IMPERMANENCE

DANCER, FIGHTER 

The lamp rests steady 

Behind a sea of black lingers.

The flame, dances and rides,

Upon the rhythm of passing breeze

Bringing a light,

A little bit of warmth,

To the surrounding darkness.

And for long the flame rages

Neatly seated in her little glass cage,

Petit to any wandering eye

Yet ferocious to those close by.

The dancer draws its fuel

And once again lurches with evermore joy.

But such is bound to exhaust.

The flame sucks more.

Faster.

Harder.

The darkness closes in on that little dancer

Creeping from its surrounds,

Crawling towards the bastion.

Our flame fight on, 

Flickering: spirit of resistance,

Fierce to the touch,

And malleable to blow.

The flicker grows lower regardless

Calling and gasping,

Yet chocked from within.

Such is the plight of the little flame of the lamp,

The little warrior,

Upon the moment I chose to dream.

In Embrace of Steel & Dirt

Above, the leaves of gum, of balga, of tuart, 

below the bottlebrush fall, sitting in the grove of the banksia, 

surrounded am I by that which extends from me. 

Yet, I am not exclusive to the bark and soil, 

for above the roof of the karri, the metal and concrete reside, 

the call of the blue wren, a twitter among the canopy. 

I approach the steeple, 

yet, find myself adjoined; 

banker, chippy, senator, elder 

all congregate below the cross of I.  

Not for sermons or scripture of old, 

but rather the hymns of the Mali 

and the organ tune of rivers a flow. 

On this hill I perch, a sentinel,  

behind sprout the emerald-green fronds, 

yet at the foot the Ute roars on winding avenue, dividing earth from the Bilya. 

Hark! 

Do not protest that of my ordinary day: 

car and building and phone, 

are the seeds which sow this kingdom and are not so different. 

Karri, end my angst with chorus of your leaves, 

As the mothers laughs, so does her child. 

But friend, I must depart, 

far I fly, my brusque end awaits! 

Of golden white and beauty,  

and endless swirling tides. 

In earnest I must confess, 

my gaze of green extends long and far, 

not mere eucalyptus, but pine and oak as well, 

for all grow just as tall under heedful eye o’ mine

Expiring Lungs

The cigarette held up above my eye,

Its ember sits in front of the lamb post

As I squint, 

They share light.

Above the sun seems to rise,

A gloomy orange tint on otherwise black.

Trees rustle as if,

To heed the warning of dawn await.

Burns the embers next to me,

Between lips and slurred words,

Conversation with little meaning,

Or purpose

Or end.

Mere ramble of youth:

Drinks, jobs, cars, food.

Ember draws close to my finger,

Heat now touches me.

On my nails and my tongue.

Dirty nails.

Dirty tongue.

Both linger in knowledge that such times,

Are almost spent.

Sun rises closer,

Ashes keep falling.

A pause in talk to watch it fall,

Perhaps a little too long,

As thoughts come to stay.

So I talk again.

Soon we will wake,

With sun high in the sky,

And nothing left to say.

But until then,

The trees will rustle,

And the cigarette will burn.