a poem about silence
when one writes on silence
words get in the way
it needs a blank page
it needs space
like the death hour before dawn
before demons come up to meet us
you can hear it
in the moment between moments
between a musical note and the next
you can feel it between breaths
between birthing and dying
between the bow and the string
twixt the lip and the cup
the moment before touch
is it in the longing?
and can you say the sharp sickle moon
that hangs on a dark winter sky is silent?
in gaol the illiterate young indigenous father
who used violence instead of words
to express himself
is this silence?
or the deafening silence imposed in fear
silence can be loud
a silent protest
even without poster or placard is loud
when one turns their back in silence
the noise of the silence is destructively loud
when the powerless stitch their lips together
with discarded needle and fishing line
unable to eat unable to talk
is this silence
even if tears still fall?
anonymity is a powerful silence
and evil thrives under the blanket of silence
a poem about silence
needs to be loud
and needs to be heard
colleen keating
daybreak over mt sondar
in the beginning
air static as a nylon petticoat pulled over my hair
fingerprints of ruby red
betray the world dark coloured
the arc of dawn flexes
stirs mt sondar
an awakening blush
flutters fire red catching
Namatjira’s mountain
blood red
as I sit here it pulsates
the sun not yet over the horizon
like an intruder rushes in
steals every shade and shadow
this mountain lies in the country with poise
immortalised in a gown of purple and blue
like a sleeping goddess behind glass
yet the rattle of chains and padlock
thump like a heart beat against my ribs
as in the nearby town
for a dollar
kids still buy a rusty jam tin of petrol
write this love letter
colleen keating
notification
for the old tree to be cut down
workmen are needed that are not duped
by its leaf-ruffled song
cutting down high branches won't be hard
there is only spindly foliage
it being strangled slowly
by hard tarred surface
concrete pebbled surrounds
and an overpass blocking its sunlight
twin trucks high up
stretch to the sky
like two arms thrown up in praise
they will fall easily
by chain saw and help of a crane
however the main trunk is another thing
its presence is formidable
only the hectic scream of a powerful chain saw
can finally silence it
colleen keating
treading water
there is a touch of the transcendent
on the horizon today the sky spreads
like the sound of a symphony and shadows
the deep slate of sea with its surge
of rolling energy tufts of crested foam
and sweeps of spindrift thrown in the air like hands of praise
out there crouches a small grey boat
bobbing in and out of view
a sea snail with its feelers poised
maybe fishermen or divers near a hidden reef
maybe sailors to catch the coloured winds of the dawn
i do not expect to know more
ebb tide the hollowed waves
like hungry mouths gulp
stretch languidly to the edge
lull like the pause between briny breaths
then recede
on the shoreline of my mind
thoughts tread water
more lonely than the boat on the slate-grey sea
as my footprints meld with the tide
back home I continue
to stream a shelf of diaries
colleen keating
love letter
imagine walking along a noisy street
mind twirling like a wind blown chime
enter a parkland
where even your footsteps
are absorbed by the grass
and find yourself like alice shrunk in wonderland
before a field of sunflowers
with dawning faces like a thousand spinning suns
fanfare of rusted gold
dressed lavishly in green
they turn a slow liturgical dance
following the sun in worship
how amazing their sovereignty
bees dip for nectar
birds scour out their burnished seeds
from their fullness is their giving
i stand in the gaze of love
this zenith of beauty is for the taking
yet in all this the expression of self alludes them
i sing a jubilant alleluia chorus
you are glorious
I stand here in awe
and like poets and painters over the centuries
colleen keating
down-sizing
how agreeable it is not to be staying forever in the family home
guarding her memories and being the tender keeper of her story
how much better to strike out into unfamiliar territory
letting go of what still claims part of you sacred precious
feeling uncertainty tug
walls of family photos document celebrations and milestones
of life forty years to create only an hour to take down
and now a wall intact blank unfaded negates its history
books are unnecessary now with google and kindle and iPad even though
books are your life and they give wings to your heart
instead of getting soil behind finger nails and down on stiff knees
smelling compost and moist earth and though the veggie and herb patch
and garden of blue gums and birds nurture your soul
who wants all that constant work of falling twigs and leaves and seed pods
in a diminished world you can sip coffee and just watch
your crazy social justice wall erased by the window cleaner doesn’t erase passion
and why are there shelves of videos preloved and unplayable
decluttering hurts like little deaths and fondling treasures in ones hand
for the last time and choosing salvos or out bin is like loosing a little of one-self
it shocks mortality out of its pigeon hole where it was kept buried
colleen keating
maybe salacia
she walks the beach
scanning shells on the edge
in a loosely tied sarong
hair swept up under a wide brim hat
face lined with many lifetimes
fishermen and sailors nod and smile
sea gulls rummaging along the shore hardly notice
she walks barefoot on the sea-soaked sand
tracing the waving wrinkled water mark
bites of the briny sea at her toes
she bends to receive tumbled gifts
golden whelks, nippled periwinkles
spindled limpets black nerites spotted voluted cowries
some say she listens to the music of the sea
others say she’s a drifter
or perhaps
an artist living her art
a poet living a poem
some say she belongs to the deep
maybe goddess of the sea
now and then she gazes out
to where the sea and sky converge
as if she yearns
to slip between the sentinels of crashing waves
to her home beyond
colleen keating