pentepoets.com
  • Home
  • Pente history
  • Meet the poets
    • Judith Bandidt
    • Lyn Browne
    • Brad Drew
    • Susie Faint
    • Deanne Lister
    • Ron Wiseman
  • Selected poems
    • Poems by Judith
    • Poems by Deanne
    • Poems by Lyn
    • Poems by Susie
    • Poems by Brad
    • Poems by Ron
  • Books on Sale
  • Gallery
  • Poetry Trail
  • Reviews
    • Comments
    • Reviews
  • audio Maleny
  • audio Little Yabba
  • audio Montville
  • Poetry Trail Story
  • MALENY TRAIL POEMS
  • MONTVILLE TRAIL POEMS
  • LITTLE YABBA SITE POEMS
  • Hinterland Poems audio
  • POETRY TRAIL ARCHIVE
  • CO
  • H to H recordings

Ron's prize-winning poem

7/28/2014

2 Comments

 
Caspersen Beach with Cory


This lonesome beach, rocks of horseback brown; 

these rollrock waves lapping, slapping down--

primal sharks once roamed

and thrashed in foam.

Gulf waters, green, calmly still come home.


And could an artist stroll over dune-walks,

brush-in-hand, to tell us colour talks?


Yes! Windpuff spray of creamy froth

curdles history, withdraws to briny broth.


Caspersen knew this beach, once bereft

of artists capturing time in rocks now cleft.


Young painter, you are right! Wild and wet: 

long let waves weave in wilderness yet. 


Cory, I salute: En Plein Air seascape meets

verses praising...but  no Niagara greets!


Rather...praising deep dynamics of the sea

kissing rocks, sand, in mirrored destiny.


What charms waft their salt and airy scent?

Waters surging, ebbing, are wonders meant.


Yes, Cory, you've captured tidal run,

frozen it, hidden pull of Moon and Sun. 


This lonesome beach, with rocks old as time—

these rollrock waves their ocean brothers mime;

primal sharks have lost their teeth, unseen, but here; 

no longer extant, still shed memories of fear.

Cory, I salute. 

En Plein Air's Time's flute

playing a medley salty and astute. 

2 Comments

Susie's July Post

7/28/2014

3 Comments

 
christmas in july

light was merely peeping

when I crept from our camp leaving

all others quietly sleeping – not a word 


the lapping of not distant tide had called

to paths I hoped would wind

to the solitude I wished to find

on the brink of an indian sea –

where imagery of exotic lands

markets, spice, and desert sand

and language I might never hear

could sing their songs to me 


but on that path of powder red

in silence, the unexpected stood

on watch for barefoot passing –  

aftermath of fire – 


black, skeletal, wattle scrub

grass blades burnt to ground

clean scent of ash and char


and yet,

the legacy of night and sea

shrouded every crow-black tree

in dimensions of translucency –

glistering salt in mist

and to every stick and crevassed root

to every blackened limb 

countless webs so fine were strung

spun with dew in rising sun 


and all of this a gift to me – 

white christmas by an indian sea


© Susie Faint

3 Comments

Dee's July Post

7/24/2014

4 Comments

 
ANACHRONISM

Stranded between two worlds

Admiration, curiosity,

glimpses of wonders

barely credible.

I stand tentative

as in a dream

unable to go forward

            such frustration, anger,

a limited vision

assails my mind

            O to open up that vista

to clear and spreading

brave new world.


But I am older

than this present time,

an artefact laid down

in olden days,

antiquated and forbidden,

displaced, disqualified,

an anachronism.



Yet I have seen

creation come to pass

in fifty years

a whole new world begin.

Space is diminished,

speed has eaten time,

communication instant,

and all knowledge here

right at my fingertips.



But I prefer to

see you face to face;

pick up a book

enjoy the tale it tells;

relax between the truth

of sky and trees;

look up to feel the sun upon my face

not down upon a square of empty space.

©Deanne Lister

1st July 2014 

4 Comments

Judy Post - July

7/21/2014

2 Comments

 
Mont St Quentin

By a half-ruined wall the soldiers huddle.

The artillery is quiet now—

In the eerie silence amid the rubble fragments,

stripped leaves and broken branches,

a pebble rattles beneath a boot.

Dust trickles, settles.


Knee-high, an unexploded shell

lodged deep within the wall

draws sick fascination.


The next few minutes will decide their destiny.

What lies behind the wall?

Grim faces tell the story many already know.

They've written their last letters

entrusted to CO or friend.


Now their lives have come down to this--

One moment in time

crouched behind a wall

half-way up a hill overlooking Peronne

in Flanders, 1918.

 

© J Bandidt

Written at Mont St Quentin,  June 2014.

2 Comments

Susie's July Post

7/18/2014

3 Comments

 
ode to uma

imagine lying in the sun each day
where lawn grows thick the insects play
as beetles fiddle to butterflies’ trysts
blue wasps hover where lawn grubs twist
and while ants scavenge for every crumb
all this happens while cicadas hum

imagine looking at bright clear skies
listening to birds whistle in trees till
a breeze steals the warmth from the day
and when the sun sinks at last for a rest
winter nights dazzle with stars
and not rain nor thunder nor clouds nor tides
can hide or banish the moon

when grass springs thick and cicadas hum
and the scar on the path isn’t there
imagine the plea in large brown eyes
a nose on the scent from the gate to the dunes
how the tip of a tail lit the way to the sand
and the wonderful  trails by the sea

Susie Faint      16/7/14

3 Comments

Judy's July Post

7/17/2014

1 Comment

 
This is Gallipoli

A small white-pebbled beach
curving round a bay to distant headland
lost in haze.

Tiny waves lap the shore
slow, insistent, eternal.

Clear water,
blue to the horizon,
calm.

Small shrubby trees
gnarled with age and windblown.
Rosemary, grey-green.

Ravines rising to cliffs, red-brown,
rocky outcrops soaring.

A bright sky.
Light.

It could be anywhere
but it is not.

This is Gallipoli.



Now when waters lap a shore
I must return, for evermore.


Written at Anzac Cove, June 2014.

 

1 Comment

Lyn's July Post

7/17/2014

1 Comment

 
Lost


Everything about her lost
in this deep pool shadowed by cliffs
where the wind skims, rippling green.

Nothing above me now she is gone.
Grey clouds can’t touch her.

The water widens and the granite sings
to one small bird oblivious, dipping.



Lyn Browne, Dartmoor

1 Comment

    Archives

    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    May 2015
    October 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    April 2013
    February 2013
    December 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012

    Categories

    All
    Australian Poetry
    Fantasy
    From Abroad
    Life Poems
    War Poems

    RSS Feed

Proudly powered by Weebly