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Blind Pathos Sep 2020
Untitled because it is not about any one thing. It is of the stuff written about, untamed, undiscovered… un yet. That which is just beyond. Before the hand reaches it, before the eye sees, before the mind pours it into the shape that is comprehensible. It is pure. It is debauched. It is half and complete. It is the blind mice playing a symphony with small instruments in Schrödinger's black box where he suspects a cat to be. It is the mother of “Ah Ha” and the father of “Eureka” that is this tear.

Be neither this nor that
He nor she thin or fat
Be and being not
From any given lot

That grail of poetry
That makes it be
This lightless paint
What tis and taint

Who may choose may
Find who chooses say
It choose me instead
I am and was dead

Be rabbit or sacred star
Do I follow and how far
If I am weary I resume
My fleshy wick consumed

So big… yet so small
So… yet… so it is all
Great be in my being again
Now at least I have been
Arrogance is required to write on a perfectly white piece of paper. Creative acts require the timid mouse to leave his house and gamble his life for more.
Jesse stillwater Dec 2018
Mushrooms popping
up everywhere
moving pine-cones
like unturned stones
not even the weight
of lapsing maple leaves
can keep them down
as they reach up for sun

Four legged soul-mate
friskily passes them by
on her way to sparse
apples the deer didn't find
looking for a moment
to feel sun's slithering balm
where the mushrooms
bask in a warmhearted calm
Jesse — 2018
a walk outback
a minute ago near sunset
Nyx Sep 2018
The bushland calls
Of my childhood dreams
Amongst the wild
My soul it, sings

The gentle breeze
light upon the skin
Sun upon my face
it welcomes me in

To the lands of summers
Though now long gone

Memories of the heats haze
With a white juvenile horse
Within a closed off field it lay
But young and free it was born

Birds flying high above
Shielding the rays of the sky
Perfectly clear a crystal bright blue
Not a single cloud in sight

Fields filled with nothing
But the dirt beneath our feet
Dull patches of green and yellow
Amongst cattle it feeds

A rooster it crows loud
The chooks begin to run
As bruce, a little staffy
Chases them about

Work shed full of tools
Covered by a rusted tin roof
Parked beside it old barrols
And a broken down ute

Stone walls of the house
To keep it cool inside
Spread across the cold floors
A reddish brown cowhide

Worn down leather couch
Out upon the front porch
An eski filled with stubbies
Where the boys had their "talks"

I feel the memories flooding back
This peacefulness, this sense of home
Hours pass by within seconds
Losing myself in the zone

My footsteps have long faded with time
As has my name once carved upon the gumtrees
The white stallion no longer grazes near by
Nor do the same cattle dwell in that field

Worn down by time and way of the land
Though I do intend to return again
To share the beauty of this place
Drawn back by the old fate

The day melts away like the snow
And I hear my parent calling my name
This place will forever be my second home
Because I know here, I'll never be alone
The only place I can feel truly free
Under the hot glaze of the sun
Casey Rodger May 2018
The wind whistles by me lightly cooling my warm sun struck skin,
Each drop of sweat instantly freezes sending shivers from within,
As the breeze picks up, so does my hair whipping and curling around my face,
Then in just a single moment it’s dead still, the wind has won it’s race.
I can hear the birds now laughing and watch them race from tree to tree,
I wonder what they’re chatting about, and if they know they’re free,
Without the wind, it’s almost as if the world stopped turning now,
It’s hot but I don’t care, let the sun keep burning down.
I can feel the temperature is high but the scent out here is low,
Traces of hay and cattle rise slowly to my nose,
A gentle soothing marinade to compliment my day,
“Smells like home” I thought to myself, but did not say.
My barren tongue lingers with tones of dirt, hay and dryness,
In my throat remains a hint of burnt bush, just the finest,
Sealed by my lips it all comfortably works there,
There is a certain peace with this landscape that I share.
Without my shoes, I feel the Earth beneath my feet,
I feel connected rather *****, I can hear my own heart beat,
Once my muscles tire of standing, I lay down in patches of dead grass,
Not long after ants are here, and they all just move so fast.
As I lay there watching, growing itchy – Though not from the ants,
A giant grasshopper visits my chest, so majestic in his stance,
He moves to face me with his intimidating position,
Whether I jump or not is completely his decision.
While my hands grow numb under my head, I squint uncomfortably at the sky,
I see a colour blue as blue, so far away, up so high,
It’s clear and clean, not a single cloud in sight,
Just the sun gleaming down, preparing the world for night.
As I lay here in the outback wanting it no other way,
Listening to the leaves rustle from wallabies that play,
I think about where I’m going to be soon far away,
But I stop and fill my lungs, and just enjoy this gorgeous day.
Brian Mangels Jan 2018
I’m here to capture birds!
Exclaimed the hiker in the back
We’d made the call to pick him up
Along our dusty track

He spoke at quite a volume
And his statement had me fear
Just what kind of character
Was riding with us here

And it was with due concern
We were alone it did occur
As upon our exploration
Of the great outback it were

What does he do with birds?
I thought to myself and friend
By her glance I saw that she’d
Considered the same end

Perhaps he’s meaning humans
When he speaks to us of birds
Playing time to make a strike
Misleading with his words

We best get to the bottom
I don’t like the sound of this
And who the hell captures birds?
There is something here amiss

Tell us more dear hiker
For we don’t understand
Do you mean your taking photos
Of birds in this great land?

Again he answers loudly
Cameras are no match
Birds don’t sit still, so with his eyes
He considers it a catch

Things become much clearer
And I feel somewhat a fool
He’s just an honest birdwatcher
Doing it old school

And he’s from a foreign country
Dutch I hazard the guess
Are you from the Netherlands?
He replies a booming yes!

The man has quite the passion
He’s travelled very far
Just for our birds, first by plane
And lately in our car

But we are in the outback
What on earth brought you here?
Twas by the train with a few stops
For rare birds that I could peer

This hiker most impressive
Tell us more of what you’ve seen
Speak of rare birds you’ve captured
And places that you’ve been

I have been to Epping!
Loud and proud he is again
I stayed with a friend
And caught your fairy wren

I have been to Capertee
And nothing could be sweeter
Than spotting a rare endangered
Regent Honeyeater

I’ve been to Lake Menindee
Full it’s quite the site to see
But pretty rainbow bee eaters
Are what appealed to me

Outside of Broken Hill we were
When our paths converged
We to spot rare flowers
Him to capture birds

We reached his sanctuary
And dropped him at the gate
Sorry that we couldn’t join
The day was getting late

We made for sculptured sunset
He waved grateful, on his own
As we drove off, we wondered
How the hell would he get home?
Derrick Feinman May 2015
An island in fields
Your cell phone is of no use
Defacto sabbath.
ryn Dec 2014
punched through
canvas of night

array of stars
strewn across
blanket of black

are my
Northern Territory

Like salve
to my
inconspicuous cracks
I can see more stars here than I ever could back home...
Incubus' "Wish You Were Here" came to mind.
Marion Clarke Apr 2014
Paper thin top soil
Cracks seep through
Red dirt.
Bloodless gashes
Simmering summer soil
Baked turf.
Rolled gold haze
Aches as the
Country stretches its skin-
Near breaks
******* teeth
******* itches
Red earth fit-
              To burst in a
Dark cloud of dust,
Choking soft as to soak
The moisture fresh
From your lungs.

Blinding blue sky
Set for worship
On a tall horizon
Too far, too high
For common souls-
                  To float on a      
Breath of sweet dry air,
Eternal journey to sunset
Small piece of a dream
To chase a grey cloud
From sky to west.

Where subterranean
Creeks used to slip by
Rise in a ***** of land
Where water once carved
                          Its roam
Now the winds sweep
All traces away
Back toward the sea,
And fair beyond
The aching dry eyes
Of the sons of
This red earth,
A mist lies awake
And prays for rain.

— The End —