Drought

.

The dry earth coughs up dust storms

While cattle scratch at the brownness,

Their tongues having forgotten

The sweetness of green grass.

 

But the sky is closed up like

a heart that has borne much pain,

And the clouds hold back the rain

As though in just retribution.

 

Would it be that the mewling of

slaughtered beasts and the gasps

of dying fish rose up from the earth

in pangs of collective wailing?

 

 

It could be that the heavens have

a thousand ears and a million eyes?

Maybe Nature communes with itself

In a language we have stopped hearing.

 

~~~

Australia has been experiencing drought for 6 years in a row. Cattle are dying and farmers are committing suicide.

 

NaPoWriMo 26 – Kennings

For day 26, some kennings. Bjorn at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads presented the concept of Kennings. Or compound noun combinations.

My impromptu attempt 🙂

~~~

A leaf-fall. A leaf

falls on to the forest floor.

Beyond that, silence.

~~~

A heart-knock. Someone

knocks on my heart boarded up.

Beyond that, silence.

~~~

A tune-lilt. Lilting

tunes slowly take me apart.

Beyond that, silence.

~~~

A death-wish. Dying

to the past my only wish.

Beyond that, silence.

~~~

NaPoWriMo 23 – Autumn

For day 23, a haibun.

AUTUMN

As I enjoy the colours of autumn, it also reminds me to let go of old paradigms, worn and tattered beliefs, past-its-expiry-date relationships, outdated concepts that no longer serve. Yes, it’s hard. For don’t we all love the old and comfy, whether it be things or thoughts. The security blanket of the tried and tested.

Autumn sings hymns of
dissolution. Quiet death.
Spring smiling sleeps.

So, just like trees need to let go of the old and dying, lay bare their branches and go through a period of rest and slumber, for new buds to spring forth and life to begin anew, we need to empty ourselves of the old and outworn, so that life can replenish us with the fresh and the new.

~~~

NaPoWriMo 9 – A fragment of a dream

For day 9, a sweet, sad poem on a dream I saw the other day –

 

A terse dream this was,
broken, anguished, blurred,
of which a fragment remains
in my memory, embedded.

A wayward bullet strikes
at lightning speed your chest,
passing through it spears,
calmly, through my breast.

Locked in a gaze we stand,
as love flows out the wounds.
Caught tight in death’s hand
as the dream softly fades.

On waking, for long I ponder;
did our souls our bodies flee
at the same moment, together?
Did they merge to become free?

Did pain set our insides afire?
Is sorrow the bullet that incinerates,
torching our ignorance, our desire,
and into freedom thus liberates?

~~~