RSS Feed

Daily Archives: November 23, 2013

LISTEN TO THE RAINBOW – Promote Yourself

 

rainbow222222222

    Red         

Hear the blood shed,

(Orange) Clementine

Unspoken words, blurred lines,

 

Yellow

Refusal to shout, to bellow,

Green

No words shared; between,

 

Blue

Inaction, injustice we rue,

Indigo

From despair, rises a human archipelago;

Violet

We must no longer be quiet.

Wendy Shreve

Rainbow Treasure

th

Rainbow Treasure
I have found the treasure
That lies at the Rainbow’s end;
Wealth beyond computing
Is mine to give or lend. 

Opals of an April dawn, 
Gold of a shimmering noon, 
Amethysts of the sunset, 
Pearls with the glow of the moon. 

Would you like to share it? 
There’s more than enough for all
In my Iris Garden 
Against a grey stone wall.

By

-AGNES HAYES POST

FULL STOP

girl,lonely,vintage,blue,small,girl,water-78303e6e077ecb152b9a03d6c6d60dca_h

I am too close to the water’s edge
and I wait impatiently to slip in
and succumb.
Let the water pour in and fill every empty space within me.
Let me inhale the cold deep blue –
filling my lungs to their bursting capacity.
For I desire not to thrash and wail,
but to sink, heavy-weighted and
silent, to the sandy bottom.
Let me gracefully and languidly
find that desperate peace beneath
the dark depths, where no light dares penetrate.
Why long for such finality? Such conclusion?
There is a solemn quiet down below.
A silence that calms the worrying voice.
An end awaits, more grand than the one he refuses.
And I long to have it — that full stop.
Sink
and
sink.
When I am finished
and I nourish the sea,
return me to the heavens.
For the one I seek is not here.
And they told me so all along.

Shelley

A Western Australian Piano Graveyard

sheeppppppppppppp

The famer’s pressing oil, olives spread
on mashing mats. We talk of chooks
and foxes, irrigation and bush fires.

I’m here to see ruins in meadows,
on outcrops, brought from sheds
and yards, lashed to utes and trucks.

“All good things return to earth.”
She tells how a choral hum is raised
by strong wind, how possums nest in felt

and termites engineer collapse; how once
after rain, a derelict played like a pianola
as green tree frogs leapt in its heart.

I take her hand-drawn map, find
a Gold Rush era upright, laminate
blistered, keys jammed and gapped.

Despite its barroom look
a brass plaque by the keyboard
names an outback orphanage.

A Foley artist’s dream, felt-less hammers
conjure horror from bass notes, or tap
a level crossing where the hero speeds

to make the gate. Each instrument
decays uniquely; a baby grand is legless,
veneer turned peeled like cherry bark.

Under cracked coffin-gloss
a clutch of white eggs.

by Roy Marshall

<span>%d</span> bloggers like this: