Children need to breathe the air of protest
walk together, arm in arm with strangers
wear badges of hope and T-shirts with lifelines

Sing words of wisdom and history
chant choric responses of camaraderie
in a mass movement of human voices.

Understand the justice of causes
and the constant need for change.
The dignity of freedom
and the strength of real choices

Find courage to lead others by honourable action
spreading metaphors of compassion
over roads of pain and tears.

Letting the certainty of liberty
beat with their hearts
as strong as empathy

And may peace be tattooed
on every breath
they ever breathe.

© M.L.Emmett

The poor keep moving
as if relocation
could reframe the algebra.

They cannot see that repetition
traces patterns
in their life.

New beginnings become as hopeless
as stale finales
of debt and desperation.

Wishful thinking makes for certainties
gambling against the odds
of possibilities.

Whispered prayers and incantations
leaves no space
for reason’s compass to steady and settle.

If they stood still and mapped the moment
both sides of the equation
would simplify

and they might construct
a new geometry
of anger.

© M.L.Emmett

Underwater light faceted
in the enormous aquamarine
set in bronzed stones.
A pale green mist lifts from the pool
follows the lantern lit pathways
back to the dark and shady places
edging to the olive grove
and the blackness
of the wych elms
and the limes
enclosing the garden
like impenetrable walls.

Here, on a very warm night
with a honeysuckle, jasmine breeze
heady, rich and almost liquid
You can stand on the sun-filled stones
stretch and hold
the heart-breaking sweetness
of the night.

‘...We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep’                      
Shakespeare The Tempest Act IV.i.156

We are such stuff of stars and light
our grasping hand, our gaping eye
our mind electric sparking
all atoms in the crystal night
connected matter
across infinity
still in one moment
collected together
in the universe
and my quiet garden
at midnight.

You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.


               © M.L. Emmett

Morning pallor on a grey day
not a five cent shine
to the sun.

Bitumen hissed all night
trees tossed and tangoed
shuddered and split.

Navy clouds, blue with rain
surfed in from the ocean
racing on the wild wind
learning to scream.

The stones listened
moon listed and tried to find
a space in the cloud-tide rush
to quiet-light the gloom.

Morning Armistice on a pale grey day
of debris and displacement
refugees and leaf litter
surrender and detachment
silent and still
only a five cent shine to the sun

© M.L.Emmett

Poets are word canaries
prepared to die in dark, airless places.
Poets are sharp sirens
alert, alarmed and warning of the firestorm.

Poets can read
tree bark calligraphy of knots and scars.
Poets decipher codes
and shrewd puzzles, bold and enigmatic.

Poets ignore the talk of Angels
their prophecies and broken promises
Poets turn over Tarot cards
lay out rune stones, fearless of the future.

Poets steer clear
of treasure, jewels and golden ingots.
Poets climb ladders
and stairways cut in rock and stone.

Poets can see beyond
apple blossom, lilac blooms and dead lilies.
Poets find the past
in patterns of stars and the orbit of comets.

Poets lick salt
relishing the wounds and tears.
Poets throw life-belts
wreaths onto empty oceans.

Poets split existence
into life and death with nothing between.
Poets sift ashes
and sand for the rough edges of infinity.

She comes each day
to comb the beach
for words beneath the waves.

Tongue crests roll curled
syllables to shore

The salt wind catches
breath and sighs

claws the chords
and clamour of the stones

reckless tide scratches
sentences of sand

splintering into time
particles and meaning

tidal drag snatches
back surface similes

slips back to blue
and thunders timpani

drifts back to reflected light
smooth land and water.

© M.L.Emmett

In the grey chiffon mist and drizzling rain
I see you standing silent
embracing death
never turning your face
to the sunlight or me

In the orange ribbons of street light shadows
I see you standing silent
embracing darkness
never showing your face
to the morning or me

In the pearl crescent of the ancient moon
I see you walking away
embracing night
never stooping to look back
to say goodbye to me.

© M.L.Emmett

Aunt Lottie had a slow and careful walk
every step could jar
the delicate balance
of the fragile grand piano
she had swallowed.

It was no ordinary instrument
it was entirely made of crystal
which added to the fears
of its disturbance
or destruction
by the simplest slip or stumble
or missed footing on a step.

It was a slight inconvenience
she had taken in her stride.
Matters concerning the said piano
were only discussed in hushed tones
on Wednesday afternoons
and only with her dearest nephew, Ludwig
who sensitively seemed to understand
the precious nature of imagination
and the tickling discomforts
of digested furniture and such things
as fancy may create.