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aurora australis

in the night

in the night I pray

i hold my hands in prayer position

think about the good

things, the small

things, the ordinary

things like

my kids are safe

my body is sound

i have a job

as my eyes can’t stay open

in the night

in the night he

talks

my north star

like a sea

constant, lulling, sound

at anchor

washing over me

holding true

in the night

in the night I wonder

what else?

should I do

things like – oh

the racing

relentless

uneasy

part of me that can’t rest

i’m stuck

ragged

pinned to corkboard

at best

Photo: not the aurora australis but it may flicker on the horizon here later tonight!

hot hot cool

electrics, tricks

tick, tick, trickle

heat wavers, waves

stop. And restart

farts

old and out of date

but

aren’t we all

electric-powered today?

renewable future

our fate

fill fill the landfill

juice

running down my arm

gasp- scruffle- snip

catch, latch, snatch

from air, from light, from surge-bright

water push push

show the way

if you can-can

dance

save it

for a rainy day

say, can’t that

precipitation generate?

Oh don’t stop or

curtail

our splendid, slipshod, spendy ways

pump your pool

reverse cycle, hum, vibrate

rave

it’s only

the hot hot cool

you crave

more power, more power, power on

never never off, no loss

no, no, nooo not gonna

break

Photo by Gabriel Aguirre on Unsplash

Valentines

The valentine’s candle

smells like Hayden’s house

deep amber and vetiver

when I was a teenager

floating on the warmth

of sponge-painted yellow

walls, companion

novelty and wondering

how I’d fit

you’re mellow

they told me

but I don’t know

think I was just

quiet and still

observing the smokedrift

listening, watching

and waiting to see

what was expected

and who

I might be

Photo by petr sidorov on Unsplash

perpendicular

high on the escarpment

in a train

white cockatoo flies

exactly the speed

wing-beats, pace same

I’m choked

with need

to be

in love?

or grief

tendrils reach

from a thorn-spiked heart

sinuous and green

into the thick undergrowth

lustrous, keen

gymeas ridiculous

Quentin Blake sketch

in a stringybark forest

perpendicular

bridges from

a childhood book

with an old man’s pride

and tragic accident

to overcome

oh!

the ocean glints

and froths

whiteblue, whiteblue

in the distance, so

utterly beautiful

that rock shelf

like bricks, like stones, like fossils and holes

I yearn to be

whole

entirely

immersed

with spray in my face

spindrift, salty

it’s something like homesickness

or lust

ancient craving

carving

can’t explain

the deep interior

sea-cave

heartspace

soul-pain

Photo by Ryo Nagisa on Unsplash

September

September, September, September
suddenly everything I read
says September! although it generally means
autumn, northern
not sultry sudden-summer breeze
September! marker, moment of stepping through
the brink, the precipice
of spring, sudden launch in
to a shock-cold waterslide thing
with bushfires ahead
not cozy nights
closing in
with
Halloween pumpkins
a flickering torch in a garden
scent-lit by warm-jasmine
on closer inspection
turns out to be
pixelated, muzzeley
not a real flame
immediately
September!
a start or an end?
put my hand in the still-cool water
realise if my palm is the bay,
the knuckles sandbar, my arm’s the channel out to sea
and me
– I’m out there, not the land
but a floating, liquid being
ocean-whole and once again
I wonder
does it mean
to finish, or begin
September, September, September
a door
a spark
an ember
Photo by Tengyart on Unsplash

perfection

in the funnel

of perfection

my addiction

blurs the world-

running

narrows to a

thin vibration

plucked and humming

mosquito-fine

only I can hear

what’s almost comfort

sets off

something

whispers

to my inner ear

I don’t stumble

so’s they’d see

just feel my

direction

skews

a line’s breadth

devastation-

failure-

and a child’s

unformed craving

-hovers

unbelonging

raw edge of fear

Photo: Claire Doble

living memory

he remembers

when my hair was long

a decades-old flirtation

not personal

if it ever was

with him

I remember

that pale, waxy skin

like marble

the feel

of boy-men muscles

along limbs

as I struggle

to catch slurred words

in a noisy pub

even though I’m sober now

he’s invading my space

after 25 years

of long-forgotten…

suddenly

confronted with

being seen

in a way I haven’t been

for ages

is it good or ill

to bathe

in that male gaze

again

I am, am I?

a person now

or then

how to define

myself

hard-up against that

strange

living-memory thing

rain like february

it came in the night

driving and thick

a vertical virtual

wall of precipi…

tation

–

wind rumples

through the eves

crunkling the cardboard

taped to my ceiling

“spielkiste”

from the last time

–

my spiders watch

from the opposite corner

of the room

their spindly legs

like stripped

upside down

umbrellas

–

dehumidifier hums

on 80%

carpets

still feel damp

–

the rains are here again

Photo by Anna Atkins on Unsplash

Stretch marks

Stretch marks on the ocean

silvery, tired

trying to remember I’m vast

sparkling, a

mother

fucker

more than, enough

can’t be contained, tamed

in a single glass

wine? whiskey? why?

I yearn somedays,

mostly Sundays

afternoons

for self-absorbed

oblivion

a sweat-beaded bottle might provide

those sweet lies

politician in a suit

sneakers and no tie

Modern. Woman.

leaning in

hi!

time to change

time’s are changing

it’s like

holding on to a boyfriend cause

he looks good from behind

only realise

that metaphor

means

he’s long gone

in my mind

can’t win

with an exit-man

start again

if you can

find enough

water in the ocean

to stretch across

exhaustion

make a new thing

never stop

aching

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/clairevetica/stretch-marsk?si=10a516776fd04d1c9232bb1db7c76e1f&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

Photo: Claire Doble

broken glass

more picnics mean

more broken glass

it’s not me

or any of my

friends

we wouldn’t do that

who would

stare out to sea

and ask

if the rusty anchor’s still wedged

on the island

where waves attack

shipwreck litter

you’d be stuck

with a fine these days

for that

and I heard the sailors were

all unvaccinated

in 1870

selfish pricks, I wonder

was their captain schooled

by Opus Dei?

someone who

eats roast koala

for tea

picks his teeth

with the constitution

casts icy eyes over

the cash flow of

stamp duty to

developer, it’s only the poor

who choose to buy

on flood plains

my Hilux explains

I’m OK

burning finest quality

trees in aspic

4.2 litre diesel

smash the plastic

P plates

in the car park

by the boat ramp

someone will

tidy up

for you

black water laps

against the morning shore

faint tang of petrol

in the air

it’s safe for kids

so clean

because

our land is

rich and free

Photo: Claire Doble