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.
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
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
Stranded between two worlds
glimpses of wonders
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,
Yet I have seen
creation come to pass
in fifty years
a whole new world begin.
Space is diminished,
speed has eaten time,
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.
1st July 2014
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.
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
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.
blue to the horizon,
Small shrubby trees
gnarled with age and windblown.
Ravines rising to cliffs, red-brown,
rocky outcrops soaring.
A bright sky.
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.
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
BELOW THE CREST
A mother's heart beats strongly as she walks the city streets,
Her message chanted loud above the tread of many feet.
Mr Politician are you deaf? Can't you hear our pleas?
Save our sons ...
Save our sons.
If he wanted to get married he would need to get consent,
For him to buy a car I'd have to sign the documents.
Yet he's old enough to go to war—it makes no kind of sense.
Save our sons ... oh lord ...
Save our sons.
A mother's love burns fiercely as she walks the city streets,
Her placard waves above the mass of people marching deep.
Mr Politician, are you blind? Is it that you just can't read?
Save our sons ... please ...
Save our sons.
Should they return as broken men, or die on foreign land,
On your head will lie the burden, and it's why we take this stand.
Gutless fool, how dare you call yourself a moral man!
Save our sons ... dear god above ...
Save our sons.
We taught them to respect and now you're teaching them to kill,
Into battle under orders regardless of their will.
In the war against conscription, we'll keep on fighting till
We save our sons ...
We save our sons.
© May 2013
He has feasted on light.
Blinds clatter, slice the sun.
Out there in the bottlebrush lorikeets screeching,
same as before.
He perches beside her, tells her about the day.
‘Cumulus’ he says.
She was there when the clouds were down,
marvelling at the patience of cows,
hearing the kookaburrah announce he’d seen it first.
A solitary pine, ragged scarecrow,
was poking through the white.
She’d watched the clouds remember they must move on.
Later they’ll have breakfast outside,
convince themselves the air is clear enough to see the coast,
each of them believing they were there first.
Time and again I have returned to this place
where I last saw my companions.
They are not here. They are gone
as surely as the day is gone
when swallowed up by night.
Try as I might I cannot find them.
I search in vain. All I see is
emptiness littering the landscape
from my feet to the horizon.
I cannot go where they are gone.
I cannot follow in their footsteps.
My destiny lies along a different path.
With a heavy heart
I turn toward the setting sun.
Judy Bandidt © May, 2013
[Inspired by the 'Journeys of Marco Polo'.]
Red Mud Mist Rising
I could say it's over
that stained our lives
Just flashes now
a signal lamp
Faces hung like lanterns in the dark
the trembling ground
and red mud mist
rising in the rain
J Bandidt © April 2013