The Voice, 2023…

Clouds swirl and shape in restless columns
as angry magpies swoop, attack,
while the sky grows darker, loses lustre.

We’re unsure, grey ghosts walking,
stumbling in the misty morning,
slow to wake, our energies dimmed,
dulled by sleep, dreams still tangled
in the long gone seasons.

And from a forest cloaked in silence,
a whip bird’s note rings clear and lucid,
a springtime Voice for hope, renewal
but few were listening, and the moment passed
as church bells pealed, drowned out his song.

………………..**

Ballast in Wonderland 

I wanna be a rock chick
volcanic, tough, glassy as obsidian
with my face a Noah mask
bejewelled in jet,
my hair chopped and shared, cropped,
my dark eyes wayward, wild, unknowable.

I wanna go where legends seed,
get birthed in dim hotels,
where dropping in and dropping out
rip ghostly veils of night apart,
and youthful anthems spruik
defiance to a scornful half-cocked moon.

I wanna strut in skin-tight leather
rubbed coarse on silken thighs,
rage in garrotted lace of eurotrash designs,
sport pave skulls and heavy metal rings,
snakes and pendants, hearts suspended
on loopy silver chains.

I wanna ride with the low-slung, long-haired boys
on feathered wings of widespread tumult,
soaring in that sonic maelstrom
where rough lads manhandle bright guitars
where riffs of storm-chased passion amp up
only to fall and break on stone-cold hard desire,
the atonal chants surging, raging, then dumped,
righteous ballast for delinquent rock chick dreams.

‘Tell me another story, Nanna, please,’
and he strokes my silver hair,
his kid’s eyes gleaming
black as blackest coal.
He’s wayward, unknowable.

And I begin again, my tale.

………………..**

My home, my heart, my history 

Cloud drift of pearly mist-puffs,
ships skimming through the breath of fog,
tall masted vessels, hulks and transports
carting folk from Europe’s lands –
convicts, settlers,
across the bay to Liardet’s Beach,
not far from here
where I lie sleeping,
cocooned in woolly caves of dreaming.

We braved the black and storm-whipped seas,
survived damn lies and trite betrayals,
a wicked string of cunning seasons,
and yes, in there, the family treasons,
poverty, love and cruel romances,
births and deaths and even rape.
All gone old soldiers, sailors, airmen,
bold bastard boys and greedy bosses.
Yes, we survived them all.

Parents, husband, neighbours, kids –
their voices fade as I shift and stir
as the clock ticks in the welcome hours,
syncopating city rhythms,
curving sounds from busy bridges –
echoes from the workers’ world,
throb of trucks and swish of cars
while fast-paced footsteps beat a tempo,
pass outside my pavement, door.

It’s early still, but time to rise
for it’s mornings I love best,
as rays of sun, finessed, light-fingered,
slide in corners down my hall
on liquid honey knotted-pine boards,
reclaimed and buffed with perfumed care.

See blossom starburst pink in leadlight,
where curtains scrim the bright Spring day –
a luminosity of life transparent
as the kettle whistles on my stove,
a sputtered tune, its modest trill
a welcome to my portside house,
this timber cottage, this sturdy shell,
my home, my heart, my history –
all here.

Through clouds one day my people came
and to clouds one day I’ll go.
Till then let peaceful days accrue
in memories, mementoes,
as I gather songlines, tales and truths –
weave keepsakes for new generations.

Hello my sweethearts,
come greet the spirits of the port.

 ————————————–

An Arts graduate of the University of Melbourne, Barbara Boyd-Anderson’s love of poetry began in earnest with Dinny O’Hearn, her tutor in English, who led the way with his passion for Yeats, Irish poetry and literature. Over many years Barbara has been involved in teaching literature, poetry and media studies at high school and tertiary level.  She was a founding member of Media Education in Melbourne, and she subsequently worked as a writer director of short films and a feature film, The Still Point. Barbara now lives on the Gold Coast, blending her love of poetry with coastal photography.

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