"eucalypts" poems
Heat beats down upon the street
Birds too hot to fly,
Blistered sand you cannot stand
Drenched with sweat am I.
Cows collect in shadow deep
Panting sheep hang head,
Goshawk flies in cobalt skies
Hills of grass stand dead.
Whisp of smoke, a puff of breeze
Sirens scream in air,
Running men in squads of ten
Emerge from everywhere.
Now the rising wind takes charge
Runs with leaping flame
Into crown of eucalypts
To rage across the plain.
Too late the tenders hoses pour,
Too late the fireman’s shout
Inferno hot has run amok
And all control a rout.
Generating mighty winds
The fire charges forth
Spiralling in furnace air
To incinerate for sport.
Vanquished men exhausted stand
Watch with useless eyes,
As raging flames consume their truck,
Inside a good mate dies.
A live thing in the burnished night
It writhes and spirals high
Across the flaring treetops
Hot, red smoke fills the sky.
As sudden as it starts, it stops
A wind change in the air.
Ravaged forest stark and black
Hot ashes everywhere.
Hills of cinders smoking now
Stock in death’s repair,
Homesteads rendered charcoal like
Farmers in despair.
A silence in the ravaged hills
Birdless in the sky,
Bushfire horror, death and smoke
Enough to make you cry.
Marshalg
In support of my Australian brethren and their torched nation.
30 January 2013
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among
trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,
the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,
certain airy white blossoms punctually
reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink--
a delicate abundance. They seemed
like guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed
festival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceiving
the sackcloth others were wearing.
To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well
with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue,
daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.
Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches
more lightly than birds alert for flight,
lifted the sunken heart
even against its will.
But not
as symbols of hope: they were flimsy
as our resistance to the crimes committed
--again, again--in our name; and yes, they return,
year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy
over against the dark glare
of evil days. They are, and their presence
is quietness ineffable--and the bombings are, were,
no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophany
simultaneous. No promise was being accorded, the blossoms
were not doves, there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed
the war had ended, it had not ended.
2.2k
It is late dry season.
The creek bed an empty, rocky,
Corridor to remaining pools.
Climbing a slight crest,
An improbable rock,
Artfully shaped and poised,
Balanced atop a tall pillar,
Reveals the hand of nature.
Below rock ledges polished
By water and burnished by sun
Lies a deep pool of clear water.
Lilly pads float on long tendrils.
Purple lotus flowers open to the sun.
In the water, the Lilly pads,
Impossibly green, cling
To the surface, on which
Water skimmers dart to and fro,
Dragon fly hover, and lazy fish
Swim by, all unperturbed
by the floating human.
Across the pool's outlet, tall saplings
Of grevillea sway in the light breeze.
Parrots balance in the swaying tops,
Their orange shoulder colours
Match the grevillea flowers.
A lone fruit bat, separated
From the colony, climbs hand
Over hand, up and down branches,
To share the nectar.
In the afternoon shade
Of paper bark trees and
White barked eucalypts,
Sitting on the smooth rock,
Which gives comfort without
Being comfortable, the warmth
Of the rock against wet skin
Links us to others who have lain here
Sharing these sensations.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
it appears as though
there was a coup,
in kookaburra land,
this morning.
much fuss,
and cacophony.
as the brown and blue kingfisher clan, reassembled,
their royal court.
the big old king,
uncurled his talons,
unfurled his wings,
gave one last,
manical chuckle....
and fell from his perch.
to lie still,
upon the dusty,
brown earth.
shocked, silence for some seconds, and then...
the eucalypts erupted into, (what would appear to the outsider);
cold calculating mirth.
as the young jacko princes, all began the joking joust
for the top place berth.
in a melee of swooping, chuckling grace,
a contest no less,
set to test....
mettle, worth and cackle call.
each young bird,
takes to the wing and flies into the maddening...and how close,
how loud,
how startling,
they can be.
is made known,
by those,
whose years,
have flown.
when all, is said and done. tourney overflown,
feathers are preened.
then the winner
is presented,
with opportunity, bold....
to nest the queen.
as to the rest,
they take their place,
in the chaotic, cackling, cacophonous,
kookabuurra clan nests.
to bide their time,
until, the next coup,
comes calling...
