Portfolio of Poetry
A portfolio of 6 poems in a variety of forms, in response to weekly class prompts.
Title: missing party
Smiles simmer, oily prints dust glass,
Hot elbow grazed by biting fingers,
Don’t run you,
Knock it over.
Glitter trails cupped cakes,
Churning stomachs, no to vodka,
Not more shots,
Maybe one shot.
Shadows dance across paint,
To the beat of rhythmic giggles,
Rosy fairy lights,
Scintillate.
Inside an empty room remains dark,
Snowy dust circles fresh linen,
Missing party,
Of one.
On a hung metallic buck head,
In the cyan of a cat eye,
Dancing in dust,
Hay fever.
Tears, laughter, misplaced jokes,
Bring me a white plastic bag,
Ghost’s glide-through,
Shattered glass.
Title: The weed.
I do not belong to this country,
To its hills, mountains, and plains.
The golden wattle remains a weed,
No matter how much it blooms.
Why belong to a single country?
Heart stable in one, legs shaking in the other,
Springboks versus Wallabies,
Divided loyalty no longer a sport.
Carbon-copy reprinted with complementary ink,
Country landscapes nearly compare,
Same clever trees call dry soil home,
But funny creatures hide in untouched spaces.
The dassie no longer tests car brakes,
Replaced by a hulking kangaroo,
The foxes midnight stroll,
A huntsman on my knee.
Intertwined with a gum tree,
Branches a rough guide,
The golden wattle remains a weed,
No matter how much it blooms.
Green and yellow, an old memory,
After a stormy school day,
Green and yellow, outside my window,
Today’s not quite the same.
‘United we shall stand’,
In cliquey clusters,
Redundant recollection,
Only serves to divide the homesick further.
Four hundred years engrained in tombstones,
Replaced in less than a decade,
Of slurred speech, wonky rivers and creeks,
A constant stream of different faces.
Even the country native,
Stays a memorable alien,
The golden wattle remains a weed,
No matter how much it blooms.
Title: Collection of Haiku
Shattered rainbow glass –
A single chord
on the tip of my tongue
Dreamy sun warms skin
Night blue tongue
of a snake
The abandoned chair
Deep in yesterday’s flood –
Skin scrapes rust
Dawn cracks knuckles
Mist paints green pastures
to a grey landscape
Dials whir to life
Red ivy snakes through white glass
reflected in panda eyes
Sky-high radio tower
broadcast the city news:
The carrot cake is dangerous
Title: The Elderly Man
The elderly man
hunches into
the couch
legs bend
left knee then
right
hand grasps
wobbling walking
stick
back aching
he collapses
on pillows
held in place
by hands
he cannot see
quick inhale
resting now
deep
exhale.
Title: Land-sick
The involuntary retirement of the old sea pirate,
Led to the most mundane torment: Daily chores.
Stable floorboards crack under his rotten wood leg,
as he hobbles around in his dirty apron.
Like a beginner crewmate, he washes the laundry
folding clothes in perfect squares,
like he use to get them,
before the government interfered.
In the sink swirls a whirlpool of forks, plates, and pans,
slimy floating leftovers like raw dead fish.
A spoon splashes back, water hitting his eyepatch,
the feeling enough to make the old man cry.
A vacuum crosses borders between bedrooms,
sucking up dust bunnies and the last of his dignity,
He’s born and bred for the oceans salty air,
not the nostril-burning smell of multipurpose spray.
The unyielding foundation is perhaps the worst part:
He misses the push-pull push-pull of the currents
rocking his ship like a large wooden cradle.
Captain feels a little land-sick.
Title: Beach Day
In the salty breeze
tinged with dead fish,
"Go over!"
"Dive under!'
A game of first speaker
I was the oldest
I lead our family charge
against the currents
And I would last
for hours and hours
people entered and left
to have their lunches
and even dinners.
My parents watched
I always knew
But the one time they weren’t
the eighth hour hit.
The waves got higher
I think
one minute was safe
the sand between my toes
water hugging my waist
but her hold went to my neck
It didn’t sink in
until I did
head underwater,
salt in my eyes
everywhere.
The ocean isn’t clear
when you’re looking up.
It felt like a minute
or four or five.
If it weren’t for a surfer
so tall and pink
in her wetsuit
I never would have seen
the dusk blood sun.