S E P T E M B E R
I picture September in long flowing dresses
with colourful ribbons adorning her tresses.
She gracefully traipses through woodland and lake
calling "springtime's arrived and it's time to awake."
The birds need no urging, they cheerfully sing
and take up the chorus proclaiming it's spring;
sleepy creatures emerge from their burrows and logs:
goannas, echidnas, wombats and green frogs.
she touches the trees with a tender caress
and dons the bare branches with leafy green dress;
the flowers unfold to her charming request,
their faces aglow after winter's long rest.
She summons the sunshine and scatters its rays
where seas meet the shoreline in gentle sashays;
she beckons sun showers and dew drops to fall,
adorning the ground like a shimmering shawl.
I picture September in long flowing dresses
with colourful ribbons adorning her tresses;
she heralds the springtime in jubilant themes,
engendering hope and fulfillment of dreams.
PUFFS OF GOLD
It's wattle time and Nature's badge
brocades the bush with gold -
Australia's emblem on display,
resplendent, proud and bold.
The early sunlight's kind caress
shines on each golden bloom
which wavers in the morning breeze
its heady, sweet perfume.
Like maids with flowing golden hair
in clasps of vivid green;
the wattle blossoms brighten each
Australian country scene.
To stroll within this golden grove
I feel refreshed and free
as if each lustre-laden bough
becomes a part of me.
BOWER BIRD MATING GAME
The bower bird's busily building
a shelter he hopes will impress
so many a bower bird female
attuned to his mating finesse.
He twists all the twigs and the grasses,
entwines them in artful array;
full knowing his workmanship poses
the question of whether they'll stay.
He gathers alluring bright objects
in favourite tinctures of blue:
of flowers and berries and feathers,
steals clothes pegs and bottle tops too.
A find of a blue cat's eye marble
or buttons in shades of turquoise
he knows will appeal to the females,
aroused by his confident poise.
He works with persistence and patience
well preened in his black satin plumes,
his beauty enhanced by the sunlight
in shafts as it lingers and looms.
At last his construction completed,
inspected for any defect;
the moment of reckoning hovers:
they'll either approve or reject.
Espying one interested female,
he struts up and down on parade
in boastful and arrogant swagger
in front of his trinkets displayed
His throat intones strange, diverse noises
which rattle and rasp in lament;
then mimics the calls of his fellows,
with black wings outstretched to extent.
The female peruses his bower
in manner quite pompous and vain;
and if she's impressed she'll acknowledge
accord with his mating domain.
But if the appeal's non-existent,
deficient his bower display,
a harvest of havoc he'll garner
as she casts his trinkets away.
JACARANDA
Close by the sea or on the country farm
The jacaranda blooms allure and charm;
In spring a subtle spell of colour blast
From laden trees or shrouded soil is cast.
A jacaranda potion, so I've read,
Can calm the scattered thoughts within my head,
Make me decisive, clear and fleet of mind,
With certainty of purpose well defined.
Some say good fortune through my life will call
If blossoms on my head elect to fall.
Still others quote a myth opposing such:
Bad luck attends a jacaranda's touch.
I choose the tale which rings the good-luck chime;
And when I'm lost for want of rhythmic rhyme,
I sit beneath a jacaranda tree
And hope a mauve-blue blossom falls on me.
RAINBOW REFLECTIONS
I see a rainbow arc the sky
It's seven diverse colours clear,
As one by one they bring to me
Fresh thoughts to savour and revere.
The colour red reminds me of
The glowing coals at Cooper Creek
Where camped beneath the Southern Cross
We listened to the bushland speak.
The orange is the morning glow
I've seen reflected in the bay
As sun's rays warm and fortify,
Put paid to fears of yesterday.
The colour yellow brings to mind
The silky frangipanni bloom;
From deep within its yellow heart
The sweetest incense fills a room.
The colour green expresses growth
And speaks of trees with graceful lines;
Well did the poet Kilmer say
A tree the greatest poem outshines.
Blue brings to mind the Phu Quoc seas
Which held our gaze without restrain;
On shore, relaxed, we sipped the juice
Of cumquart mixed with sugar cane.
The dreamlike shade of indigo
I see in fairy dresses soft
Where spells of fantasy are cast
To bring the poet's muse aloft.
The seventh colour, violet,
Reminds me of the amethyst –
Of times I've fossicked in the fields
And found the stone which Nature kissed.
