A- A A+

Spring: Thirty short poems

6 Comments
Carol O'Connor |  20 November 2016

 

Stacking dishes
late at night.
There was a word today,
what was it?
What note
still unresolved?

*

Turmoils of the night
are shadows of a campfire.
At daybreak
only light
in the still, clear valley below.

*

The earth is flooded,
Spring comes;
a rainbow rises out of the ocean
across the black road.
Remembrance
and
renewal.

*

Books
tumble off the shelves,
(catch one, quick!)
remake themselves;
imagination flowering.

*

Hands
so expertly turn
the steering wheel.
Speeding finesse.
Watch that pothole!
What a mess.

*

The moon. 5am.
Spring bulb in my window.
What is it?
What news?
What will grow today?

*

Sometimes
all that is given
is the next step;
the next word
inside.

*

Off my neck
silk scarf sweeps
up high in a tree;
purple streak waving.
The wind tosses the world.
Wake up! Wake up!

*

Hug my daughter
home from school
without second thought.
Think later:
for a child today
in Nauru Detention Centre
no hug
would ever be
this second thought.

*

Counting angels
dancing on a pinhead?
How about,
making count
the stranger
who stands
right in front of me.

*

Love lies hidden.
Quick!
Look under the moss,
hear the stone sing.

*

Friend,
we drank tea together
yesterday; now
you are a galaxy away.
Please say hello
to Sister Moon.
May Brother Sun
drink tea with you today.

*

Mother Earth
is groaning

*

Dislocation. Disconnection. Displacement.
Only you, only you, only you
can take us home.

*

Spooks and ghosts haunt.
The clear eye sees the illusion,
knows the pain
of the wounded self.

*

Open the gate.
This one!
The unresolved
and painful;
it will offer
fresh revelation.

*

Buoyed away on high seas,
creative ideas racing;
the mind seeks its anchor:
the breath, the body.

*

Friday afternoon.
Long, slow, city
line of cars ahead.
Rest the mind
in silence,
in You.

*

Forget the question:
Does God exist.
Simply
awaken
your eyes.

*

Capricious Spring.
Trickster season.
Heavy, black, unending clouds
crack apart;
flawless sunlight streams.

*

Undefended
the heart is easily wounded,
but knows life.
Behind a fortress
lies only illusion.

*

End of church service.
In the narthex,
hearts and minds transition
from the Eucharist
to the trait of each human face.

*

Oceans of books
or, only one book,
no matter —
paths home.

*

Grim business, this life.
Remember though
a bird's feather,
abandoned joy,
floating.

*

In the car
straight down the freeway;
but the mind wanders
through hidden creeks,
over distant mountains.

*

The Spirit
elusive, wandering breath
asks of us, though,
to be sharp, fire-boned listening.

*

Drinking
Hot Koko Black with a friend.
We talk God, poetry,
our respective cats.
What possible else?

*

Tailspinning mind
through space;
thankful,
for the steadying voice
of a friend.

*

Mid-November.
This season of Revelation,
wars and floods and earthquakes;
despite it all,
the blossoming lavender remembers
its perfume for late Spring bees.

*

A line of music
murmurs in the mind:
this day's soundtrack.

 


Carol O'ConnorCarol OConnor is a Melbourne writer and poet. Carol manages St Peters Bookroom where she keeps a blog on its website.

 


Carol O'Connor


Comments

Comments should be short, respectful and on topic. Email is requested for identification purposes only.

Word Count: 0 (please limit to 200)

Submitted comments

I counted them - there are thirty. One for each day of November, thank you.

Pam 21 November 2016

Carol has captured her thoughts - mindfulness - of moments in her day. She enunciates that the question "Is there a God?" is the wrong one; rather, "Where do I see God today?" Thank you!

Liz Pardey 22 November 2016

Thanks Carol good to read uplifting words on the media wonderfully refreshing

Kevin 22 November 2016

Hey, Carol, I didn't know you are a poet! Thank you for sharing your gift with the world - I especially love 'Love lies hidden...." Pax, Pirrial

Pirrial 22 November 2016

A lovely sequence of reflections on the spirit dwelling in daily experience.

Susan Southall 22 November 2016

Just what we need in times of trouble: poetry. Thank you, Eureka Street

Sarah 25 November 2016

Similar articles

Already died

6 Comments
John Falzon | 14 November 2016

Salvador AllendeI talked to no one, let no one catch on, ate nothing, never got wet in the sea, or from the sea in the sky. I did nothing wrong except everything. But even so I never turned away from the poem, even when I shaved off little bits to sharpen my sense of the poem, or the unseen warfare in the world.


Children are the yardsticks of our mortality

5 Comments
Catherine Marshall | 11 November 2016

Catherine and familyOne minute you're escorting your five-year-old daughter to the school gate, the next you're popping a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and wondering where the last 17 years went. My grandmother told me children age you. I thought she meant they wore you down, put grey hairs on your head. But I understood after I'd become a parent myself. Children are hour glasses that cannot be laid on their sides for even a moment, but must be turned over as soon as the last grain of sand has fallen through the flue.


A few hot days in the Flinders Ranges

1 Comment
John Cranmer | 07 November 2016

Flinders RangesHave you ever noticed the way that book and reality sometimes entwine and become essentially one? It's happening here and now as we contemplate these few hot days in Hawker and the Flinders. Anita Desai's The Zigzag Way creates a context for living here at this particular ephemeral moment. Altiplano Mexico in all it's barren frugality integrates with these hot and marginal plains hemmed in by the cragginess of surrounding scarplands with their many strong stories


Coffee and birdsong

17 Comments
Mary Manning | 09 November 2016

Woman barista'Pull the levers, scoop the coffee, flatten it, steam fragrant liquid into white cups. My lever-pulling right arm has huge muscles from my coffee ballet. Around me: the buzz of conversations about people's plans for their day. No one knows I am lonely.' Short story by former Eureka Street editorial assistant Mary Manning, who died on Tuesday 8 November 2016.


Faith and humanism behind Tim Winton's curtain

1 Comment
Tim Kroenert | 26 October 2016

Tim Winton, The Boy Behind the Curtain'When I was a kid I liked to stand at the window with a rifle and aim it at people.' So begins the opening, titular essay. It is a singularly arresting entre to an essay that charts the author's complex relationship with firearms (part awe, part terror), by way of commenting on the place of guns in Australian society. In this collection of essays Winton adopts this mode frequently, weaving (sometimes deeply) personal narratives into stirring, thoughtful commentary on a broad range of social and political issues.