Thursday, April 30, 2015

A poet attempts, sometimes captures RED FISH winking

Watching me…. Curls and twirls. Swoosh. Eyes wide open, smile almost coming. The... GLIDE... is what I need to learn from them, maybe I should live in water? This one in an aquarium

Red Fish Cafe gallery, in Brooklyn, still but gliding, a swish of art, a magic of music. You can… GLOW… gold here; with coffee, with superb eats, with that dash of mind of matters, do they call it harmony/intelligence (emotional?) I call it essential sparkling air or is it water. Can only be done with the love of water. Liquid and warm and certainly no jerks. By a river.

Clear/ water/ bubbles/ soothing sounds/ humid air/ wet whoosh/ salt/ ease/ refreshing/ BLUE GREEN/ rocks/ rock face whispers/ chatty mangroves/the soft Sun ferry/pink beaches/duck nests/ dogs in caves/ flashy pelicans/ story nodding reeds/ river-fog/ moist/ pebbles/ moss/unknown/ near Red Fish.

When finally stuck in a bed I will think of red fish gliding (no beds for them). Perhaps I can add red fish to the end of every poem I write. To make it stick. To have a place, in my meaningful memory folder if there is one

Will orange and yellow striped fish join- seeking truth, will green fish watch= spreading WOW wonder, will there be light blue fish coming in with rain. Every orchestra pit may have a watery spot of indigo blue fish. Navy blue pink gold fish will follow red. As red fish lead.

To that purple gold white. CACOPHONY/SECRET/ books. Words. Conversations. Children gathering Ah Red Fish Ps the Red Fish gallery (on the ground) is run by Myff Sharp, Peter Davis and ORIGINAL  thoughts in  Brooklyn on the watery strong Hawkesbury River. 
                       Art by Gerd Schmid












Monday, April 13, 2015

Thursday, February 5, 2015

Jack Nicholson will not die alone

Jack Nicholson says “I do not want to die alone”
                                                                                Footprints near Uluru are fresh. Within are ant foot prints-the red earth- mark accepting- the unacknowledged flow of air -another child cries in the street- it’s mother angry/consoling- a rose bud arriving- red- fragrance ready
                                                 
Jack Nicholson texts “I do not want to die alone”
                                                                                Does the text reach the orange sun, doing a sunset in India?-the yogis dressed in orange may pick this up

Jack Nicholson feels he does not want to die alone
                                                                                Prairie yellow flowers nod

Jack Nicholson’s heart screams. “I do not want to die alone”
 The green holy basil plant worshipped by many feels neither hot nor cold as it sits on many a porch of a Hindu. Sleet on the green grass outside Blenheim Palace. Jains not eating roots- to protect a green plant-to free others- the weak- the strong- the sensitive-is this necessary?

Jack Nicholson sings “I do not want to die alone”
Songs all over the world weep even more especially those written by Stephen Sondheim. Slow Bollywood songs who are already weeping start howling. Psalm recitations in churches under bright light-blue skies slow today

A pop song reaches the top ten. It is called “Jack Nicholson does not want to die alone”
                                                                                Jack Nicholson listens to it after Mahler and before Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia….The memories of the faces of his loved ones also listen. His art collection also listens. Sitar-guitar- violin- raga-indigo-blue language galaxy reknown

Jack Nicholson yearns not to die alone        On the banks of the Ganges an elderly woman sits and waits. She is shaking uncontrollably. She is very poor. She was an underpaid servant. She is awaiting her death. She can see the many pyres. She has chosen to be alone. She holds on to the navy blue, pink, and gold fragment of a cloth which used to decorate her shrine in the tiny dark room in Mumbai where she lived with her family of eight

Jack Nicholson does not want to die alone                                           The monks dressed in purple carrying golden bowls and sitting opposite him know this

Jack Nicolson may be dying. Jack Nicholson may be dying. Jack Nicholson may be dying.                                  
                                                                                white stillness   pure gold   purple wonder   gold strength   pink joy
pink infinity   navy blue now   strong indigo blue   light blue fountain
the green first reason   compassionate orange   endless yellow
royal red   single red                   A red exotic bird pecks on his open palm
Red doored Bar Abaco in Palma de Mallorca opens for the night…..hard working Mr Rupert Murdoch wearing a red cardigan tweets


 A red bird pecks on the open palm of the old woman in Varanasi as she shuts her eyes for the last time…………Ist pic by Anthony Cahill...2nd a ceremony in Varanasi

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Monday, January 12, 2015

Peat Island , Hawkesbury River,(Scents)(Prayers)(Tagore)

Peat Island on the sparkling Hawkesbury River has had a dark history. It now sits there like a deep dark well awaiting its new destiny.
Thanks to Myff Sharp and Peter Davis of Red Fish Gallery in Brooklyn, we artists get a chance to visit occasionally. We recently had an open day. It always inspires words. Here they are.

