May 2015

Stone Soup

Today I recall the years when, as destitute students, we occasionally gathered together from all over the inner city to share a meal. The host would fill a large pot with water, drop a large stone into it, and place it on a hot stove. Each guest would then bring their offering obtained from food cooperatives and communal gardens to add to the pot. Offerings of onions (both red and brown), carrots, celery, potatoes, leeks, pumpkin, parsnip, spinach, capsicum and so on joined seasonings and herb garnishes to gather the many into one.

When it was ready we would break bread and consume the feast.

dewfall —
the ripples en route
from a single word


may day —
a distress of leaves
labours on
prayer flags
the wind takes up
while words falter
red leaves
now just the dark wine
of peace
offered up
quiet as a comet
her breath cloud
a child racing
the moon
the moon tonight —
light's  reiteration
of the incomplete
spring rain
sound plip plopping
from the eaves
between stars
loneliness takes on
darker tones
tone poem —
autumn rattles
into a mosaic
look at this!
the one I am
in sleep
roadside diner
bluebottles flash
briefly blue
skimming stone . . .
identity theft
in the air
mother's day —
forest mist stretches
beyond the smog
mist-mired moon
another haiku
backspaced over
deep autumn:
clear water wells up
through darkness
dawn coolness . . .
first words air-brushing
the breath of god
leaf-loud breeze
in the otherness
of light
autumn funk
I don't want his damn'd mower
grandfather clock!
what on earth
keeps it ticking?
pissed on
the last food trail
of some ants
to a drama 
without words
without light
let there be
nothing but
pft! spring!
I gorge myself
on cherries
back-chatter —
time to go jump
in the lake
muzak oozes into
the marble
yesterday's issnues . . .
onan disseminating
Dad: 11 May 1914 - 7 March 1991
Mum: 16 April 1920 - 27 July 2009
here to there --
filling the dashes
with my self



late prayer —
ink blot clouds astride
the white

chance of words in nocturnal reverie

with wide eyes
words as spare as
cave paintings
evening waves —
I remember her touch
silent as a comet

keeping in touch our mitochondrial Eve

alone at last at a dead stop .

head shot
my personal pronouns
shedding capitals
look to the clouds!
there is an earthquake
in the air
Not really a haiku, more a presentiment I had for the coming week.
When Pentecost day came round
within fire
the tongue-tied voice
of the pine

first frost . . .
whiteness clings on
in the shade


set horizontal the s....u....n stretches out along one line

first frost . . .
rigor mortis creeps
along the lawn
by moonlight
the landscape the woman

fog of war droning on and on

mist swans
weave through the ritual
of evening
undergrowth —
a condom wrapper spent 
among the leaves
moments before
out of sleep
erasures of light
redefine it
autumn ends —
my image stripped back
to bare bones
Make It New
Days and months are the wayfarers of measured time, living in an unimaginable reality 
just as the years that slip by.  For those who have always known of the self-creating stars which
live drifting with the currents of an everyday truth in which ordinary perceptions are denied,
or leading a horse by the bridle into old age, overturned, the mind thrust into a channel in which
each day is an exploration, the wandering itself the formerly unknowable because then unimaginable

spliced genes
an unnamed seed quickens
the groundwork
- Adapted from Oku no Hosomichi by Matsuo Basho and The Carpathians by Janet Frame
I have been observing a strong writer-resistance to submitting my written words for formal publication. Self-reflection has yet to determine whether this is because of inertia or pride. It is much like the unease generated in allowing a photograph to be taken of oneself within a particular moment; freezing the instant while immersed in the process of aging and change.
It is the uninterrupted process of change that gives the truest delight. What is written is the decayed manure of the present in its seemingly endless decomposition.
The one who writes this is no more than the child who once ran alongside riverbanks in cicada-drenched air seeking out eel shadows in the infolding of water under a pristine sun. My words make present again his real presence yet he is buried within the words that consecrate who he is.
morning fog —
the flesh of shadows
cast by words