Edited by Ingrid Wilson and includes a host of well known writers, including yours truly, from WP available via Ingrid (PDF by donation – a WWF fundraiser) or on Amazon (Kindle or Paperback), Book Depository, or other.
“It takes a long time to become young.” Pablo Picasso
In the mirror I am older now,
the taut youthful skin a little sallow,
and at times my body cries to slow,
but there is another me
who resides behind my eyes,
looking out on the world
as I have always done,
the young me
who lives past age.
“War does not determine who is right – but only who is left.” Bertrand Russell
Never have the vainglories of death
been so exposed as in the spectre of war
where truth is so relentlessly sucked dry
by the ghouls of righteous capital,
so cheaply purchased by the blood of innocents,
for those who would never near the fight
as to get their morals dirty
nor their boots,
they are the ones who would kill their own
for the sake of a few inches of sand
and forty pieces of silver.
“The purpose – where I start – is the idea of use. It is not recycling, it’s reuse.” Issey Miyake
I went to the local op shop
to glimpse the passing of my life
in a multitude of styles and colours,
unboxed memories in
this museum of moments,
a house of bargains,
all recycled love
wondering where to home,
I took nothing tangible
but I left with joy
and the stirrings
of my childhood.
“That first long secret drink of golden fire, juice of those valleys and of that time, wine of the wild orchards, of russet summer, of plump red apples, and Rosie’s burning cheeks. Never to be forgotten, or ever tasted again.” ‘Cider With Rosie’ by Laurie Lee
The challenge by Laura Bloomsbury of dVerse Poets is to take a piece of prose by Laurie Lee and work it into a poem.
I drank of you that secret drink,
that juice of wild valleys
that moistened your ruby lips
of apple red seduction.
I sat with you in those russet hallways
of sun marked scapes of wonder,
and counted cotton candy clouds
that sugared us with joy.
Memories like clocks who ever know
how we loved each other like a
baroque lilting of romantic flow,
never scrumpy, always smooth as wine.
Your golden haired hypnotic dazzle
unforgettable in all eyes of seeing,
your fiery cheeks like rouge desire
for a love delighting in its time.
Photo: abc.net.au Bunyah the farm where Les Murray one of Australia’s best known poets grew up as a child and returned as an adult many years later. A place that deeply influenced his poetry.
Taree was your last breath
so hard to think of a national treasure
dying ordinary in a nursing home,
what with thirty volumes
and a string of awards,
but now you’re gone,
ashes to ashes
dust to dust with
echoes of Bunyah
the Sydney Push,
with ears to the ground,
a voice for the little person
and regard for the land,
the Queen’s gold medal
with just a little fame
you were large in life
and in name,
now you’re gone,
but your words remain.
There’s a patina of despair
and everyone is jaded,
we’ve been bitten more that twice
by those we’ve elevated,
trust has flown the coop
while ideas cower in darkness
and those with tiny minds,
glove puppets of the bankers,
all come to my house
forever empty handed,
and lately I’ve been
looking for some lustre
but it’s lacking everywhere.