Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Clear light on a summer morning,
A horizon, dizzy in a haze of impending heat,
Grasslands ripe to burn lay drying,
What was green is now yellowed and brittle,
Large black birds shriek for the sun they follow,
Thirsting creatures in dark holes lay dying,
Death does not come to these lands in winter,
But with the clear light of a southern summer day.
I stand at the edge of a great precipice,
Eyes closed, I can feel a hot breeze on my face,
There is no sound, other than my own breathing,
The drop into darkness feels sheer and jagged,
The plummet, long and painful, and finally fatal,
I can feel the rock edge crumble under my weight,
I am waiting for the final slip,
The hands at my sides are sweaty and white knuckled,
Tense, I’m shaking within, the terror of waiting is intolerable,
The fall has yet to come, it could happen at any moment,
Vomit inducing anticipation, my body is racked with anxiety,
I can leave freely at any time and yet…
I stand here still.
Swirling colours, vivid and blinding, pulsate, in a cellophane coloured a sky,
A great blue door is beset by godly hands, vibrating in the colourful scene,
The hands hold a staircase in place, locked in an alien landscape,
Above the door a mighty skull sits, adorned with a golden lock,
Within the keyhole spins a whirlpool of stars,
The sudden arrival of the inner self is a spectacle to behold,
The door swings open revealing the inner self, naked and skeletal,
It glows, beautiful and newborn, emitting a soft blue light from its glassy bones,
My mind is stalled at this point, lost within the colours, one for every hurt,
The spiralling sky becomes a bright portal, spinning, slow, warm and inviting,
The inner self leaves its essence, before fading into that spiralling light,
Shadows fill with starlight, as a swirling green nebula slowly erases the vision,
I awaken in sudden darkness, the stars have faded, and life is reality once more.
A blue cubed dream cell vibrates with a deep resonating hum,
It contains nothing but an elderly man with long white hair and blue robes,
The dream cells translucent walls glow and dim in time with the hum,
The occupant slowly and continuously paces the perimeter of the room,
The bright cube is surrounded by a beautiful deep space panorama,
The dream cell rotates, powered by the occupant’s relentless trek,
With the Earth far in the distance, the rotating cell outwardly shines,
From the surface of that planet, the cube itself appears as a distant star.
Still awake, he spent the morning dreaming,
Over-indulging in a world he created for the purpose of escape,
Unable to do so, he became disoriented and eventually lost,
He was found drowned, washed up on the shores of the dreaming sea,
In the waking world he disappeared, and nobody noticed his absence,
For he was never fully there, his existence was semi-transparent,
He kept one foot in the present, and the other firmly in the dream realm,
Fruitful was the Yeoman, this cultivator of vast dreamlands,
He sort solace through imagination, and found comfort in the world of dreams,
A rider of two storms, but ultimately he became the master of none.
My heart feels lost at sea,
Adrift, I am directionless,
Home feels like a distant memory,
I long for solid ground underfoot,
I’m on an ocean vast and featureless,
I hear the sound of distant ships,
Focus seems impossible,
My head swims with thought,
Waterlogged and weary, IÂ drift on,
I fight fatigue as night falls again,
I see no lights on the horizon,
No welcoming lanterns on the beach,
How long must I fight this current?
The night is cold and dark,
Not a spec of light shows,
Until the dawn of a new day,
Tears and ocean water are as one,
I drift on, keeping my head above water,
Until the day my heart makes landfall.
New growth leaves the earth,
Soft during its virgin spring,
Not yet a thorn, until it dries,
As spring passes, death beckons,
Now sharp and hardened, they pierce,
They cut and tear, death is overwhelmed,
And summer is born.
Two rivers born of a sister star,
Are parted by green mountains far,
At great distances, they remain aware,
Timeless is the love, that they both share.
The rivers will still flow, after both stars fall,
An endless journey through time they’ll crawl,
Finding peace in their waters ebb and flow.
For time means nothing to the bond they know.
Although the rivers meet and part too soon,
They are connected by the very same moon,
Up in night skies, where sister stars shone,
They are two rivers divided, but they flow as one.
They will meet again, when their journeys are done,
Leaving behind creeks and streams, that forever will run,
Into the ocean’s great mouth, where all good rivers flow,
Together finding peace, beneath the moon’s nightly glow.
- For my cousin Kristy
Two hearts bound by a family tie,
Each one a cousin, that lands divide,
Tho farewelled tears fall in silent times,
Our eyes remain young, as old age chimes.
We’ve spent the last few weeks now, busily preparing,
So much to do, before reaching this feast we’re sharing,
We’ve renovated, tidied, chopped, sliced, and ran to and fro,
But we have all the work done now, so it’s on with the show,
It’s early, just the cockatoos outside share this bright morning,
Screeching at the sun, it’s the afternoon heat they are forewarning,
An Australian Christmas is hot, some years it can be quite obscene,
Yet a fat bearded man in a red winter coat, can always be seen,
Kids still sing of sleigh bells, some families eat a hot roasted meal,
But thankfully culture is changing, and we’re finding our own deal,
For some, there’s backyard cricket, barbecues, salads, and cold beers to plunder,
Because there is no freezing Christmas, when you are living down under,
Our family will arrive later this morning, and some final cooking will be done,
Before we sit and eat, chat, and then listen to the air conditioner’s hum,
No fat bearded men in red winter coats are on display here,
But there will be plenty of food, creamy desserts, and some lively cheer.
Although our decorations are black, the lights will still be shining bright,
When, with full bellies, we surrender another Christmas to the night.
To be a river in the next life would be,
Busy, refreshing, timeless and free,
The water rushing, swirling, passing all by,
While on my banks, beautiful trees sway,
Colourful birds screeching their calls,
Fly up and far away.
My banks cut through bright green fields,
I can see busy machinery and people cutting wheat,
While nearby sheep and cattle meander down to drink and wet their feet,
I’d be sorry to leave behind the quiet countryside,
Further along my banks I’d find a hectic busy loud city,
Finally, here I am, the end of the river mouth to pour into the sea,
Timeless this river, never an end,
Another new life for me.
This poem was written by my late mother, Christine Elaine Verkys, while she fruitlessly battled a terminal disease to stay with us. She was the very lifeforce of our family, and after she passed, sadly so did everything else. Personally, there have been few happy days since. Me a River features on her memorial stone, which stays with me to this day.
Here's to you, and another year without you.
Dan Verkys 