Selected poems
Shy birds
saturnine, specious — some of the dusty words shelved, reserved
others, elsewhere in the alphabet — leonine, pellucid
also, seldom called for
a few colours best isolated
lime green kept away from brown
but communion is expected of the living
trees in forests, termites in nests and with birds
always congregation:
at every soak, budgerigars in profusion
swamphen, coot and ibis, thick on every shore
with human kind the same, almost
hysteria to be linked
a few odd bods about, still: non-conforming, exotics
chick less, night parrots of the street
though not excluded by choice, or as yet extinct
Approaching the turnstile
The holder is a valued member of our community. Please extend every courtesy and assistance. — Government of Western Australia Seniors Card
this far from the turnstile
even this close, I know less than a handful
that will attend at my passing
yet am I dismayed?
nothing attaching to my name
shall be recognised after I'm gone
yet knowing this
am I dismayed?
but if, when called upon
at eighty years of age
I cannot prepare a sandwich
make a mess of my words
I fear that the thought may occur:
I have my Seniors Card but I have no legacy
and I have no Torah
I have no Bible
and I have no Koran
Outside Dunkeld
mist floats above grey valley floor
rises around Gariwerd's* pilasters
through this foggy lens of dawn
I try to fix a kangaroo tableau
before it begins to blur
my hands shake as breezes
tease dew dropped grasses
twitching noses read — a human here
two different species
haunched at half trigger
a moment of jointed
rumination
my camera still unfocussed
then it all blows away
*The local Aboriginal name for the Grampians.
Backyard campaign
sheltering in the gloom of the shed, he witnessed the storm's assault
his treasury of plants ransacked-vegetables devalued, cannas rag dolled
rose petals scattered, bushes bleeding from the guts
herbs planted in an old dog's bowl a week ago, sun supercharged so much
they're now cooked in their shell
rot then came to lettuces he'd drowned weekly in Thrive
let go to seed, broadcast by a windy day, now he picks the rogue results
sky clouds over so slowly, a slug's slow progress
he lopes around whatever else he planted months ago
what he has tended like a new born babe, now weedy thistles in tanks
little stalk of man-hat, spade, wheelbarrow
remembers frenzied locusts, sees where fire has been
treads in sandy runnels from a prior flood
it's contrary for Nature to be returned to exactly what it was
but a fresh campaign begun to salve this tender spot
Westfield World
if unbusy enough to live a lot
in shopping centres, your time's spent
swimming along arcades
reflections of your angel fish face
staring in at merchandise
behind glass plate
escalators drop and load you
at the Atrium-
a glass cone which fills, empties, refills
with: other people, bread, OJ, air
you float through the Food Market
to the central stage
see the latest ‘Face of Myer'
model pret a porter
the claps you hear are
mixed with muffled sounds
of cars being shuffled
in and out of car park decks
the rumbling is from shopping
trolley trains jack-knifing
between ramps
and self-opening doors
for whatever's left of a lifetime
you'll be just another
wrinkled face
stuck behind a daily paper
in Scope Café
Ross Jackson lives in Perth. He has had work in many Australian literary journals and some of his poems have appeared in New Zealand, Ireland, England and Canada. He writes about the experience of aloneness in the suburbs, about aging, visual art and other topics.