Prodigal son's shoeless stroll

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Tree trunk flight

'Give yourself to the air, that which we cannot hold.' Rilke

It was a joy to return midflight,
Eye to eye,
And see the remembrance of our travel so far,

A journey forward,
Unmasking the past,

You sitting there,
With Mary Jane,
In shorts and singlet,

The woollen collar and leather jacket,
Still meander around surrounding paddocks,

Your hands toying many dials,
And a custom made joystick,
Lifted up by the imagination,

Of distant sky stories,
Surveilling lives in turbulence,

The fear was that it would become forgotten,
Nestled memories of the world,
Packaged in one.

Sharing Sky, amongst tree trunks & seed songs,
Grants the air, that which holds us. 

 

Sunday stroll

On a hill between Church and lake,
I took off my shoes.

I see you kangaroo.
But you knew me before I knew you existed.
My fenced in feet, prevented me from immersion,
I was leaving marks in tracks instead of the other way around.

So I took off my shoes,
And felt the damp and cold shooting up.
A drink from the sole is more refreshing than any bottled river.

I felt the cushion of grass.
It did not exclude, but wrapped its spines around me,
Tickled my dying ankles to rattle,
Greasing the bearings of my toes,
I hoped I tickled the earth too, made it smile.
A son, no matter how prodigal, should always love his mother. 

 

Itchy foot

Hover over bother,
I feel it all over,
So diving into the grassy tangle,
Of recreation I lay in star formation,
Crackling of ribs, the frigid sun,
Shows its unseeable face,
Expanding the plastic roof,
The spine of this house stretched,
I still hover restless, distracting my mind of things that will go unrecorded,

My timing is off, the beat is in medical need,
Chest Press this country's heart, instead of fidgeting with capillaries!
Little eyes in sockets of a young nation,
Clinging to youth's freedom,
All you know is what you see, so off abroad you go to believe.
It does work, and a journey I recommend,
But dear little island, your history is where you'll end,
Face it with eyes, ready for the test,
Take all bouncers, full tossers, swingers and the rest,
Over this you'll eventually see,
The real nakedness shared in you and me. 

 

The cutting board

The knife will bleed ink,
And like the horizon highway,
My board is marked with straight lines,
Open the pantry of thoughts,
Lighting the universe,

Feed the sounds,
Dice guilt,
Chop frustration,
Slice up inspiration,
Throw in rough cut riches and chiffonnade rags,

Remember to keep your bleeding blade sharp,
With the grindings of your mind,
Don't waste much,
Because cutting boards handle anything,
In a world hungry anyway,

The cooking will come,
Time in wait can be filled with distillation or fermentation,
Let it now be just you,
And the cutting board. 


Mark AustinMark Austin is a 23-year-old commerce/law student based in Melbourne.


Topic tags: new australian poems

 

 

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Existing comments

The Sunday stroll is beautiful and the imagery perfect. Barefoot in the dirt soon! An amazing talent.
Simon | 21 March 2012


Poems that loop back are worth rereading - thank you.
Jenny Esots | 22 March 2012


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