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Best Poems Written by Jeanette Swan

Below are the all-time best Jeanette Swan poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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In the Dark ITQ

The sunset clouds are pinks and greys
in tattered strips, in rips and frays,
in feathered flight at end of days,
in summer skies that fill my gaze.

And in the pines beside the sea
a hundred birds talk endlessly
and shooshing waves lap hungrily
as we eat fish and chips for tea.

Before the day turned into night
the pinks were burned by dying light.
The birds were still, the moon was slight
when day had gone and it was night.

And then my eyes could hardly see
the scenery in front of me.

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Dear Penguin

Adelie penguins,
dear little things,

black on your backs, 
black on your wings,

round white tummies
and flat pink feet,

your waddle is funny 
and so is your squeak.

When you dive in the water
and porpoise around,

jumping back on your feet
when you land on the ground,

it’s a penguin I’d be,
if a bird I would choose,

wearing dinner-suit feathers 
and flappy pink shoes.

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Glory

I have watched tree-giants 
in deep forest-cathedrals
declare glory, speak of heaven
in sanctuaries where birds rejoice 
between branches 
under leafy-windows  
– green and gold. 
I have seen where roots 
pierce stone. 

Then, glazed December
cracked. Empty 
summer storms 
thundered,
stabbed lightning 
straight through giant-hearts
to the dirt floor.

Fire:

raging fever, contagion,
pain, death, loss,
ashes.

And afterwards,
the once-burnt feet of a lone koala,
a soothed survivor,
were clinging anew to the arm 
of a tree, waiting 
for more disaster.

We heard the next thing coming
on the weather-report
and put the bikes in the shed.

Here it is!
One cloud, like a fist,
hits hard.  Leather-dry-sky
splits into a dark stampede. 

Invading gales 
rip bones from trees, 
pelt rain at dust,
dust that leaps up,
surprised to fall as mud,
mud that tumbles, twists
into bubbling brown
creeks, rivers, dams;
overspills, 
smothers,
kills fire,
drowns.

It’s all been on my screen,
along with the newborn grandchild
un-kissed.

When will I tip-toe 
to see  new growth
on the charred forest giants,
hear loud cicadas chant,
and celebrate – singing  
with lorikeet lunatics,
and a first kiss?

Sill dressed in beauty -
this weary world patiently waits
for the next.

................................................
Written after 2019/2020  'Black Summer' bushfires and floods, and Covid related news and lockdowns.

Details | Jeanette Swan Poem

Magnetism

Lights flicker, 
buttons ping, 
new clicks whirr 
in the beautiful machine.

My head slides,
my eyes turn, peer in,
gaze: 
magnetized by novelty, in this tiny 
maze, slinking ever further, further in.

Purring springs exhale steel-sweet breath; 
my narrow eyes glide between busy twirling cogs;
my ears perceive the melodies of electronic hums. 
Then, snap!
 
I failed to hear the mind hiss
inside its trap.

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Prayer

I thank you for this breath of life
That quietly blows through my days.
May I know You,
The One who lives, 
While I have breath.
And go to You,
The One who loves,
When breath is gone;
The One I love,
Who died my death,
Who gives me life
With his warm breath:
Jesus.

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Meet me at the Beach

The moon flies,
the breeze sighs,
over the dark seas.

Here is a wall, a stubborn cliff,
above a raging water-whirl.

Here is a beach, where curling waves 
meet wide sands and compromise. 

The moon sighs – or was that the breeze?

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Night Watch

Dark trees on the dark street stand still:
duty bound mute guards
between heaven’s stars and
solid earth,
locked, secret,
with no voice to me
as we walk on the black road,
not talking.

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Ashes

Charred wood and ash 
stink, after fires
in Garigal high-country.

A single crow cries
road-side, on a black tree-post
guarding road kill –
a round brown wallaby
with feet stuck-up.

Ash covers ash:
grey dust lies still...

until rain drizzles sweet liquid,
wets dirt, licks seeds, nudges life.
Seeds swell, unfold, 
lift leaves to prick the air :
grass-whiskers spring up.  

Fat globes of summer-rain spill 
between sandy soil-crumbs 
where roots sip  silver water.

One tomorrow, black-skinned scarred tree-trunks will sprout leafy chests,
and white cockatoos will screech graffiti over skies patched with clouds. 

Once more, warm lips of wallabies will graze over green grasses, 
nibbling: blessed again.

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Falling Through Midnight

Between the chimes………..…… of twelve and two
Darkness adjusts…………………..… the doors of dreams;
I perceive a presence …………..….…. pausing, perhaps,
as one who watches……………..……..... within.
Something beside, sly, ………………..…... speaks cruelly, 
whispers words which wound………….......condemn.
Catch me Jesus.........I am near the edge…….. falling… 
to your stronger arms beneath.

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The pride

New red-leaf candles glow in a green room
jungle cathedral; buttress-rooted forest-columns climb
to a sun-starred sky in jig-saw pieces; 
wings stretch feathers over gravity;
voices whisper, ‘Beware. Lions prowl.’
 
Smooth granite-faced walls build shadow-spaces,
city-blocks; black-suited women, men stride out,
ground-starers, pacing
beside the sign: ‘Do not feed lions’.