happy birthday

six rows of five soldiers
march with torches in hand.

at twenty-one you were given a key to the door.
you locked it behind you.

at thirty all the doors burn down

the ghosts attack
and the skeletons dance.

sar 2011

I need no Tardis

Yesterday's here
to screw with today,
a half-life like plastic
it won't go away.

sar 2011

limerick

A blogger with rocks in her head
wrote a post that was linked to and read
by four hundred. She frowned
and then pulled the post down
for some things are much better unsaid.

sar 2010

museum

On level three just past the dukes and dames,

entwined, protruding from the hardened dirt,

two lovers lie, their putrified remains

exposed for all to see and then assert

some pretty fiction: 'this a romance strong,'

'in life together, not parted in death,'

'an injured soldier made the journey home

lay with his dying love till his last breath.'

What sentimental rot! The caption reads:

'their love endured though world around would end'

We spin our tales of love's heroic deeds

But no one knows what lies around the bend.

The love we said would never die, grow old

Now like them lies in dusty earth out cold.

sar 2010

cinquains

I wrote this cinquain for my class.

birthday

hooray!

streamers, balloons

celebrate a new year

a new age, one more step closer

to death.

sar 2010

I like this one more.

It seems
That barbed comments
Baited with some small joke
Hook themselves well into the soul
And rip

Sue Marsden


Have a go. 2 syllables, 4 syllables, 6 syllables, 8 syllables and 2 syllables again.

mothers' day rhyme

I'm woken on this mothers' day
to such a perfect sight:
two golden heads, they lift the blinds
and sun is streaming bright

onto the tray they've brought for me
of tea, organic toast,
and gifts and handmade cards. They ask
which I will like the most.

Perhaps the little broach my son
chose himself and bought
to match the colour of my eyes.
Such love, such taste and thought!

Or maybe it's his sister's gift,
a scarf, that I'll prefer.
I say I'll wear it and each time
I do I'll think of her.

My children, I don't like to boast,
are really quite amazing.
Uncommon in their aptitude,
their dilligence and training.

Tiny Tim, though only three,
already writes his name.
His sister, Sally, you'll agree
is destined to much fame.

She leads her class at little gym
She climbs and sommersaults
so beautifully, and just last week
she shimmied up a rope.

And all the other mothers stopped
their chatter and they stared
to see my daughter shine.
I'm sure they think it isn't fair

that God bestows unevenly.
One child and not another
he gifts. I lift my eyes and say
"Well, you should see her brother!"

I don't blame them.  The world needs both
the common and the high.
They'll keep their feet upon the ground
while me and mine will fly.

"My kids aren't perfect," I explain,
"Sometimes they'll fight and yell.
One child insists of Mozart
while the other wants Ravel.

I carefully point out to them
the error of their ways.
They weep repentant tears then turn
and brother, sister say

'I'm sorry,' to each other. I'll
admit I'm moved to see
such good behaviour. It reflects
so very well on me.

When night time comes, without a sound,
they toddle off to bed
and whisper 'Mummy, I love you.'
I kiss each pretty head

and count the many things I've done
to make them be this way.
Of course, genetics always have
a major part to play.

I've blessed them with my intellect,
my beauty, sense and style.
I've cultivated manners, taste,
exposed them to a pile

of foreign cultures, languages,
we eat organic food,
they follow my example and
are never, ever crude.

Your kids, I'm sure, are perfect too,
in their imperfect way.
I'm sure they'll grow up just like you
and just like you they'll play

their part in our society.
Rebecca, Ryan, Kim,
Imagine! They may one day work
for Sally or for Tim!

My thoughts go out, this mothers' day,
to you. I wish you luck.
But truth be told, if I were you
my mothers' day would suck.

sar 2010

[untitled]

Make me a cake if you want me to
Eat. Place a sliver on my plate and I'll
Taste it with you.
Away with mere words.
Paint the sky, play
Hide and seek, let
Off or
Remain
silent.


sar 2010

The Soprano Will Always Get The Man

Eponine smiles as she sinks, safe from harm
She is finally wrapped in her longed for one's arms.
And Marius, once decided and firm,
Finds that he now is divided and torn.

The sky or the sea? The day or the night?
The chocolaty rich or the strawberry bright?
The gods, they look on and they smile smugly sure
The alto? The soprano? They've been here before.

"It's sad," they lament, "but she'll just have to go.
Her rich, mellow tones are too deep and too low.
Her eyes are too dark, her dress is too tight,
And the green that she wears shows her soul is not right.

"But Cosette, sweet Cosette! When she sings it's a ray
Of sunlight that brightens the darkest of days.
Oh Marius, come! See her wind caressed curls!
Surely you do agree, she's the pick of the girls!"

And the tenor, of course, can't resist her blonde hair
And her trills give him thrills. Oh come on, that's not fair!
A man can't foresee that a voice now so bright
Will soon turn to screaching from morning till night.

Marius, soon you'll regret what you've done.
Your flower will droop when brought in from the sun.
But come, the song's written, the script must be read
And a heartbroken alto is better off dead.

So die Eponine!  This embrace is the best
that someone like you can ever expect.
It's the way of the world that no matter how thin
Her soul or her art, the soprano will win.

sar 2010

Now

You are so slippery.
A newborn in the bath.