I see a rainbow arc the sky
It's seven diverse colours clear,
As one by one they bring to me
Fresh thoughts to savour and revere.
MORNING CALL
(nonet)
Morning overture stirs my soul
as birds declare a new day dawns;
each call unique and fluent
laden with loveliness
yet in harmony
their songs sustain
a supple
tuneful
blend.
BLACKBOYS
We called them black boys in our youth,
Today that term is deemed uncouth;
The name of grass tree now invades
This plant of tall and graceful shades.
Who sits in judgment and condemns
Such names which bear descriptive gems,
Which never meant to ridicule
Nor make of ethnic groups a fool?
Such people sit behind glass doors
And misconstrue our metaphors;
Dictate the use of words they rule
Politically correct and cool.
With minds of small and mean degree
Indulge deceit and trickery;
Expressions, narratives, a name
They modify, forbid, defame.
I'll not be brainwashed by their chant
Which robs distinction from this plant
Whose skirted leaves dance in the breeze
Whose flowered spears entice and tease
The butterflies and birds on wing,
To feast on Nature's sweetening.
Unique, the Aussie bush deploys
This icon proud with graceful poise.
If asked its name, "black boy" I'll say –
Politically correct or nay!
OF FOGS AND GHOSTS
(Connachlonn)
Early morning in the mountains
mountains shrouded in a fog
fog where ghostly shapes are stirring
stirring aimlessly amongst the trees
trees awaiting sunshine's kisses
kisses to dispel the ghosts
ghosts which haunt our wakeful nights
nights of dreaded agitation
agitation born of fear
fear unfounded, lacking faith
faith the conqueror of fear.
BAYWATCH
An early morning on the bay,
No ripple stirs the sea;
The sunbeams through the clouds descend;
Their soft and subtle rays extend
A hushed doxology.
The birds resound their morning call:
A summons to the breeze
To wake the white caps, call the tune
Of water washing 'gainst the dune,
To filter through the trees.
The sun climbs higher in the sky
Exuding warmth and charm,
Enhancing colours blue and green
And sparkling ripples in between:
A placid, healthy balm.
The rebirth of another day,
This precious gift unrolls;
We're left to wonder yet again
As Nature moves through her domain,
Awakening our souls
INTERLUDE OF LORIKEETS
In late afternoon as the sun's rays abate
the lorikeets gather to feast and debate.
The blossoms of golden grevillea contain
sweet nectar for birds and small insects to drain.
At first there'll be two birds arriving to feed;
in calm conversation to gratify greed
not wishing their private retreat to reveal,
preferring to selfishly safeguard their meal.
Then sudden commotion of colourful sound,
when bushes in bright rainbow tonings are crowned;
the secret is out and in noisy acclaim
they screech their delight at this sweet-eating game.
In stunts acrobatic they deftly perform -
their manners are nothing approaching the norm;
they hang upside down as they squabble and squawk
and never indulge in polite dinner talk.
This bedlam of green, yellow, orange and blue
continues till suddenly as if on cue
they screech their departure in chaotic choir,
this flying stampede of bright lorikeet fire.
DROUGHT
(Nonet)
Captive to the sultry summer heat
portraying pictures of defeat
parched land languishes; in vain
eyes gritted search for rain:
clear blue skies decree
relentlessly
hope is lost
the cost:
Life.
MOODS OF THE WIND
My moods are changeable and swift
impetuous my shows;
in lullaby or hectic rage
I care not where I take the stage
my passions to expose.By gentle breeze I bear a gift
refreshing, calm and smooth
to tease the tree tops as they sway
while rustling leaves caress and play:
a balm to cheer and soothe.
In moods of torment I uplift
umbrellas, hats and skirts;
as chaos and confusion flow
I send another stormy blow
where petty mischief flirts.
Cyclonic moods can set adrift
fine yachts of priceless sum,
demolish homes, send trees to ground
toss cars and backyard waste around
like players in a scrum.
My moods of pensive anguish shift
in eerie, strident streams;
through gutterings I moan and sigh
as mournful as a curlew's cry,
re-echoing through dreams.
And so from mood to mood I drift
in fickle, flighty strain;
disorderly and indiscreet,
aloof, with inconsistent beat,
supreme in my domain.
THE STORM
The humid summer’s day was spent,
The evening storm approached;
The dark clouds looming in the sky
Across the blue encroached.
The birds had ceased their warning calls,
The air hung close and thick;
The bush was poised in silent guard
For Nature’s treat or trick.
On Binna Burra’s ridge we sat,
From there to view Her show;
The coastline in the distance and
The valley far below.
First gentle rumblings from above,
A distant flash of light;
This was but Nature’s overture,
Her badge of fiendish flight.
Too soon those gentle rumblings cracked
Like whips which burst the calm,
While lightning stretched its bony claws
With beckoning alarm.
The wind whipped up loose leaves and twigs
Into a frenzied dance,
With motley scraps of debris which
Had lain around by chance.
A groaning shudder, roaring crash –
Old trees compelled to yield
To Nature’s choreography
Where stage is set and sealed.
We sat transfixed throughout the show's
Electrifying phase,
Our minds awash with wonderment:
A reverence near to praise.
Next morn we viewed the consequence
Of Nature's rampant dance,
Her frenzied exhibition of
Unyielding dominance.
But given time these wounds will heal;
New growth will cover waste,
Restoring Binna Burra's charm,
It's beauty interlaced.
MONSOON SEASON
When the season of the monsoon on the tin roof strummed its pop tune,
I would lie in bed and listen to its steady rhythmic beat,
To the down-pipes' noisy clatter of the raindrops splitter-splatter
And enjoy a welcome respite from the humid summer heat.
As it hammered its crescendo void of any innuendo
That this peppered pelting on the roof was just a passing phase,
This new cleansing of the gutter, of the field and drain a-splutter
Left a legacy of mem'ries which no passing years erase.
When at times the rain abated, I lay still in bed and waited
Knowing this was just an interval, a pause in Nature's play;
I could hear the green frogs croaking, welcoming the summer soaking -
While my mind turned to the puddles I'd be wading in next day.
SHADES OF SUMMER
The tropic trees in summer blaze with colours rich and deep:
arched poincianas line the streets, their brilliant blossoms sweep
a bright display to complement the bougainvillia trails
of red and purple, white and pink in stunning, fine details.
The frangipani's subtle charm wafts through the scented air,
hibiscus blooms in endless shades bold summer days declare.
Called Flowers of the Holy Night, poinsettias attest
the legend of the peasant girl whose meagre gift was blessed.
Intensity is summer's crown where Nature's turbines surge,
as from within the humid shroud dynamic tones emerge.
LAUGHTER
(Ovillejo)
There's laughter in the trees;
the breeze
plays games amongst the leaves,
now weaves
bright chords to which belong
a song.
In harmony a throng
of kookaburras call -
a laughing waterfall.
The breeze now weaves a song.
BUSHLAND SIGHTS AND SOUNDS
(Haiku)
floating o'er the pond
the ghostly mists of morning
wait for sunshine's warmth
mountains veiled in mist
ring with morning melodies
as bellbirds awake
the silence broken
eerie plaintive cries transcend:
curlews in the night
long tresses swinging
shadowed by the bushland breeze:
gum trees shedding bark
SUNFLOWERS
Standing in rows in my garden, like soldiers alert and on guard,
Each yellow face scanning the sky east to west,
Each turning its head at the sun god’s behest.
Standing in rows in my garden, sunflowers I planted from seed,
A stockpile of pollen for bees to select,
To fill their food baskets with stores they collect.
Standing in rows in my garden, they curtsy and sway in the breeze,
A butterfly hovers, then gracefully lands,
Departing, wears stockings of rich golden strands.
Standing in rows in my garden, their heads are now drooped and forlorn,
Life’s cycle rotates its repetitive dance,
Each season a segment of Nature’s romance.
WINTER SOLSTICE
The Winter Solstice time is here within the Southern Hemisphere,
And so my heart beats to the tune of this the shortest day in June.
Hence welcoming more daylight hours, as Earth the sunshine's kiss devours,
My mind strays to the ancient rites in northern lands of darkest nights
Where Winter Solstice sanctifies the manner of the Dark's demise,
And rebirth of the Sun whose rays revitalise Earth's drab malaise.
This mystery in ancient times gave rise to rituals and rhymes,
Imploring of the gods to grant fertility to man and plant.
The Celtic Druids glorified the sun god as their spirit guide
As by the fire's glow enticed, they feasted, chanted, sacrificed.
So did the Romans, Greeks and Norse celebrate Earth's turning force,
When Dark was conquered by the Light: a new beginning clear and bright.
The ancient monuments attest to age-old cultures in the quest
To understand Earth's mysteries where gods were keepers of the keys.
