Long Thrush Poems
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In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
there are seven birds that I often get to see
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
A Whipbird crack through ti-tree scrub,
a Lyrebird echo from Cascade Creek,
Red Browed Finch on the sword grass heads,
I’m watching close a Ground Thrush sneak.
Black Cockies feed on Blackwood wattle,
in heath Blue Wrens are a family,
Yellow Robins perch on a paperbark trunk
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are seven mammals sometimes I get to see,
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Echidnas forage in wood or litter
Wallabies graze on grass and weeds,
a burrowing wombat sleeps all day;
high in a manna gum, a Koala feeds.
Sugar Gliders doze in a hollow log,
like Ring-tail Possums in a high ti-tree.
A Bandicoot scarps through the undergrowth
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
in Cascade Creek sometimes I get to see,
as I look at the water in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Flowing over sand, fishbone fern as cover,
lurk Blackfish and the Gippsland Cray.
Brown trout forage in the hiding place
where Mountain Galaxias are their prey.
In Cascade Creek; well the Platypus play,
in long deep holes, but are rare to see.
There’s Short Finned Eel, Yabbies and Shrimp,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are a few reptiles I sometimes get to see,
if I look down at my feet in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
There are Blue Tongue Lizards and Three Lined Skinks;
Goanna’s up a tree and the Tiger Snake.
There’s Copperheads or Red-bellied Black,
and treading on snakes is a big mistake.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
Growling Grass Frogs watch from water grass,
And the ‘pobblebonk’ croak is an Eastern Banjo,
in a swampy pool as I walk on past.
Skippers float over the canopy blooms;
Mosquito, March Fly, Bush Fly blight;
Jezebel Caterpillars feed on mistletoe;
Stag Beetles hover in the fading light.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
on walking tracks there is much to see,
where I’m just a link that don’t belong,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
The warmth no longer comes
it seems to only leave.
The furry ones, all
caught in hypnotic disbelief:
hardening ground's
taken root
where once
gardening grounds
(forsaken, mute)
were once and again
makin' fruit.
Each beast, shaking
like a leaf
(though, truth be told
I've only ever
seen 'em dance)
as if to compel
the sun to
sidle up
'n stay a bit.
The butterflies are all turned
to windblown, drying leaves.
The biting clouds of gnats
are now
the biting cold of early flakes.
All hatched and reared
(the secret thrush, the ungainly, splashtering loon,
the burly snakes)
as evening hurries home
to be home for the night.
It's so early, so late.
The fatted robin's gone
just as the field mice hid
from barn-now-lapcat.
This constellation of crows,
a raucous perch, tried
that hiding ploy: their clotted knotted
silhouetted faux-leaf blackening hide out
where the leaves’d lived but crows are not
meant to blot the low sun as they’d plotted...
And so it was as so its been since Oh, so ever since -
a bird of prey, answered their
plaintive caws with painted claws -
a fracturous startle from above
a crash! a cry! a scattering!
one down, one murder
still.
Nothing softens, nothing greens.
No flowering as Southern urges
force flocks into making V-lines.
Each nest left: all break routines.
Summer is souring, as frost emerges
and last-one-picked, the pines -
lefties left in left field;
icing soon, their needles their shield
and, the coach never intervenes...
The light more slow to show
more tugged and bent to slant.
The sunshafts seem to push
the cold ahead as snow by plows.
And for our part we too as well
well, we turn away, turn indoors.
We turn our dreams to
make-it-through this.
We turn our collars up,
and too, our eyes to floors.
We turn our (each seems to)
thoughts inside this shell
not towards Inner but
rather, of course, truly from-
far and away from the
Cold & Falling, closing crisp.
How unlike the Scholar's Cup!
Our husks indoors,
our thoughts follow
but burrow deeper still.
Don't blame the light
for not keeping company
so deep where hides
a fearful, frigid 'you.'
It's Autumn
all turns on
one point.
It's Autumn
Fall burns on.
It's Autumn
sun burns on
one point
(of light.)
I have never felled so alive
as now.
