Enterprises begun, projects explored

4 Comments

 

Selected poems

 

Recycled

It feels odd to be recycled

My atoms billions of years old

Stretching back millennia

 

What adventures they have had

Enterprises begun, projects explored

Voyages completed

 

Gathered now into this organic centre

Of blood and bone

Assembled to be me

 

Constant in their duty

Always at work

Sending incessantly electronic reassurance

 

How much I owe them

I do not know where I would be

If they had not paused for this short time

 

I hear them making plans

Some have already packed their bags

And moved on

 

But I will always be grateful

Under their guidance

I was able to hold myself together

 

Pollution

Are stranded whales

Canaries of the sea

Pods beach-cast in despair

Their life-habitat now deadly

 

Encountering a rainbow parrot

Dead upon the path

I looked for its assassin

Only polluted air

 

The slow dying of our Village emblem

The growling grass frog

Is sign of the fading health

Of our beloved wetlands

 

As if sea, land and air

Are succumbing to our greed

New Delhi prepares for winter

School children in class breathe through face masks

 

Pen

It is audacious

To throw out of the cupboard

That which is old

In preference for the new

And foolhardy

 

Old and new belong together

Lean on the need to touch

Both then and now

For balance

 

I am not convinced

Shininess and gigabites

Generate thought

I write this poem

With a pen

 

Bicycle

No one forgets how to ride a bicycle

Gripping the handlebars comes easily

Slipping onto the seat

Feet unerringly finding the pedals

The first gut wrenching effort

To get inert wheels moving

 

Riding over the rutted surface

Of a dirt road outside my son’s house

On my grandson’s bike

I raise dust of childhood memories

Wheels cracking ice over winter pools

On the frosty ride to school in Bendigo

 

Sweaty and hot, pushing up McIvor Road hill

Out to get dry scrub for Bonfire night

Potatoes raked out of the dying coals

Jet black

To be split open, butter and salt added

To burn too eager lips and tongue

 

The front wheel hanging still on

The designated hook in the undercroft

Of the boy’s bicycle shed at High School

Foreshadowing the stillness

Of a final resting place long forgotten

In the mists of time

 

Now with the wind in my face

Sparkles flying from glinting spokes

Pursued by remembered shouts

Of teenage enthusiasm

At eighty-one, caution thrown to the wind

I hurtle downhill once again with uncertain brakes

 

Essence

There is little to be said in the end

Since that which matters

Transcends knowledge

 

It is difficult to accept

That not knowing

Is the true gift

 

How hard to learn

That all we secure

Will mist-like drift away

 

What will remain

Cannot be banked

For love is priceless

 

We are left without understanding

As an act of mercy

That we might understand

 

 

BlankDenham Grierson is the author of Walking on Bones: Poems in the nick of Time.

 

 

 

Main image: Southern lights (A. Sparrow/Flickr)

Topic tags: Denham Grierson, poetry

 

 

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Existing comments

The poems took me from the cosmos to the particular and finally the unknowing. Thanks Denham
Steve Sinn | 13 November 2018


Lovely poems Denham. Thanks for sharing them and so bringing back to me atomic experiences of my own. Auld lang syne.
Rod Horsfield | 14 November 2018


Good to get an early morning dose of Denham. Thanks.
Karel Reus | 16 November 2018


Denham- thanks for the memories - great to hear from you and remember back
Marie Wilson | 23 November 2018


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