried.
Her gaze met mine,
And in that moment, we intertwined;
With the moonlight as our guide,
She sang and spread her wings wide.
She fell from the trees,
Onto the water, as gentle as a breeze;
It seemed she had lived for eons,
As her wings glimmered like precious stones.
I touched them with grace,
And in that touch, I found my place;
For in the foreshore of the night,
Her peace and melody took flight.
As the night draws to a close,
And the shelter of dreams fades and goes;
The touch of her wings,
And the tranquility in her sings.
Forever in my soul,
Without fail, her beauty unfolds.
Setting sun carved a path over the Humber
From Hessle right across the river bend
To join the banks at Ferriby Foreshore
Where that path came to its end.
The great smelter chimney
Rising there darkly up high
Sent its stream of carcinogenic smoke
Crawling across the reddening sky.
The resident old transvestite man,
Beach combing the bank for wood
Let the small boat he pulled drift so it
Crossed the path from where I stood.
To my rear the Bridge dominated
Striding the river from side to side
Then the longest in the world
With its span totalling a mile wide.
That strange mixture of past and present
Not there to be seen anymore
For the smelter was pulled down
And taken to pollute a foreign shore;
And the old man in his strange garb?
Not even sure if he’s still here.
I’ve not walked that old path
For far too many years.
But the bridge, now second biggest,
Still spans the waterway
Carrying the road’s traffic
Day after day after day.
A hush in the gathering darkness.
Fading to silence bird song.
And as the sun lowered to earth
My scarlet path was gone.
Worn out platitudes
have we come this far ?,
returning all possessed souls
and in the midst he slayed summer
in a spectral wooden cupboard
with worn shoes,
and now the lesson is over
by touching all those far apart,
roaming by the foreshore
to see their stranger within
the catch net of life assured
I come to this little cove often -
no work, I have time to burn.
See Asians plunder its foreshore,
I still fish - show no concern.
Red-bill seagulls fly in circles,
fight over scraps they have won.
Never giving a thought to Icarus
who flew too close to the sun.
Soon a woman wanders over
and asks me what I’ve caught.
I tell her nothing yet but “you’d
be a great catch” I thought.
I know the swallows smirk at me,
my appearance they detest.
I cast my line and ignore them
(or at least I do my best).
Things start spinning in my head
like what it’s like to drown.
Did King Neptune sit on a throne
and did he wear a crown?
I come alone to this place often
to remember and reflect.
A place of beauty and meaning,
a place where I can forget.
Written: 1992
———
Ladder Bay is a sheltered cove in
the northern beaches of Auckland
New Zealand not too far from my
home in the East Coast Bays.
Sun strike horizon white triangle
Erases deep turquoise in thin ice
Steady spiral turn winds triumph
Explores sea bed, drilled precise
Turned ground pleads for mercy
Surrenders dug out cry of agony
Tumble gems an ancient mason
Sought to swap for sovereignty
Miner compiles silica currency
Shells she's clenched fluoresce
Money funnelled subterranean
Spectrum rips open firey chests
Technique imagines same future
Strength set on bone, sure farrier
Temporary gold gallops to zenith
Sharp ocean glint disappears her
14th June
Foreshore soon!
THE CRIPPLED
Walking toward foreshore
I saw the devil seated on a fence
Fishing
Next day I heard he got a thrashing
It was intense
Blood trickled from his core
He would fish no more
Baby and Mommy shark were out to score.
*
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