______________________________________________________________
It still hurting alot
Mother, it hurts so much
methinks my head is about to, I can
fathom that thought of my head will o
explode, bits and pieces of me scattered________________t
around for all to see the shiny in's
of me because of my denied dues
not to be like autumn trees and
thrush of life's breaths shedding
whites off my hair expose its amber
If I surrender will I get my summer,
our talk that soured will sweeten
the hour? Query on hold. Hold, 'tis
aching yearns for its light skin tones
some shade, some toning to
hide. A walking dead
they'll see--weird, beach
sand, I face yet ere me
a challenge be ca ut io us ly
taken out thy sullen pose fates
a wild, wild guess, be my knees subtly
repenting. Nay, not knees, essence. A noun, trickery. Shall I count the days spent within your tummy,
Mommy? Oh very well I will clean my room until the
day comes when I raise my hand and that all five fingers, you'll see thee racist who had emerged in my mirror of late, and cast then shadows just out of sight seize d--arrested in plain view by America's finest doing bet review to say
that justice is well seems to be in order
from what I see,
there are fingers of
contempt and to my
mirror grip negativity,
I offer thee the pleasure
of my knee, lest my feet get
in the weigh ..., of a deserving
kick, one goes awry like a brat such as I.
He knew he had rubbed against some big shoulders.
Some like him and other were anoyed. What bothered him was they all existing relationships of there own. Some were ones you didn't wanna get involved with, some were brotherish, some were fools who aligned for fun and entertaining the boss. The one where you were instructed to stroke the ego, of top ranked superstars often meant learning a something that detailed your place in the company. some of these relationships were real, these guys almost lived together. I remember one friday night the camera guy told me that saturday starts after friday, I thought he was helping me with being on time. But this jerk drank a six pack in my locker room knowing the boss uses the new guys lockerroom as his office, to help the new guys get instruction. Five members of the staff were in this large lockerroom with me and two new guys, and we separated to get dressed, well we had private roomes and showers,I showered and came out, and the boss asked me if i had a problem. I said know, he pulled up a bag and asked whats this? I said it aint mine. He leaned over to sniff me. And then the jerk came in and said it mine. It didn't do me any favors, later the Boss told me I should have told him it was the camera guys' what's up with that Jerk or something. Then I realized, they was positioning me. He stuck me in With Giant Crusha, the big guy who doesn't understand his own strenght. I was bruised, banged up and the next night he booked me againstSwainson Thrush and Marsh Wren, they tossed me out the ring in that handicap match, and dove down on me from every angle.
I looked up and masked men were flying everywhere. Man dude got me cornered and his elbow busted up me mouth. I had to get a manager man. I thought my mind and soul was solid enough
to get me through changes, but man dealing with people and taking care of contractual deals man: swamp aint big enough for the fox and the grouse.: croons the mockingbird. Sometimes the fox needs a little guidance. Thats why I hired the Services of Super Acco. Make the swamp into a lake let me do my thang! Factors of Producing a World Class Where to be admired. I'm the best Where anybody have ever seen! Kayfade, or starred I am the where: where they all wanna be!
When I joined and wore my khaki uniform girls lined the streets, they kissed and hugged me,
I was six inches taller and so very proud, my dearest wish was to be in France at the front,
Swaggering, I walked in my hob nailed boots they sparked as they noisily scraped the ground,
All the boys from my village joined we were treated with pride we enjoyed our new adventure.
We were all teenagers with fresh faces as we marched to the trenches we had second thoughts,
Men wounded carried away from the carnage, bandaged, covered in filth, limbs missing oh God,
Exhausted faces some one shouting, 'march this way! march this way', towards the heavy guns,
Marching with hearts beating fast with mingled rapture, butterfly's a new dread of tomorrow.
The truth was here, did we ever dream that so dark a day would come, the swaggering stopped,
The harsh sounds of a thousand boots in unison crashing to the ground gave me goose pimples,
We marched by rivers and marshes past oak trees budding and birds sang in the early morning,
A thrush stood on an overturned blasted lorry singing a rhapsody, an ecstasy, we marched on.
Plum-bloom falling in showers on gentle breezes, blowing white carpets over the muddy ground,
Villages, left behind will have maypoles on the green, girls with ribbons in their soft hair,
Wild cherries in flower, rockets purple and white in full bloom, kissing sweethearts in woods,
Wallflowers in cottage gardens, rich masses of gold and delicious deep spicy country smells.
What have we left behind, what are we going to, now so near the cannons whump the rifles spit,
Single file along mud corridors then onto the front line stepping over men finding our places,
Watching the rats, smelling the stench, corpses rotting, unreal faces and gut wrenching wounds,
Looking along the line, every thirty yards a non commissioned office reeled off the many rules,
This will be my last place on scorched earth, people laying dead, rotting just a few feet away,
I will ever see my loved ones, my home or the colours of a fresh spring day, my time is written,
My dad will mow the corn, and pick apples from a orchard by a meadow, the meadow by the stream,
A premonition, I know will be true, will leave me and my friends lost in a foreign brutal land,
It is a peculiarity of Love’s mossy light
that once, hapless rocks drowning in their days
would be overthrown by Love’s destructive plight
and smooth-whiskered words its song to soothe
in the belly of the whale its secrets brew.