Then Christians joined to celebrate the birth of Him they venerate;
Decrying pagan liturgies, but bound in abstract elegies.
This land they call Down Under knows no days where Darkness overflows
To smother Light and sunshine's fire, adrift in melancholy's mire.
But we can still our mind's attune, on this the shortest day in June,
To rituals of ancient days: the rebirth of the sunshine's rays.
So as each year the cycle spins, we contemplate our origins,
As lives revolve on hope that Light will overcome the darkest night.
REVIVAL
The parched Earth groans from crevassed depths
in rasping, frail, tormented breath
where rotting carcasses effect
pervading stench of death.
The dry winds blow, dust storms are born
inflicting further pain;
small creatures burrow deeper, Earth
renews her plea for rain.
She fails to offer sustenance –
dried up her font of pelf;
she watches withered landforms -
she's drained of life herself.
No blade of grass, no sound bestirs
the air from birds in flight;
no creature calls its mate no play:
no comfort, no respite.
The Rain God hears Earth's plea for help,
his sleeping spirit shakes;
he calls storm clouds to congregate
and charts their rain-filled wakes.
Earth soaks this nourishment and soon
the landscape's born again;
small critters nudge their heads above
the depths where they had lain.
Green shoots appear, the rivers run,
wild creatures stoop to drink;
the birds in chorus call acclaim
to rain's life-giving link.
NATURE'S FURIES
Volcanoes seethe beneath the sea,
caged forces seek release:
an underground Pandora's Box,
antithesis of peace.
New falls of snow on mountain range
where glistening scenes emerge;
such beauty veils the menace of
the avalanche's surge.
The white-capped surf curls high and long -
the wind and sea at play -
inviting surfers, unaware
a shark awaits its prey.
The long-awaited rains arrive
reviving land and stock;
the ceaseless downpour soon becomes
a tool to blight and mock.
The lightning streaks across the sky –
a mesmerising show;
its flashing claws outstretched to strike
a sudden deadly blow.
So Nature asks that we attend
the warnings she has spun
of carnage shrouded 'neath her veil
of charm, intrigue and fun.
REDBACK RANCOUR
It’s summer when the redback breeds –
Unfriendly, hostile pest;
This Lactrodectus hasselti -
A most unwelcome guest.
It spins a fine, strong, tangled web
In gutterings and drains;
On window sills, in corners dark
The deadly redback reigns.
It’s underneath the barbecue,
The outdoor tables, chairs;
If you should feel its stinging bite,
It’s best you say your prayers.
The female flaunts red satin stripe,
Long delicate black legs,
When mating’s done, consumes the male,
Proceeds to lay her eggs.
She binds those eggs in silken sheets –
Three hundred in each sac.
Two weeks and spiderlings emerge:
Nest filled with bric-à-brac.
I hate this yearly summer plague.
To Lionel's great dismay
Each day I search for redbacks’ webs,
Armed with a can of spray.
They’re cunning as they feign demise,
Legs curled up in a ball,
But I’m relentless in attack
As ‘neath my feet they fall.
The funnel of the web I prod,
Eggs ruthlessly assail;
I know the spray can’t penetrate
This silken layered veil.
When Lionel scans the shopping list
Reads insect spray by four,
He remonstrates with me and says
“Your fetish keeps me poor!
“Go easy on these redbacks, please,
Your conduct strive to ebb;
You spray sufficient foam, I’m sure,
For them to surf the web.”
THE RIVER LI
Meandering through limestone peaks it glides,
amassing scenes in fascinating scrolls;
this aqua thread of water as it flows
spins filigrees of magic through our souls.
The River Li of which the poets write
caresses lifestyles basic and composed,
where villagers behind their bamboo groves
sustain a quality unharried and reposed.
Around each bend a picture born anew:
an album of idyllic stage displays,
as wave on wave of fascinating peaks
stands silhouetted in the distant haze.
These peaks protect fine waterfalls and caves
with endless channels carved beneath the ground -
a gallery of nature's time-worn art;
a complex scheme with fragile beauty crowned.
Here legends swell the mystique of the Li:
of fairy girls descending from above
to bathe and frolic in the river's depths,
to its hypnotic charm proclaim their love.
Refusing to return to heaven's heights,
were changed by angry gods to crests of stone;
now echoes ripple through the river's course
as windpipes play a ghostly lover's moan.
