wattyle byrd

whirring bugs
suck the air dry

a sentient sound
heaving unpleasantly

hot wattles dangle and hang
on limp-winged animals

paused on kite strings
above sandy black deeps

rowing the flesh boat
up an estuarine lagoon

we come here
to unfold a picnic

a lunch you prepared
quince jellies and soft cheese

on a chequered canvas
avoiding sand insects

a squirt of ephedrine
to balm the tide

the waters' movement
loaded by decaying detritus

mirror in your glasses
floats a thin briny smile

with silence
dividing the silence

a séance
disturbing the living

existential poem

if a poet is created by the act of writing a poem
then does it matter
if the poet rejects his creator?
does the poet then cease to be a poet?

or if only poets valued poetry
then would poetry have no value at all?

children born and raised by illicit vices
sometimes bare the richest fruit as they tear away

so also the poets, borne of the mother muse
fly and dance carelessly into the setting candlelight

effortless movements

i am suspicious of
any signs of effort

by them
i can tell
if you are doubting

the static noise of
calculations
disturbs
the whole whoosh of emotion

but gently take me
through your
effortless movements
in verses

walk amongst
the glass castle
of purest feeling

where a single breath
shatters
that candle flame
at the altar of the heart

premeditated

to premeditate
is to do something before meditating
like putting on a cup of tea
or reading a note to oneself
from six months before
and remembering something forgotten
then deciding to forget it again

doing all these things
and then when we sit down at last
we notice that all the meditation
has already been done for us
by other people
and it is ok just to relax