Tag: Poem (Page 1 of 2)

I climbed down through coastal scrub

Sandstone nub and turkey scratch,

Purposefully counted into the hundreds

And then became distracted for caution

And for possible misstep. On safe arrival

The foreshore held its mysteries

Within wash and cliff and ancient sands,

I did not inquire or pause to study, yet

committed and turned again to climb

knowing afore each rise I would by needs,

descend

Martinos © 2018

To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure [enjoy] the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded! ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Rust, that un-used plough;
vigilant in the swallowing green
shares the fugue
of its various machinery.

In tangible mist
milk-cans emptied flood the ground,
cows are sent back to pasture,
fence posts made ready to burn,
in an afflicted winter
burning cold in the comfort of sorrow.

If an old crow happens at the cloudless
this is more omen
for a shrinking market.
And when the shoulders of my father
farming this winter
are no longer brave enough to carry
the sky
I carry his gun to the gate;
we walk a silent trail
to wait for an enemy
that never comes.

The cold sun; a bright nail
pinning us, the blue weight
pressing horizons from reach.

Father searches this expanse,
his hands extend
to something…
but I see
they only move
to wave away flies.

And if there is any comfort…
my hand in his
is cold this winter.

The way each hill runs down
the way tree lines suspend the turbulence

My father’s arms are in these hills
taking timber from the gully

The crest of his hat starts at the waterfall
his toes peep through lantana

His advice trickles into pools from the hollows;
his boots peeled open, dry before the fire

Lizards bask like heat-curled nails in the sun,
billy smoke whispers its tale through the canopy

Through the slow step of a century
he has turned one-eyed squinting toward the sun

The scrape of sharpening-stone on an ancient scythe
sets my teeth on edge

The whistle to the bullock team calls me back
but it’s too late, my ears have gathered for another harvest

I am already removed from his wilderness.

I.

Awash
A broken spiral-shell
A stream of moonlight through the imperfect aperture – the delicate intention.

The sure clutch of a seagull that turns this
in the foam of low tide. And
the sandy-wind turning out the dried-up husks of baby turtles,
once clutched surely.

II.

A fisher-man turns,
squinting from the moon to the sun.
Down through his nets are nests of old fish tales
and an old wife waiting for his return.
Ever awatch for a silver sprinkle under the wave-crest, and for
a basket of fat herring
to be thumped proudly on the table-top.

III.

A crane steps lightly on its mirror behind the sea,
fishes the land locked pocket with a spear in his beak.
An albatross,
no time for gulls or cranes and less for yearning nets, encircles.
The fisherman is for his pipe. Fishing in his pocket for a pouch of backy.

For waves.

For wind.

And for silver.

Martin Challis © 2009

Listening to the first awareness of morning
I sense the kind of clarity elusive
at other times of day.
She is still, a singular breath, formless,
offering insight into the endlessness
of something pure.
Yet she moves away as thoughts come:
those dissenting armies that tramp in
to involve me in the containment of opposites.
She will not be held in place by argument.
I long for her when she leaves.
She has opened up a space in me
And I’ve glimpsed a purpose.
My intention is to attend to her throughout the day.
To be the gardener who loves the flower.
That she might touch me when she will
That she mind find me, often
In the gentleness of contemplation.

Martin Challis © 2009