These waters flow with beauty and accord,
their depths dispensing tonics of tai chi
which break the bind of inhibition's chains,
releasing dreams to set the spirit free.
PLATYPUS
At dusk and early morn
We sat beside the creek
Cameras at the ready -
No one dared to speak.
A rustle in the reeds,
Fresh bubbles from below
Were signs we soon might see
A platypus on show.
Small body clothed in fur,
Propelled by four webbed feet
A bill-like leather snout -
His features quite discrete.
First glance and one would think
He's made of old spare parts;
And maybe that is what
Endears him to our hearts.
A WALK IN BROAD STREAM GORGE
Old Man's Beard sways gently in the breeze,
Waving from the trees.
Mounds of moss where fairies skip and run,
Dappled by the sun.
Crystal stream which twists and turns and dips,
Cooling to the lips
Birds which hide in foliage and sing -
Fluttering of wing.
Carpet soft of fallen beech tree leaves
Where the giant fern cleaves.
Broad Stream Gorge shared treasures such as these:
Signts the eye to please,
Sounds the ear to tease:
Days long gone, but not the memories.
FRANZ JOSEF
We stood at the glacier's base line,
Eyes lifted in wonder and awe:
This aquamarine-coloured ice mass
Abounding in Maori folklore.
Majestically carving its pathway,
Advancing, retreating in turn;
Devouring and raping the hillside,
Man's values of little concern.
The waterfalls splashing around us,
Cascading from heights out of sight;
Huge ice chunks which writhe in the river
To tumble and crash in their plight.
Such pattern endures through the ages
Of which we can but speculate;
Volcanic eruptions and earthquakes
Determining, sealing our fate.
LEAVES OF THE FOREST
Leaves of the forest in all shades of green
kissed by the sunlight and dew drops' fine sheen
tell me the secrets you whisper and sigh
sent by the breezes on wings from the sky.
Leaves of the forest now yellowed and brown
drifting to earth like a protective gown
show me the creatures you shelter and hide
as 'neath your mantle they scuttle and glide
Leaves of the foreest your green caps declare
life is renewed and springtime's in the air
teach me the patience that Nature maintains
bouyed by the charm of her mystic refrains.
CHANGING TIMES
Our planet is changing, is fast re-arranging
with many debating the cause;
the winters are warm, a swing from the norm;
while scientists ponder and pause.
Tall buildings are crumbling as earthquakes are rumbling,
while floods devastate many lands;
elsewhere there is drought and farmers want out -
defeated by nature's demands.
The waters are warming, vile insects are swarming,
disease holds unlimited sway;
forecasters speak doom, catastrophes loom;
the future is shrouded in grey.
The icecaps are sinking, the reason we're linking
to human activity spent;
uncaring we've drained resources and strained
the bounty of nature's extent.
Is earth's stage reversing and maybe rehearsing
for ruinous times yet in store?
well, throughout the ages, if we turn the pages,
this pattern has happened before.
So maybe we're heading where destiny's threading
a ribbon of chaos and pain;
the world we have known will be overthrown
to wait for revival again.
WATERS ON THE SHORE
Upheaval in the Underworld as plates criss-crossed and tore;
in distant peaceful villages calm waters lapped the shore.
The children played upon the beach, the men fished from canoes
the women worked the taro fields – no one had heard the news.
An eerie tone spread through the air, the morning tide withdrew,
recoiled to such a distance that it stranded each canoe.
A wall of water meters high then loomed with hostile roar,
and pounding all within its path, it surged towards the shore.
Inland it raced devouring homes, livestock and crops; as well
whole families were swept away by this tsunami's swell.
The water then receded leaving those whose lives it spared
to move amongst the mayhem, vague, tentative and scared.
Sad funeral rites performed for those whose bodies were retrieved
compassion, thoughtfulness and love for those who were bereaved.
The tasks of clearing debris, planting crops, rebuild, repair:
a time to work together, to encourage and to care.
Today few signs can indicate the trauma of that day:
the vegetation has regrown, once more the children play.
The fishermen are out at sea, the taro crops increase
the villagers wear happy smiles, their lives are clothed in peace.
Their wants are few, tradition's strong, ancestral spirits sway
an influence on daily life where song and dance portray
Their history and customs and their tribal life regime,
acceptance from the gods whose recognition they esteem.
For now the threats of earthquakes and tsunamis they dispel
calm waters lap the shores and gently whisper, "All is well."
