Click here for the full post about my Mum and Dad.
My father is here to
entice art from the sky,
his instrument of choice,
a sort of….
musical obscurity,
an ancient silver rising
of voices and tide.
He swings a racket
to capture dreams,
and earths them …..
like lightening,
crackling leaves
and soup.
He is a lover of marmalade
bitter and orange
and his smile you ask
?
his smile is
a winter fire
a lullaby
his smile is Shangri-la.
Finding the sweet me
is a forever journey
a soul trip
to inner space
amongst the mist
worlds that
exist ed
before I could think
When my heart was jupiter
and you my mother
my father
my feathered gods that
swung me left and right
up up
missing the fan blades
instilling a grounded earthly love
for something
blue and green
a painterly lean
a thick plastering of sensational life
I flew the roads and climbed the mountainous peaks
dancing the backs of cashmere goats
I have breathed shallow on the arsenicum ridges
been plaintive in my call
but strength becomes me now
and oceans float my
salty toes
to shore
Finding the
sweet
in the folds of satin ink
amongst wildflowers and faces
a journey
pink
and incomplete
My father’s teaching house was a wonderful, leaning thing,
thick with toxic fumes and creativity.
My school next door, however, an imposing beast.
A glutton for unhappy children and alcoholic ladies, with red front teeth and spanking on their minds…
After school dust followed me everywhere, sticking like an Australian summer.
My mind already in Dad’s art-house, anticipation mixing mud and colours!
Each day on my journey, I climbed the Moreton Bay Fig, to a birdhouse nestled in the wisest crook, to check inside for feathers.
I eagerly awaited a nest, a speckled egg or two, but always empty….still my imagination urged me on, a confident soldier!
This day I faced the tree in all it’s rough splendour and scuttled up, little skirt flying.
My leafy view was a spyhole and Dad an ant under my shiny brown gaze; my love rained silver on that world.
With reverent expectation, I lifted the lid of the bird-house, what to see?
A gleaming red thing, a glorious apple!
Bigger than the eggs I had imagined, with their wild gold shells, I needed two hands to carry this treasure!
So with an apple shaped package in my green school knickers,
I made my way to earth with a bite of magic that unveiled distinct possibilities.
The truth, I was Eve’s descendant, gifted forever with the return of sweet opportunity.
How I rejoiced in my blood globe token,
of knowledge,
of beautiful sin,
of pagan thrill
of paternal adoration
of connection to my god heart.
I was sure my father had put it there given as he was
to things that made you believe in something else.
His denial was fervent though and to this day,
so, unless his, is a 35 yr old secret,
I am the bearer of wizardry sweet and a calling so dear that my birdhouse remains to its brim, ever filled,
with sparkling cider and stars.
Feet and art make I (n) den tati on
the earth
the heart
is large and deep thinking
the hull, buoyant and safe
the smile
sometimes steel sometimes butter
squeezes in between words
like itatoron
do flying fish have feathers
?
Owls tell me father’s secret
his love is not hollow noise
but
like air and sand
his guidance, life’s lion
like north point
fascinating,
magnetic, magnifi (sent)
to me
.
Big GOD
or bird
fear (ce)
feet and feathers
His heart is my boat
.
In
the
beginning
My father’s
hand
(s)
and
feathers
Push dangle
wringle wrangle
Fiddle squish
make a wish………………..
Little joker great Heyokah
something more than
mediocre.
Come here,
go away
walk slower,
run faster
fuck you
zen master!
101 ways to
trust you
love you
thankyou
Find it in the
dictionary
under
his Father finally found
His mother wished
His father kissed
Sylvester
was
Sylvester
stone
Sylvester
soft
Sylvester
Home.
it is all just bullshit anyway.....
Your Brain is a Radio that Does What its Told
Haikus Senryus and Tankas about anything and everything
Poetry
musings on life | bits of psychology | attempts at poetry
In other countries individuals go to jail and/or die for weblogging. While the bulk of this country makes the internet an extention of T.V.
Scripting the desires that are soul deep
"where creativity roams free"
The Poetry Monarch.
Life, Death, and Everything In Between
JEFF CALLAWAY
Darkness, delusion, smeared with a stick of butter and laughter. Words collide, they bring forth death!
Hoping to inspire the world one word at a time.
Sharing my poetry to help end the stigma about mental health
well, come on in. bite. chew. spit.
