The boy who never stops


I'm training my eyes

I'm training my eyes to see moving pinpricks
Across the terrain of hair and freckles that
Mask the targets
My limbs a landscape hiding terrorist mites
That bite
My groin leaving red dots, like texta spots
And what, morbid curiosity demands
Other tiny beasts feed off me?


To wish for a king

There's an election coming
And I can't quite grasp at any of it
Slippery stuff, vaporous words
Images of stern men, rolled sleeves

A yearning
For courage, authenticity
To see the horizon and beyond
Noble face of the king

Takes great strides through sucking mud
Where leeches, toads and lurking monsters
Creatures of those shallow depths grasp
Shake them off, look ahead

When your legs ache
Remember your wings
Large, outstretched across broad shoulders
Shed the swamp life, putrid and heavy
Lift and blaze
Spectacular in morning radiance

And we will crown you
Praise you
Uncritical, loving
We elect you
Our leader


The ruined hill

the ruined hill
hot in the western sun
a receding fringe of gums
tall at the summit

once the hill sloped gracefully
green to lower ground
until machines tore it ragged
dusty brown and jagged

the quarry is closed
still truckers and diggers grind
shifting rock and stones
plateaus for future homes

the casual lift, explosive shatter
the endless drumming hammer
of rocks buried deeply
for longer than imagining

no subtle alteration
it's a crude operation
this strange dissection
through the belly of a ruined hill


The frame

In miniature, dawn reveals
The hilly suburb
Rail bridge, cars crawling
The view from my hospital window
Newly awoken

Inside, in here, stillness
Quiet momentarily
The distress of 3am newborns
Resolved and other mothers sleep
For now

I'm sitting on sturdy chair
Stretch cotton nightie
Baby to my breast in this pale light
My newest success

Memory has framed this view
Of life dawning
Love nestled quietly
In a sure footed chair

Years on, that honeyed perfection
The bliss of triumphant togetherness
Soothes the shock of his rage, his energy
The boy who never stops

For Bede

Clare LockeClare Locke is a graphic design honours graduate from Swinburne University's National School of Design. She situates her work in the context of social justice and human dignity, and a concern for sustainability and the environment. She is a regular contributor to the Daily Reflections in Madonna magazine.

Topic tags: Clare Locke, poetry



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Existing comments

Some words reverberate in us like the rippling sounds from a gong that is struck firmly yet gently. The words,beautifully expressed in the last four lines of your poem, The Frame do that to me Clare. Those four lines encourage me to reflect on times of great happiness, the formation of character, the bonds of a mother,s love and the chapters that can eventuate in a life lived. These words for Bede were words to savor .......and all in four lines.
Celia | 10 June 2014

Lovely poems, thank you (very moved by the last -"The Frame"). "To wish for a king" - lovely ironies here - reminded me of a certain prime minister's 'broad shoulders" ) . .
tony kevin | 10 June 2014

Powerful images Clare and beautiful memories in the final poem. I'm so glad to see your words here on Eureka Street Looking forward to your next offering.
Anne Doyle | 10 June 2014

That photo of 'Clare Locke and child' made me smile - the bonding between mother and child was palpable... and a thing of great beauty. Thank you for sharing that with your poetry, Clare. I enjoyed both.
Bob | 19 June 2014


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