First the River Pictures shown at end
Bridge by Wynne finalist Dave Collins
Island by meticulous Peter Zanetti
Black and White photograph by internationally renowned Juno Gemes
Riverview by Mel Anderson
A picture of my work as displayed… …to make it easier to read words close up follows


Peat Island, Prayers, Scents, and Tagore

She faces the Hawkesbury River, she kneels, she utters “our father who art in heaven”. This is her 1501st day on Peat Island. Bleach from her clothes makes her cough. Red blood stains on her  blouse


Somehow he can bring his hands together even though his fingers hurt. They pulled his nails out. Chloroform from that orange can still lingers


Rosary beads lie on her bed The brown contrasts with the yellow of the spread. She can smell the gravy from the lunch she was forced to miss


On this muggy night he can smell the mangroves on the river. He can’t see being tied to the bed. He says 7 Hail Marys as his mother had taught him


Sunday incense in the chapel fails to remove the smell of antiseptic on her old sores. Crying would mean detention. She whimpers


The sounds of boat engines and fumes temporarily seem beautiful to him


She makes them kneel. The only way she knows they will quieten down after the all night screams .She is the only one who has brought the navy blue , pink, gold, purple decorations for the Christmas tree


The smell of custard in the grey dining room with threadbare tablecloths. The frangipani he picked had to be thrown into the river.

Mother I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow( Gitanjali Verse 83)

When the warriors came out first from their master’s hall where was their armour and their arms? ( Gitanjali Verse 85)

In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of the room. I find her not ( Gitanjali Verse 87)

It is 2020. She faces the Hawkesbury River, she kneels, she utters “our father who art in heaven”. This is her 1501st day on Peat Island. Her muscles ache from the yoga which fills her time.

Somehow he can bring his hands together even though his fingers hurt. The yacht takes much of his toil. It fills his time. The scent of orange from the oil burner lingers

Rosary beads lie on her bed The brown contrasts with the yellow of the spread. She can smell the gravy from the restaurant downstairs

On this muggy night he can smell the mangroves on the river. He says 7 Hari Oms  as his counsellor had recommended. It fills his time

Sunday incense in the chapel is no longer allowed. She enjoys the laughing exercises. She attends to pass the time

The sounds of boat engines and fumes temporarily seem beautiful to him. The clock is slow again

She makes them kneel. The only way she knows they will keep the arthritis away. She is the only one who has brought the navy blue, pink, gold, purple decorations for the Christmas tree. Everyone else brought red and green

The smell of olive oil. The scent of lavender watch the frangipani flowers float in the timeless river.








Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Maybe I was Australia Once



I was nameless
But my skies were blue
My trees were green
My rivers were full
My seas were sparkling

I attract and comfort with my red stillness, my orange sun, my yellow awareness, my green love, my light blue voice, my indigo blue rhythm, my navy blue repose, my pink laugh, my gold comfort, my purple ease, my gold nature
my white silence

A temple may have appeared some 50,000 years ago in my Kimberley region
A Gold Shiva. But maybe then it was abandoned. Someone may have found it again recently

My silence is golden. I am the oldest continent.

Some came by boats, some walked across. The kangaroos always hop.

They were attracted
By my blue skies
My green trees
My full rivers my sparkling seas

My silence is golden. And over the centuries an almost monastic life of few belongings evolved.

And then more refined boats came. This time with sails.
They were attracted
By my blue skies
My green trees
My full rivers my sparkling seas

And some poor

Stone houses, roads, agriculture, mining, schools and hats were born.
So was my name. I am Australia

And I contend with the universal drive of greed, lust and anger

Many ashrams, temples, churches, mosques and  places of peace exist. In cities and in the tranquil bush. My silence is golden. My flies are aggressive.

They were attracted
By my blue skies
My green trees
My full rivers my sparkling seas

Harbourfront homes, workers cottages, the National Trust, Art, Energy, Rugby, Cricket, Bush Dances, World music, Rachmaninoff, Sculthorpe are here. Banks too.

They have discovered the gifts in my bowels. There is a lot more.

Maybe I will be abandoned like the temple those 50,000 years ago? My silence is golden. As I know it all.

I attract and comfort with my red wines, my orange dessert wines, my yellow bananas, my green spinach, my light blue coolness, my indigo blue opera companies, my navy blue seeds, my pink pavlovas, my gold bread, my purple passion fruit, my gold beer, my white noodles.
I attract and comfort with my red deserts, my orange birds of paradise, my yellow frangipani, my green feel, my light blue reefs, my indigo blue cicadas, my navy blue. My pink gladiolas, my gold beaches, my purple mountains, my gold sunsets, my white.


Ps.I say to all my children. Please relax. I will provide. Maybe a new Buddha will be born here. Is this as close as you get to paradise? I will let you decide. As I said the universal greed does test me. But you know what to do. Don’t you? I offer fragrant frangipani to this beautiful land.