We follow the travelling path
Criss-crossed by dust midden
Cool rain she brought us
Like pale sleep walkers
Strange figures in tall bald coal towers

Growing damp or dry throated
With the tapping of crickets
Our tears grow like melons
As one with the river
Carving our grief under blue spider tree

We bed down with horizon
And rest with night spirit
Footstep on footstep
Deep in earth basin
Wake we with weringerong

Then sun, slap our heads
With the back of her hand
Hollow beetle hushing
Running through brush
Feather rock-wish we free like he

We are flowers in sun
Our words, leaves in wind
Our grief is dry resin
In the shades of our footsteps
In the river’s silent tears


Blogger the cloned corpse of marcus tal said...


Kind Regards

8:55 PM  
Blogger Cocaine Jesus said...

yes, well, brushing aside dear old marcus, lets cut to the chase shall we?
you are on a role. recently each one of your poems has had the spirit of change and adventure sparking from it like neon. each visit see's something new and fresh leaping off of the screen.
for me it is like being a kid again and awaiting bowie's next release.

10:20 PM  
Blogger Carbanion Tolodine said...

I remember a day, a tree, a little rain, and a girl. We have some hope for the futur and when we must go, we have tears in our eyes.

I'm only an old romantic guy. Nevermind.

Take care of your self and thanks for make me remember of that.
A kiss for you with all my hope for the futur.

10:23 PM  
Blogger MAHARAJADHIRAJ said...



What do you mean?

When you say that the sky is blue
and the sun's yellow
and the teapot holding
crimson tea leaves
and water, white.

What do you mean?

When you say I am OK
and everyone's basically good
And the dog that shits
daily on your morning papers,
an effing moron.

What do you mean?

When you say I am sorry
and that we all screw up
And that your distant dad
is hard to forgive.

What do you mean?

When you say I didn't mean it
and that sometimes
you just say silly things
and that you and I
should be clear
bout things in life.

3:49 AM  
Blogger Russell Ragsdale said...

Wistful and a little sad. These seem like winter reflexions. Like CJ said, this is a relatively new type of theme. Well done!

12:34 AM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Cloned c of m t hi

CJ day conpletely made, what nicer thing could you say.

Carba deep sensitivity gives you a view of the world few can experience but it hurts too

MAHARAJADHIRAJ I really enjoyed that, I've read it three times and I keep getting something slightly different- thank-you

Russel it is a sad poem, it was inspired by the story of three little aboriginal girls who had been taken from their mother because their father was white, it was common practice untill less than twenty years ago. They ran away and walked for nine weeks to get home 'Gerringong' is Aboriginal for 'place of peril' and 'weringerong'is a 'lyre bird'

5:54 PM  
Blogger Queen Neetee said...

Have you ever experienced a truth so beautiful and odd that the world had to shift just to accommodate it? Well, you have made it happen again.

Thank you. What a special writer you are.

12:50 AM  
Blogger Carbanion Tolodine said...

A point for you. I thing you've right about it. Live hurt you and maybe give you the best of this live.

Bye, take care of yourself.

1:35 AM  
Blogger MAHARAJADHIRAJ said...

Thanks Sue! Here's one that's in same breath as GERRINGONG... don't you think?


A black patch
of concrete,
broken stars
in coal tar,
on a big-moon
night, grinning
under a mercury
lamp, a few
dry leaves get
hit crossing
the road
by a whiff
of silver
taking them
off course into
a pool of clean
and settled rain
water, collected
two days ago,
the leaves
now wet and
laid-back float
like lazy tourists,
looking up at
the big moon
and its shadow,
coming down
the mercury
lamp, grinning
back at a black
patch of concrete.

Written a few hundred hours after the 'real thing'.

4:55 AM  
Blogger Echo said...

The flowers glow in the dance of the sun and but so soon so soon its all over.
My path too is one of brilliant children and dancing and laughing all i can until i die
when the crash comes.

I am a bottleist too,
there are nests all around my house.

10:13 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Q Neetee thank-you, you always leave such lovely comments

Carba I think even the bad things can help you grow and maybe better apriciate the good things when they're there.

Maharaj, that is reall beautiful thank-you

echo keep laughing, it's wonderful to meet a fellow Bottolist

6:03 PM  
Blogger MB said...

Such vivid imagery, Sue. This is a real desert song, with sadness running through it like the dry riverbed, tears welling up inside but like the desert plants that keep their moisture to themselves, not spilling out...

9:15 PM  
Blogger Brood Mode said...

y so sad?

11:50 AM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Thank-you MB, I'm looking forward to catching up with your beautiful poems, last essays to finish grrrr

Brood Mode, that's so kind but I'm not sad, the story made me sad, but also amazed at the courage of those girls and it just came out like that

5:35 PM  
Blogger GEL said...

I've said this before but it bears repetition. I savor your versatility. This piece tenaciously grabs all of my senses and holds me in its plot powerfully from start to finish. Thank you for explanation your motivation for this fine poem.

10:11 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

S Moon I'm glad it worked for you it was one I kept fiddling with back and forth

7:45 PM  

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