Praise

 

Deep in a sea of golden staves,

tincture of sun on a summer sky.

Strangely blunted distant sounds,

and a whisper of thanks

met with peace and gladness.

Why come to me for so little, Lord?

A sheaf of grace

for the husk of my scribbling,

Wheatfields of love

for this kernel of praise.

 

© Peter Stiles (from Trumped by Grace)

1952 : Survivors

War had been hard, though six years down the line
in Adelaide, the pain was fading off.
But letters came from Europe; there, the crack
of pistols, rifles, bones and caved in skulls
still echoed at the borders, where the wire
and occupying flags staked out new worlds.
They echoed in the ears of children who
had seen and heard too many bitter things –
had dined on rats at tables in Berlin
while mother pulled her skirts back down
and turned her head to watch the Russians leave.
Their homes knelt down in piles of ruined bricks.
Sometimes a lonely slab still stood; revealed
a splash of flowers on a bedroom wall
bombed-out and on display, for all to see.
Their fathers never made it back to towns
where patriotic flags once fluttered stiff
in summer breeze above the proud town hall.
The telegrams had ticked them off the list.
A million childhoods throttled by a war
that wrapped its dirty fingers round their throats,
before it left to seek new nurseries
in Kabul, Mogadishu or Phnom Penh.
In after years, imaginations plucked
some keepsakes from the fractured growing-up.
Our cousins’ memories would sift the wreck
like treasure-hunters passing magic wands
across the post-war silence and decay,
until a moment gleamed from early days.
Snapdragons on a wall. The scent of starch
in mother’s pinafore upon their face;
an uncle’s figure pointing to the sky
where aircraft droned and slid into the clouds –
in days before the sirens howled and sobbed.
A stamp collection like a tiny world
inside an album, where the nations lay
in neat serrated ranks, before their fall,
and, on the farms, the clicks of breakfast plates
downstairs, as they lay warm in bed – those days
when hearts could lift, as cocks called up the dawn.

©2015  C Ringrose

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Winner of the 2015 Poetica Christi competition and used by permission from the recent anthology Inner Child.

What’s the Use 

Like every other day
he sits
people come and go
he sits
staring into space
no face, no action
prompts the least response
he’s heard nor said a word
in all of two long years

Boz walks into the room
he smiles and comments
“Dog”

©2015 Joan Ray

This poem will be found in Joan Ray’s upcoming book to be launched shortly, proceeds of which will be passed on to Lort Smith and Guide Dogs Victoria in honour of their contribution to Pet Therapy

 

Tirhatuan Wetlands 3

Cathedral silver
held in air;
a breath of mist
above smooth
polished
marshland floor.

Foliage bows
in waterfalls
of green
then greet
that surface
with their kiss.

Eyes seek out
each spiral step
that forms the stairs
where daylight takes
its rest
from greatest height.

The birds there pause
as grassy reeds
outline passage
for mind’s traverse
by water’s edge
on silent paths
to heart of peace.

@ Greg Burns, 2013 [ As published in ‘A Lightness of Being’]