My Life as a Film Script

 My Life as a Film Script

This was not how I wrote things when I was young

In my teens the end was so far in the distance

That a finale was unconcievable

I lived for the moment, the morning, the day

The early 6:05 train

Leaving a bronzed, unblemished, beautiful man in my bed while I crept around, drinking early instant coffee

Smiling to myself at last night's tendernesses

Navigating the inner city concrete jungle city

For an early shift

While he slept on

Weekend sunburn did not stop us from swimming in thick airless heat

Seawater as warm as a bath

Sand in our baguettes

Wine on our lips

Our healthy bodies strode up mountains

Limbs rustled by the high country grasses

The smell of meths in our coffee from the Trangia

Sleeping two to a single squeaky plastic covered mattress in a hut

Much to other trampers disgust

We thought it would last

But money

And electricity bills

And worries from the telly

Wars in strange countries, ugly men who yelled and waved their arms

And petrol prices

And empty fridges

And children with chickenpox, hand, foot and mouth, scabbed knees, and stationary lists

And the dismal rushed repetition 

The lack of kisses

The eyes that slide over you to the beer on the bench

Those things

They got in the way

So then the end of my script was suddenly so near

I had missed the perfect ending

Of love in old age, together for life

Instead the writer of my life failed to tie up the loose ends

And explain the mysteries

Left some strands unfinished

Cliffhangers of broken promises

I flounder near the end

A montage plays before my eyes

The actors recognisable 

But their movements are already played out

I wish for a flashback to take me back to the beginning

To relive

And perhaps to rewrite what is already done

Fade out.

For Jennie

 

Pink Is Best

It's such a happy colour
Reminiscent of candy floss, afternoons at the A&P Show
All the pink words are joyous
They include such glories as rosy, flushed rosé, blushing and bloom
Which segway nicely to perfection, prime, apex and finest

Your video took my breath away
I cried as you kissed your fingers to the screen
Impossibly bubbly
Full of life
Our faces flushed
Wearing our happy pink scarves and lipsticks
But all I could see was grey and black
The pink cloud of you swallowed up by our unhappiness
Lost in a sea of black

Pink is best!
And pink will come
Like the Spring blossom
Giving hope again
Soon, I hope.

In the silence after

In the silence after

In the silence after
I hugged my own child
Knowing there are mothers who will
Never hug their child again

In the silence after
I raged in my heart
Knowing hearts have stopped
Never to beat again

In the silence after
I wept for myself
Knowing the innocence of children broken
A city in despair and unbelief

In the silence after
I questioned my God
Knowing he may not answer
Just yet

In the silence after
The flowers still bloomed
Tussocked islands waved at cars
When they passed

In the silence after
Strangers hugged on the street
Hi-viz and hijab
Knowing there are still
Arms to reach out
Hearts to beat on
In the silence after

Sweet Apple Tree

In the Spring the bark bursts
Unfurling crumpled white handkerchiefs
Which look longingly to the sun
Awaiting the eager bees
The dewdrop mirror
The satin soft caress of the breeze

In the Summer she shows
Her best side to the sky
With a sigh her duty toils
Producing a perfect sweet
Blush skinned apple

In the Autumn she has given
Up her leaves to rot and curl
To gnawing caterpillar teeth
Drooped low to the dank aging
Disspated grass

In the Winter she waits
Hidden inside a frosty sheath
Pooling her resources
Preparing her smile behind the snow
To Spring foward afresh

The Snow Angel

The Snow Angel
The sun splintered the regimental trees 
Shattering silence as she ran 
Further towards a frozen past 
Cold hearted in her knitted leggings 
Scissored angels wings when she fell 
Leaving only ragged frosty breath 
And icicles 
Laying in the snow

The Amazing Race

A "found" poem, where you take a text and cross out the words you don't want.

A "found" poem, as inspired by Beth Overmyer,

THE AMAZING RACE
Your race
absolute time
will receive questions, maps, timetables and vouchers
Each Master
answer digital money
points for speed
collecting evidence
danger decide
danger absolute
abandon emergency

The deadline is each minute
absolute sight
You may travel.
Otherwise you must walk.
Your clock stops at the finish line.
There, you warm
beware life. fails
you will note
you lose
failure is deemed to be due to overuse

Waiting for Rain

WAITING FOR RAIN

When night comes, the Moon
Swollen heavy with the day's heat
Glows a balloon of gold
In its blue velvet jewellery box
While we toss and sweat
When will the rains come?
Whispered into our damp pillows

Growing Old

GROWING OLD

On a page of encrusted dust

Lapsed sediment

Stroke after stroke

Lava flows

Over past eruptions

Pervading cratered pores

Occupying the native land

Underground, unsullied, undrenched

A fresh and pure spring remembers, waits

My Favourite Poem at this moment

Neil Hilborn created a wonderful, edgy, lost love poem called "OCD".

I just wanted to share it here, because I love it!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-s

Queen Nor'wester

Queen Nor’wester

She starts small

Tousling the hair of rugby children on a Thursday afternoon

Flinging washing onto the drive, pegs strewn like grass clippings

Bustling leaves off mazes of autumn vines
Kissing ponds into lipsticked white horses

In the evening she shows her teeth

Whipping through macrocarpa hedges

Her tail lashing trampolines to death

Her hot breath dehydrating pasture to stone and dust
She dances in stilettos on the corrugated iron roof

Come twilight she inhales

Ready for the big one

Now she opens her mouth and roars

Shaking sheds from their foundations

Pulling gates out of the farmer’s hand

Yanking trees by their roots to play pick up sticks
Her sharp fangs bite through powerlines

She is the firestarter
Supreme Ruler of the plains

Queen of the Northwest

ANZAC Day 2016

The Poppy – Anzac Day 2016

If I were a poppy, tall, red and proud,

Plucked from a small tuft of land,

I would wish

To be the one,

To grace the distant shores

Where men and women  gather,

In memorial and celebration,

Of those small moments

Which made the difference,

By laying that one poppy

It’s black, keen eye open towards the morning sunshine,

In remembrance.

Alberts poem about fog

Albie brought this home today and I am so proud of him

Anzac Day 2014

Anzac Day 2014

I stood in the sun today

a cool breeze in my hair

Honouring the memory

Of men I have never met

Their hair was full of sand and grit

I have no way to know if the sun shone

on their doomed push

up a beach that no-one had heard of

A shore that meant not much to anyone

Except the local villagers

Who despaired at the boats

The guns, the battle on their shore

The aircraft streaming overhead

For what?

So that I can stand in the sun

Enjoying the cool wind in my hair

With my small children at my side

And honour those men with sadness and pride

In a small village that not many have heard of

But which I call home

Hope

Just a glimpse in the corner of my eye
A retina imprint, a slice of sparkly light
Occasionally caught off guard
Among clouds of salt that mist the vision
Private night tears, unseen in bright sun
I dare, and take the challenge
Chasing the daylight stars
Splinters of light piercing my head
Up the pebbled beach
Over the bracken covered shore-hills
To the tussocked hill tops
And catch the sunshard in my hand

The Foreigner

Though storm and calm both overcome
Or murky channels hide
Plotting his course, steadfast and true
His warm heart open wide
Why then does he lonely stand
His maps in ciphers speak
The stony wheel resist his hand
The lodestone fail to seek

One hundred days and more he's tried
To reach the greening shore
It wavers tempting lines of hills
But the mirage eludes him more
On land his hopes and dreams were built
His blood it runs of old
Down bracken tufted river silt
And rocky cliffs so cold

See, there he played when life was young
When grass was tall as trees
And giant steps round worlds were run
It's scars but scabs on knees
Now stranded in this iron boat
His scare'd dreams do ride
While on the wind strange tongues cry out
"My God?" to silent skies

Sept 2000

Patchwork Scraps (in return)

PATCHWORK SCRAPS(in return)

A patchwork of memories

some jewel bright

unsullied by time and place

others with frayed edges

worn and familiar

oft-used, oversewn many times.

The scraps of life are not discarded

but meld together

to make a mesh of life

capturing me in its net forever

Untitled

Anna, my daughter

Has given me a coat of many colours

Made from the scraps of life

fabric discarded along the way,

Fragments sent flying

by the winged things metamorphosis.

 

 

The pattern I remember has

been changed and colours show

in places strange to me.

Surely the fish sign

Came from someone elses sea !

Not that it matters, we

all need fish and bread and wine.

 

This coat of stars and shadows

that others see as such a present fit

Sits awkwardly on me

But keeps me warm

and is my treasure.

My Dad

MY DAD

Did you see him pull in a Kahawai, hand over hand?

standing on southern rocks

spray, wind, cold

an oilskin parka

shining eyes

"A good one to grill" he told us

proudly slitting from tail to rib

with his knife

Did you see him making rabbit finger shadows?

in the tent at night

two poles, a vee of orange

"No room for kids" he told us

banished to the tin trailer

or to sleep under the stars

satellite tracking

Did you see him polishing boots?

first scrape off the mud

drying them in front of the Juno

brushes and cloths

spit and polish

"Every Sunday, you're judged by your shoes" he told us

Did you see him whittling with his pocket knife?

slivers of wood

poked into the Thermette

smoke everywhere

no matter where you sit

Did you see him tightening my seatbelt?

while I sat

nervous and excited

wedged into the fibreglass glider body

soon to be aloft in the quiet wind

cars, sheep and grass below

wheeling above the world

like a dream

Did you see him sitting by the fire in a rocking chair?

us with our hair wet

Dickens and towels

Oliver Twist, Treasure Island

all beloved

"just five more minutes before it's bedtime" he warned

yet caught in the story

we eke that out to another half hour

Did you see my Dad?

Montana-Rose's first Poem

For Christmas this year my little girl received a Sewing Machine from Santa.  She spent the whole of Christmas day learning the names for the different parts of the machine, and sewing little bags and bits of paper and making all sorts of things.  She also made her first poem which went like this.

SEWING MACHINE POEM

Put down the needle
Put down the presser foot
Sew!

REQUIEM

Since the latest subjects of poetry on this blog seem to have been for the passing of friends, I thought I would post this lovely one by my father which he wrote on the death of my grandfather, Dougal.

REQUIEM

Cold and brilliant the southern sky
Do you see it? old man?
Are you there?

Clear and sad the trumpet sounds
Can you hear it? old man?
Are you there?

Soft and slow the glittering tears
Can you feel them? old man?
Are you there?

Sky, trumpet and tears I lay,
On your grave, like a flower.
Old man.
Close your eyes in it's fragrance,
Farewell