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
The cottage stood at the outer edge
Of the village of Helsomewhere,
It held a slate on the garden gate
That scribbled a ‘Don’t Go There!’
It housed a cat and a resident bat
And something that moved within,
A thing unseen that was quite unclean
With various types of sin.
The folk that entered the garden gate
Had never gone back there twice,
When asked, they shuddered enough to state
‘It’s something that isn’t nice!’
The weeds were thick in the garden, and
Had grown right over the path,
And filled with sand by an old wash-stand
The remains of an iron bath.
Nobody walked the bullock track
That led by the old front door,
To go to town, they’d hurry around
A path that was there before,
The cottage stood like an ancient crone
That blighted the village scene,
A pointing finger, pared to the bone
Reminding them what had been.
At night the Moon rose over the ridge
And it cast an evil glow,
Down through the leaves of the eucalypts
To the cottage, far below,
The windows looked like a pair of eyes
As they stared out through the gloom,
While something was rushing around inside
Like a demon in a tomb.
‘Perhaps we ought to have burnt it,’
Said the senior councilman,
‘It stands alone as our conscience,’ said
The crusty old farmer, Stan,
‘We have to bleed for our own misdeeds,
Including a lack of care,
Each scream was seen as a nightmare dream
When Lloyd was living there.’
When Lloyd was hosting his dinners for
The girls from a nearby town,
Nobody seemed to question them
For Lloyd was always a clown,
But screams would happen at midnight
And would often be heard at dawn,
When Lloyd was digging his garden patch
By the light of the early morn.
And Lloyd would wave to his neighbours as
They hurried along his way,
Give them a cheery greeting, crack a joke
And say ‘Gidday!’
They didn’t suspect that evil lay
Inside in that old tin bath,
The one that is filled with sand, and now
Sits there, outside by the path.
One night the villagers crept on out,
And they took it each by turn,
To set a brand to the cottage, then
Stand back to watch it burn,
But something was rushing about inside
In a black and evil cloak,
While screams had seemed to come in a tide
With the dark and acrid smoke.
The embers were floating far and wide
In the haze of a Harvest Moon,
They set up fires in the eucalypts
That rained in the village gloom,
And every cottage went up in smoke
For the villagers’ part, they share
In the deaths of thirteen innocent girls
In the Hell of Helsomewhere!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
A fish out of water slaps
for the wet familiar
as first rainbow gasps
for all colour beneath
evergreen eucalypts
and boy becomes hunter.
White flesh in the pan
rainbow now grey;
a dull eye pops in the fat.
The first meal of camp
"We're all about survival"
says the voice from the beard.
In that first howling night the tent holds no echo:
a cocoon of down
muffles the want of a scream
for mother’s goodnight.
Terrain is now is real and not just a geography lesson.
When morning arrives
relief and sunlight slap awake
the face of survival.
Mosquitoes frustrate the zippered gauze, march-flies marshal to march.
Wisps of gum-smoke, the smell of the wild, steam from hot-streams on tussocks, beans in the pannikin, dust in the billy, leaves of tea and gumtree chase the boil.
Longer walk today; boots even more ready for rubbing off skin.
Fourteen miles to the next creek and next water.
Ache in the pack
No rest only winter.
The dingo pads on.
Wild boar root en mass. Wombats rummage the banks.
Wallabies thump up the ridge-line.
"We’ll circle our tent-line and raise tonight’s fire after dark."
Says the beard and walks on.