My body quaked
to give you birth. Pain,

a moment of sensual pleasure,
and you fall

into that deep pool
of things past.

sar 2010

Australia Post Does Not Deliver To Mars

My face, I know, is one she won't forget,
My parcel, wrapped, addressed and stuck with stars.
The girl she sighs, feigns patience and regret,
"Australia Post does not deliver to Mars."

Our nearest neighbour! From earth it's but a step!
I'd drive myself, if there were rocket cars.
The sun, from far, sends light each day and yet
Australia Post does not deliver to Mars!

"Look," I said, "I've searched the internet,
I've had a psychic reading and you are
my only hope. I'm ever in your debt,
Take this parcel, deliver it to Mars."

The customers behind, irate, upset.
I know they wished me safely behind bars.
The girl her eyebrows raised, her words a threat,
"Australia Post does not deliver to Mars!"

It's not my fault, the chasm wide is set.
I take your parcel, put it with a vase
of flowers dead and dreams for now unmet.
Australia Post does not deliver to Mars.

sar 2010

Valentine's Day Is Coming!

And with it, a truckload of delightfully shallow love poems!

Obsessive, adolescent schmultz is just good fun.  It's worth having this hallmark celebration, if only for an excuse to read and write frothy nonsense.  So I intend to.  In the next few days I'll be posting a pile of romantic poems.  All light, all fun, some bitter, some nasty.  My favourite is a brilliantly cutting sms valentine's day verse by Sophie Hannah.  Look out for it and others.

For Andrew, I tried writing something a bit more real.  Alas, married love is much trickier to capture.  There are so many more layers of complexity.  I posted my attempt (click here or just scroll down about 2cm to the next post).

Happy Valentine's Day to all of you.  Whatever that means.

Satellite (for Andrew)

I spin faster than you.

My movements hectic to

your slow turn.

I dart while you plod, yearn

while you wait, run

while you tread the steps

of your yearly pilgrimage.

Everything plotted,

nothing to chance.

I'm with you, but

I have my own dance.

It's clockwork regular

and calm for the most part.

But monthly my belly swells,

my temper frays

and I rage

against your shores.

Your hands on mine,

gentle as I assault, revolt

against the forces that bind.

But I am yours.

I will not go.

Cannot.

Didn't you know?

Couldn't you tell

that it's always been about you?

Every turn. Every changing spell

has had to be.

You the earth.

I the moon.

And love, it holds

as gravity.

sar 2010

from cadbury with love

my purple paper and silver foil
untouched.

you will unwrap me

for the sweetness, the
comfort
I offer

my smoothness
irresistible.

january
a tiresome month
vainly boasts of new beginnings

but confident I wait.

I am here.
your constitution
is always to fall,

so why should I fear
resolutions
never kept before?

sar 2010

writing the emotions

I cut your phone line.
now a sniper, I lie and wait

for she who dares approach
your gate.

sar 2010

[Can you guess which one?]

grief

the back of each page is blank.
the second half of every thought
a withering trail
that stabs.

a sigh.

a dimension is missing.
my laugh is hollow,
the stars are just a stain upon the sky

for you are gone.

sar 2010

Leaving and being left

Our best friends left our church last weekend to pursue paid ministry elsewhere. Their move away from us was inevitable, but still horribly sad. M and I have done just about everything together for the last decade.

I wrote this poem when I was in an angry stage. Of course it adds unnecessary drama to a relatively insignificant farewell, but where's the fun in keeping things in perspective?

Leaving

It's easier to leave than to be left,
Only one can get to do the leaving.
It's better to bereave than be bereft,
One departs, the other's joy bereaving.
But can you see me sink into despair?
Am I one to wallow, fears believing?
If pages have a perforation, tear!
And if unsure, then rip and test their cleaving,
Try it out! There is no use in heaving
pointless days to pointless weeks and grieving
empty years still left to pass and weaving
hope from air with futile movements deft.

It's better to bereave than be bereft,
So while you talk of leaving, I've already left.

sar 2009

writing a poem...

...fairly close to the line. Maybe (probably) over it. Should I:

a. plough on ahead (who cares about lines!)
b. keep going. The question is what to do with the finished product.
c. stop writing, turn around, move carefully and definitely backwards.
d. stop writing, reposition the line, move on ahead.

Tell me what you think.

[untitled]

Our neighbours' house is on fire.

I clean out our gutters,
hose down our roof,
build a 20m brick wall,
throw away my phone,
pull a chair onto the front lawn,
and wait.

The worst will be over soon.

sar 2009

is it legit...

...to put John 1 theology into Mary's mouth for the purpose of a little nativity musical? What do you think?

Song for Mary

1. This child who's sleeping peaceful in his cradle
I'm told he holds the whole world in his hands
A baby yet much older than the mountains
God from God before the universe began
God from God before the universe began

2. How can it be that he should call me mother
Created me yet from my body came
This little one I tend like any other
Is the Lord, the king, all tremble at his name
He's my Lord, my king, I tremble at his name.

CHORUS:
Could an artist jump onto his canvas, give himself
Could a potter become clay upon his wheel?
Could our God, creator, step inside creation?
Has it happened now? How can this be real?
Has it happened now? How can this be real?

BRIDGE:
Jesus, how can this be?
Though I hold you now
You are holding me.

sar 2009

I like form

stay

stay
still
any movement
will not be
apart
north south pull
together
so don't
move but
still
stay

sar 2009