In the aftermath of glow the pilgrims kneel
counting the bars of its serenading calm
as fire, trapped by beauty, mistakes its zeal
for something more than willing victims choose
and fans condemn themselves to breeze.
It’s nothing, but its something, and tired hope
endures, cradling every Cupid with a wish.
The vapours thin exposing every dusty mote
and pretend or not, all hearts will sometimes need
the mercy of their first and final love, never dimmed.
A visit, spectral angels cavaliering through the night
bringing blessings not condemned to wane,
flowers falling in love with their own petalled sight
bearing fragrance not descriptive like a name,
all that’s true would only call itself “Increase”.
The spring is fine as nectar to the flower brings
though all condensed and jealous of the Fall,
epic time is taken so all Eternity can sing
and clip the butterfly into shapes more lovely -
what delicate work! When love begins it’s sigh
far from where it once stood burning, a lush
constraint remains where freedom’s glove is lost
walking down its harbour, past the moveless thrush
and the crow all dead from drought, the rain will cease
and Love will change to tear, rolling back to moss.
The painter wild, the poet crazed all beyond his grasp,
what jealous combination, what charisma!
That together in a different stage marriage would outlast
the spikes and needles of despairing dim machinery
driving metal into hearts of soft enigma.
Seasons turn and all that makes us sober stays
safely tucked inside Betrayal’s chamber;
Reason roots itself in the soil of Love’s eternal fun.
Its sharp and pearly fingers, shaded from all danger,
can grant us mooned medallions to reflect the Sun.
The devil goes, the angel stays around in secret
ringed in haloed words of beauty’s whispered tale.
The two, not permitted by circumstantial thrall
to enter communion’s sweet redeeming place….
Love supports itself to fail, just to rise above it all.
Copyright. 2009. JLM.
The desolate perfection of solitude. The shiver of recognition that there is only one being on the mountain, and that’s you. The pine trees watch, the boulders brood, but there is no one there. The splendour of being alone, crushed to fragments by the chirping of crickets, pierced by the song of a mountain thrush. The sea of solitude, a sea of sounds. With no noise at night, sounds rush you like a wave, a pounding surf inside your head. But, then, in the ozone tonic morning, the sky fills you with blue happiness, emotions so high you are born again on the mountain, and loneliness seems the greatest joy a man could wish for. Praise be to God I’m alone. Though the mountain air throws its voice from time to time. “There’s a whole world out there waiting for you — what are you waiting for? The world doesn’t care whether you're here or not.” I know, I think. I am free, so free I could dissolve into thin air right now and fly through that hill, through the planet for that matter. Find myself on Mars and know what loneliness is all about. Earthly loneliness is for cowards. On earth there’s an outside chance a human will turn up. On Mars, loneliness meets a new friend — desperation. The desperate need to remain whole, to not break up and boil in the Martian atmosphere. To not depressurise and explode. Lots of long walks required on Mars I’d say. Circumnavigation would do it. Is there loneliness greater than that? I think there is, but I’m afraid to tell you. But there is a tremendous rhythm to be found in silence. It might take days to get it. You might suffer with sound death in an echo chamber for a while. Tinnitus might strafe your skull case for what seem like endless nights. But one day you’ll find yourself listening to a distant, low base rhythm that starts from the balls of your feet, the back of your skull — you don’t know which — but it’s so strong, so virile and strident you see the whole forest take up arms and shake its fists. And you shake your fists too, and dance like a bear in a dry riverbed — wolfsbane shooting off your claws like bullet tracers, spraying colours all over the pine tree valley. The music in silence. It’s dripping from the trees, drifting in mountain mist.
Even in our winter season the soul of the coming year bursts through hard thick frost,
Even in high piles of purest white snow, buds grow for our future of the next summer,
Blow flowers stir and seeds my mind with flowers of the rarest beauty of our nature,
It is a miracle of this world a characteristic of not understanding natures jigsaws.
Every leaf every little flower and grain will enrich the earth to sustain its many needs,
It would take too long to enumerate all the flowers, buds the insects in each new year,
A Christmas rose expands its white chalice undaunted by the sharpest of crystal frosts,
It blooms amid overwhelming wreaths of snow and the hardest ground but it never fails.
In the valleys of high mountains the ground is covered with these hardy beautiful flowers,
January has a dear old favorite and my old friend the snowdrop a delicate mighty force,
White aconites, the white leaved colts foot flower grow in the milder months of our winter,
In the woods and hedges insects begin to recommence active life under barks of old trees.
Every advancing day presents us with a fresh and cheering symptom of a clean new spring,
Hedge sparrows and the thrush begin to sing, wren pipes lay, we see a golden crested wren,
Blackbirds whistle and linnets gather and little lambs appear in cold snow covered fields,
The house sparrow, a bold courageous bird, renews his brisk chirping a challenge to cold.
So when we look through white frosted panes of spun glass and look across winter countryside,
When we moan we are bored but it is too cold to take a walk or play in the clear open air,
When we come home from working and complain that their feet are wet, cold and badly wrinkled,
Nature is busy getting her armies together to make meadows wonderful and glades beautiful.
There is no season without a witness of a higher greatness which I cannot understand,
In the cold iron depth of winter nurtures the whole vegetation of our future summer,
Like germs of faith and hope in the heart of man that cannot and must not ever fail,
Little buds grow on a bough, corn peeks from frozen earth, nature has moved a mountain.
Sitting and waiting for the whistle to blow again twice in just one day,
I sat and watched the various signs, the returning spring across fields,
In a copse there was a wood lark singing also in the copse a sniper waiting,
Tom **** hung off a house that stood in ruins as shells fly so will they.
A wet face of fear and rain droplets fell into my thick very wet great coat,
Dreading running across ruined fields, charred oak trees, rifles spit at me,
For now I will listen to the peace the loud harsh voice of the missal-thrush,
A man lies near me, so still I kicked him, the heap of bloody rags was silent.
Men walked along the trenches they needed to do something stamping cold feet,
Sitting in the iron depths of winter trying to have faith, hope in my iced heart,
Ears burn in the ceaseless icy east winds it blows so cold, I am so very scared,
There is only a few things we can be sure of that is rain, cold and snow storms.
There is a load bang and sound of speed in the wind a shell falls but it is short,
Bullets fired the tracers are like fireworks they glow as they flash past or over,
Snow falls heavily and the ripped fields of no mans land begins to turn mud white,
If the whistle blows for us to attack we will stand out like silhouettes on paper.
My mouth was so dry I kept on drinking water but each time I dank the thirst returned,
The clothes I wore have not been changed for nearly six months coldness killed ticks,
Noise of the shelling and rifle fire made me feel sick my stomach full of butterfly's
My hands begin to shake uncontrollably as I try to light a cigarette the match is wet.
The whistle blows in frightened confusion we are told to push on and leave the trench,
Officers with guns wait to shoot anybody that does not charge and join the slaughter,
I stand in a snow white field as a black figure on a white background this is my day,
Men wounded, many crying this is so wrong, a bullet hits my head I fall into blackness.
Sitting and waiting for the whistle to blow again twice in just one day,
I sat and watched the various signs, the returning spring across fields,
In a copse there was a wood lark singing also in the copse a sniper waiting,
Tom **** hung off a house that stood in ruins as shells fly so will they.
A wet face of fear and rain droplets fell into my thick very wet great coat,
Dreading running across ruined fields, charred oak trees, rifles spit at me,
For now I will listen to the peace the loud harsh voice of the missel-thrush,
A man lies near me, so still I kicked him, the heap of bloody rags was silent.
Men walked along the trenches they needed to do something stamping cold feet,
Sitting in the iron depths of winter trying to have faith, hope in my iced heart,
Ears burn in the ceaseless icy east winds it blows so cold, I am so very scared,
There is only a few things we can be sure of that is rain, cold and snow storms.
There is a load bang and sound of speed in the wind a shell falls but it is short,
Bullets fired the tracers are like fireworks they glow as they flash past or over,
Snow falls heavily and the ripped fields of no mans land begins to turn mud white,
If the whistle blows for us to attack we will stand out like silhouettes on paper.
My mouth was so dry I kept on drinking water but each time I dank the thirst returned,
The clothes I wore have not been changed for nearly six months coldness killed ticks,
Noise of the shelling and rifle fire made me feel sick my stomach full of butterfly's
My hands begin to shake uncontrollably as I try to light a cigarette the match is wet.
The whistle blows in frightened confusion we are told to push on and leave the trench,
Officers with guns wait to shoot anybody that does not charge and join the slaughter,
I stand in a snow white field as a black figure on a white background this is my day,
Men wounded many crying this is so wrong a bullet hits my head I fall into blackness.