The hunter
Seeks now no quarry
Dreams the snap of a soft sheet
and mouths words
for the water of home.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
Cedar Creek
a moonlit evening
looking up into sparkling eucalypts
After rain
The moon is reflected
In every droplet
On every leaf,
Simplicity has sent her messengers
With the brush and rustle of an evening breeze
These celestial missives begin to fall
To leave
the moon more eminent
MChallis © 2015
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
He hadn’t lived in the world of men
Since he’d tossed his job, and quit,
He’d told his boss, ‘There’s no future here
And so, here’s an end of it!’
The grimy city was getting him down
And the noise was driving him spare,
So he said goodbye to the world of fumes
To head for the open air.
He found a tumbledown cottage that
Nobody seemed to own,
The roof was keeping the weather out
So he thought to call it home.
He cobbled together some furniture,
A bench and a rustic chair,
And sat in the shade of the eucalypts,
And bagged the occasional hare.
The cottage was back off an ancient track
Unsealed, and long out of use,
The nearest cottage a mile away
In a similar state of abuse,
The pioneers had been and gone
Leaving just these standing stones,
A testament to a rugged life,
They were now just piles of bones.
Though at first the silence suited him
It would give him time to think,
He would lie at night awake and cite
That the sky was made of ink,
An ink shot through with pinpricks so
That the stars came shining through,
And feel, as the Autumn dampness fell
On his face as morning dew.
But Autumn shivered to Winter and
It would rain and pour for days,
He’d look on out to the distance where
All he could see was haze,
He’d keep a fire in the ancient hearth
With wood, when it wasn’t wet,
And curse himself for short-sightedness
When it was, or he’d forget.
Then his hearing tuned to the many sounds
That he’d missed before in the bush,
The slightest sound of a twig that cracked
Or a breath of wind, at a push,
He heard the echo of silences
That whispered over the plains,
A spirit stirred that he’d never heard
Before, in his city pains.
But someone back in the world he’d known
Was worried that he had died,
And found the tumbledown cottage where
His friend was lying inside.
He wouldn’t answer his queries when
He spoke in a human voice,
Such sounds were strange to a mind that ranged
When given a different choice.
Then the doctors came to check on him
And the police turned up en masse,
They said, ‘We’re having to take him in,
He’ll harm himself at the last.’
But he raised one hand when they closed on him
In a manner distinctly odd,
And whispered ‘Hush! If you strain you just
Might hear the voice of God!’
David Lewis Paget
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Eucalypts hang from blue sky railings
The mud is dry, ground is hard
The white ute in the garden
is silent
I love the sound without wind blowers
and lawn mowers
Words are gathering at Newstead
anarchists too
A short story tattoo
Ideas are crowded and loud
galloping around the racetrack
But it's quiet here at the Mudhouse
with the brown dog in the garden
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
distant trucks thunder, echoes
rolling to highways. rumble of an infinite snake
re-forms. bulb of early winter flicks a
chill dawn switch.
diet rest. roused by masculine weakness. mind a Geiger
lost to solace. months before, witness to birds searching for a
weathered nest returned to twigs. building new
shelter, stick by stick, between protected branches.
family of fledglings waits & squawks
for bugs & worms. engineer’s toil of wings, claws & beak,
gathering remnants from eucalypts, weaving
& melding a fragile & gradual shelter.
morning sheds light, more cars hum, the reptile
lengthens. blood streams through arteries to a vital *****
without heart, lungs gasp for breath. weary heads of
commuters magnetized to caffeine spill from stations.
roar of trucks, clatter of trains, buses hum and insecure
shouts through wireless devices to invisible nobodies.
green lights, red lights, chicken players. chaos of city stutters &
halts, stutters & halts.
sudden gust beats at coats and dresses, whips ‘round trousers.
leaves limbo as autumn strips summer from trunks. a new nest
hit by a violent burst tumbles, disintegrating to
fragments.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
Unseen snow below.
Against the blue sky the burnt
Bleached branches of eucalypts.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC