Thursday, 3 November 2022

Five Poems by David J. Delaney

 



Time no longer Rules


 

I’m relaxing as the darkness grows,

while a cavalcade of stars appear

and through the gums, gold moonlight glows,

as noisy crickets chirp quite near.


The campfire crackles with a gentle flame

for now the billy’s piping hot,

and camping where our Brothers came,

perhaps here on this very spot.


No longer do I wear a watch,

no longer does time rule my life,

for at day’s end I sip my scotch,

enjoying life now with my wife.


We’ll sit and watch the sunsets,

their orange and bright purple hues,

and while we both have no regrets,

there’s nothing left to lose.


We love this life, don’t get me wrong, 

and have each other and our van,

trying to avoid the cities throng,

often travelling without a plan.


I’d work wherever we would stop,

this was our goal, our golden plan,

but Ménière’s was hard to cop

and made me feel less than a man.


No longer could I be employed,

to support our goal, our dream. 

Because a wage was now devoid,

I started loosing self-esteem.


My Darling watched my slow demise,

and even when I hit the grog.

She was there sunset and sunrise,

Also the time I saw, “black dog”.


The pensions not a full on wage,

but we’re managing I suppose.

And sometimes it is hard to gauge,

where all the money, “up and goes”


Our caravan is now our home,

a permanent abode on wheels

it’s hard to save so we can roam

and camp where there’s the cheapest deals.

 

It’s not a glam life, that’s for sure,

but still some people think we’re rich.

So where we move, we will endure,

and settle where we might unhitch.

 

I’m relaxing as the darkness grows,

while a cavalcade of stars appear

and through the gums, gold moonlight glows,

who knows how long we might stay here.

 

 

 

 

Male Dilemma




Approaching now with trepidation
Heart thumping anticipation
Brow soaked in perspiration
Throat tightening asphyxiation.

Echoed voices, feeling fearful
Clouded mind now in freefall
Transfixed eyes becoming tearful
How can she be quite so cheerful?

Just in there! She softly motions
Brain is racing with emotions
Scented whiff from bottled lotions
Perfumed aroma drifts from potions.

Trembling hands begin to reach
Wishing I was at the beach
Sacred law, I’m about to breach
Remembering, what Dad did preach

I can’t do it, collapsed in beanbag
Feeling like a rung out dishrag
To all you men, keep reading a mag
Never, delve into a woman’s handbag.

 


Why I Live where I Live 

 

 

I love it here in our far north and Cairns is where I now reside

where poets always find their muse and life is mostly lived outside.

Our Winter’s can’t be classed as cold though sometimes drops to eight degrees

and Mexicans just can’t believe what we call ‘cold’ or ‘nippy breeze’.

 

Most mornings here in paradise are mesmerizing pinkish blues

then in the evening at days end we finish with light purple hues.

While, right here in my own backyard where rainforest and beaches meet,

you’ll stroll the winding forest tracks within a tropical retreat.

 

Where Blackbean and the Silky Oak, Red Cedar and the Kauri pine,

Cathedral fig and Quondon trees have grown as long as ‘Old man time’.

There’s golden Penda and tall Gums with ancient Elkhorn by the score,

and scaly tree ferns everywhere while crystal creeks wind through the floor.

 

Now if you watch with eagle eye you’ll spot some Bennets Kangaroos,

or hear a white lipped tree frog croak and screeching sulpur Cockatoos.

While higher in the canopy a Lesser Sooty Owl now darts

and swoops towards a white tail rat, which senses danger and departs.

 

And all the while there’s butterflies like Birdwing and the Swallowtail,

Ulysses and Helena Brown’s (now don’t they all just seem so frail)

Boyd’s dragon and the Bandicoot, the Swiftlet and the Lorikeet

all these creatures share our forest, and every single one’s unique.

 

I haven’t mentioned golden shores which stretch as far as one can see

or, swimming on our untouched reef and named the life beneath the sea.

There’s many more that I could name and so much more that I could share

but why not view this for yourself our beauty is beyond compare.

 

I’d like to keep this poem short but it’s a little hard to do

because, there’s so much beauty here I want to share with all of you.

And while I sit surrounded in my world that’s still quite primitive,

I hope my poem gave a glimpse – “Why I love living where I live”.

 

 

 

 

Waking

 

 

Stirring in my swag,

aroused to morning sounds.

 

Water trickling,

lorikeets screech, chatter,

bush turkeys scratch, grunt,

early trill of cicadas.

 

smell.

 

Freshness of eucalypt gums,

wild flowers,

smokey embers.

 

Eyes opening.

 

Kaleidoscopes

of sunlight shards

pierce diminishing mist,

a small cloud of pale blue smoke

hovers above smouldering campfire,

water trickles over rocks,

lorikeets search for nectar,

turkeys eat breakfast grubs,

cicadas frozen to trunks,

kangaroos drink.

 

Hypnotised by nature,

Still I lie, not wanting to move,

 

How long will I stay?

 

How long?.

 

 


Captured Moments


 

Driving home from work, 
radio station is playing our favourites, 
the corner of my mouth lifts slightly
into a half smile 
as I smell bacon, 
cheese carbonara 
and satay chicken kebabs;
the computer is still on facebook 
my darling, sitting in the papasan, 
watching Deal or no Deal. 


Now home
I walk inside, 
drop my bag on the floor 
next to the kitchen bench
then, I start cooking bacon and cheese carbonara 
while placing the satay chicken kebabs in a different pan.


The smell is not the same, 
the computer and TV are silent, 
and the papasan is empty. 

I miss you darling.

 

 


 

 

David J. Delaney - Now in his late 60’s, David left school at 15 years old only 3 months after “making” grade 8. This has been in many ways a drawback involving his literary goals since he only starting “writing” in late December 2007 and it has been a huge learning curve for him. He is still tackling how verbs, adjectives, nouns, syllables, etc, work.

As a poet, and recently a memoire/short story writer, he has had wonderful support, in Cairns, Queensland, Australia and worldwide. His love for writing and the impact it has on everyday people, has, definitely been an inspiration to continue with something he honestly enjoys, and, if this inspires one person to write and or showcase their work, then he has done his job.


 

Wednesday, 2 November 2022

Five Poems by Sherry Steiner


 


 ‘A Bowl of Fruit”

 

Ancient dreams come to life.....A bowl of fruit – one apple at a time

I slice it up three sections square.....I slice it quickly without a care.



When eyelids shutter in mid-day.....and all the chaos falls away

a cavalcade of daisies so sublime.....and for one moment you are mine.

Cloistered affections drown mercilessly... trudging thru fields of marshy sea.



Ancient dreams come to life.....A bowl of fruit – one cherry at a time

I slice it up five sections square.....I slice it quickly without a care.



I go to the lake to ponder all.....watching the season trip and fall.

Counting bees that swoop down low.....a cotillion of sparrows to and fro.

A lopsided raccoon bays at the water....his .sense of self for just one quarter.



Ancient dreams come to life...A bowl of fruit – one orange at a time

I slice it up seven sections square...I slice it quickly without a care.



I close my eyes and drift away.....wind wrapped fairytales out to play.

Bells ringing from the steeple top.....A fiery frost – a sudden stop.

I’m tired of all the rigmarole.....the rocky path always on hold.



Ancient dreams come to life.....A bowl of fruit – one grape at a time

I slice it up nine sections square.....I slice it quickly without a care.



It’s a pirate’s story floating on air.....a mountain decent in disrepair.

Cobbled webs tangle their weary selves..A tribe of songsters a band of elves.

Howling coyotes glorify the night.....as stark reminders hold on tight.



Ancient dreams come to life.....A bowl of fruit – one seed at a time

I slice it up thirteen sections square.....I slice it quickly without a care.



Pearls Wrapped in Diamonds

 

His talk was as bright as a lark - Frosted feathers lay in disarray

Right there at the end of the road - The rusted wheels parked alone

And they kept saying no one was home.

 

Counting backwards on a one way street - Pearls wrapped in diamonds

One hundred and ten in the heat.

 

Thundering jets crucify- Waterways dry way up to the sky

A moment in a minute’s time as mystics sings fairytales in the key of A, B, C & D.

Closing the door – that one – crested thoughts find a way.

 

Counting backwards on a one way street - Pearls wrapped in diamonds

One hundred and twenty in the heat.

 

On the other side of that side shards of glass fill the air

Tempered rain in three quarter time balancing purse strings from afar.

A table covered in shredded memories.

 

Counting backwards on a one way street - Pearls wrapped in diamonds

One hundred and thirty in the heat.

 

He arrived at noon unknown – skid marks a mile long

A story to be told – a story old

A thousand words his song – he arrived at noon unknown.

 

Counting backwards on a one way street - Pearls wrapped in diamonds

One hundred and forty in the heat…pearls wrapped.



Five Times Three

 

Waiting for the water to rise – for you to surmise

just leave all those damn boots behind.

 

Love drenched recollections that won’t ring dry

as your chaotic circus circles way up in the sky.

I remember when a song was so sublime

when stolen alphabets got lost one spoonful at a time.

Corn starched marionettes hang by a thread

Why is it so hard to say the word dead?

 

Waiting for the water to rise – for you to surmise

just leave all those damn boots behind

 

A photograph split in two where one part

goes west and  the other part  is worn on the chest.

Short circuited images piled high

Electrifying differences coast on by.

An irresistible offer of memories by the pound

portable affections without any sound.

 

Waiting for the water to rise – for you to surmise

just leave all those damn boots behind

 

Within a moment’s notice I can count to three

as you toss my silver bracelets out to sea.

Secret service agents arrive with contempt

parading their melancholy never spent.

Five million dollars take a hike as castrated bankers go on strike.

 

Waiting for the water to rise – for you to surmise

just leave all those damn boots behind.

 

Chocolate virgins underground gasp for air

as suited kangaroos mysteriously disappear.

A cobbled stone street tracked with lace

no one knew how to look at each other face to face.

Your embroidered frenzy full steam ahead –

we once had dinner mints at noon instead.

 

Love drenched recollections that won’t ring dry

as your chaotic circus circles way up in the sky.

 

Waiting for the water to rise – for you to surmise

just leave all those damn boots behind.



  That Steady Rhythm

 

A chorded melody to all of eternity

Polished roads slick to the touch

Way down yonder over there

Fresh sounds – a book of such.

Sailing on high tide far out to sea

Seagulls flutter and flirt on by

Immersed within your steady rhythm

A song without words hangs out to dry.

 

A corner on the street...a street on the corner...Polished roads slick to the touch

 

Standing on top of a soft dune of thought

Confessions on a rainy day –

Behind my eyes a cloud of autumn

the tide turns grey with frost.

September all around -

Such an early turn.

So many planes flying low

Everything burns slow.

 

A corner on the street...a street on the corner...Confessions on a rainy day

 

Imaginary roads wind around the hills

Eighty beats a minute a clock in time.

Tomorrow when the ghosts disappear

Your dreams will surface within mine.

Solo speaking in the blink of an eye

That noisy silence within fills -

Water in a porcelain jug weeps.

A purse with gold coins spills.

 

A corner on the street...a street on the corner....Your dreams will surface within mine

 

A chorded melody to all of eternity

Polished roads slick to the touch

Way down yonder over there

Fresh sounds – a book of such.

Sailing on high tide far out to sea

Seagulls flutter and flirt on by

Immersed within your steady rhythm

A song without words hangs out to dry.

 

A corner on the street – a street on the corner......

Eternity in a moment’s time...



“Where Daisies Go To Die”

 

A piddle- a riddle – a two bit fiddle -

An anxious dog strays far and wide.

Stepping in circles of midriff pandemonium

tuxedoed cornucopia piled high

leather bootstraps twisted dry.

Over yonder where daisies go to die

where the sheriff pardons all

except those who stand tall.

At 11:18 one star appears

with three hundred constellations shaking in fear.

When I looked up all was not still

as the heavens swirled slowly down the hill.

Knuckle cracking melodies go west

cowboys with harmonicas know best.

When the range was clear of buffalo

and the wide open sky beckoned

 they hitched a ride 3000 miles out

 with an eagle and a bell and a shout.

 Waiting for sunshine on the other side

while a tornado swoops us on down

landing in some unforgiven town.

Yesterday when I thought about today

when the parrot did a little sway

you said that paradise was only a stone’s throw away.

A piddle - a riddle – a two bit fiddle -

An anxious dog strays far and wide.

I question the rain in Spain –

the English Paraguay

the statistical ridiculousness of fate

the thin line between love and hate.

Many new moons ago lovers stuttered

flutes fluttered – windows shuttered.

Darkness rose in mid-day over a bed of hay.

 Horses galloped on by

over yonder where daisies go to die.

Stepping in circles of midriff pandemonium

tuxedoed cornucopia piled high

leather bootstraps twisted dry.

And yesterday I still thought about today

about that blue jay in a whispered bed of hay.

 








Sherry Steiner:

Lives in Housatonic MA USA ,originally from New York City. Published writer of off-beat poetry, monologues, flash fiction and musical performance pieces - arts educator, exhibiting visual artist as well as performing musician on a double-neck ukulele/dulcimer/piano.

www.sherrysteiner.com  


 




Five Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 



Wads

 

A friend up the street tells me about Wads.

Always carried lots of money on his person.

 

An old timer with a big heart.

Would help anyone out if he could.

 

Such things don’t go unnoticed.

Two meth heads beat him with a pipe

and a crowbar, took his money.

 

Wads is now lying on life support.

In hospital with his face crushed in.

 

My friend from up the street went to see him.

Says it doesn’t look good for Wads.



End Tables for the End Times

 

With even morning socks mismatching,

it seemed like the prudent thing to do.

 

End tables for the end times.

Free delivery was the clincher.

 

Any address you wanted.

I gave my own, but was tempted.

 

The young gentlemen who carried everything

up the stairs, more courteous than efficient.

 

The elevator out of order.

But these are the times. 

 

Screwing on the legs,

I think of tall black giraffes

unfit for any popular zoo.

 

Lay down coasters

like cover fire.

 

This disappearing bottle of wine

right in front of me,

like a magician of sorts.

 

If you call me in the morning,

expect the machine

or worse.

 

Friends remain so

more by strategic absence

than any mathematical

constant.

 

Your belches, farts and banalities,

they add up.

 

There is a reason I live

with a cat.


 

Twist Enough Stories and All You Have Are Pretzels

  

 

To lose cable is not like losing a child, 

I have no children and have only had cable, 

so I can only imagine, 

but Reason fills me with this ratty piñata  

of Belief that threatens to break open  

at any moment; since I cancelled the cable, 

I've been a far happier man, 

I still break out in rashes, but the rashes are mine, 

usually on the knuckles as though I've been punching 

tickets to the faulty rollercoaster of Spin; 

twist enough stories and all you have are pretzels, 

the journalists adverse to journalism these days 

so that now I go for walks, really see things  

for myself: patrolling dragonflies, 

tinted window motorcades of questionable transparency, 

lattice fencing for a wedding cake  

everyone knows won’t make it.

 


Don’t Be All the Rage

 

The last hoopla left somersault Saigon

almost 48 years ago

which reminds me to change

that orange cut box of baking soda

in my fridge.

 

Once dependable and now fading.

Don’t be all the rage.

 

That new hot thing for alien agendas.

Faking the angry confetti of the fallen.

 

Ignore this travesty of trends.

Always come back to yourself,

like a junkyard wheel-well

with none of the push or grease.

 

That bedroom childhood way

you closed your eyes

and let the afternoon sun

fall over you like some long

glowing hot house truth.

 

And intimate all these years later.

Loving your only wife again.

Dylan Thomas by other means.

Remain a writer and never a billboard.

 

There are so many tricks

and so few ways to oppose them.

 

Sitting up

in the bed of beds

throwing water over my

midnight face.

 

Seething against nothing

that soon becomes a sad failed parody

of that original injurious

lie of itself.

 

Which is why I find myself

in a constant fit of happiness.

 

Finally sure of myself

and never the other.

 

That persistent angry chaos

from within

that always turns

without.

 

Personal shortcomings

sold for pennies on the dollar.

 

And this way I sleep in

when I can,

wake up to the dependable surefooted sun

once again.


 

Only the Best

 

Past lives are a funny thing.

Everyone wants to be the best,

no great harm in that, I guess.

                  

But think of it.

All those past lives.

 

It must have been some strange looking

societies back then.

 

All those kings & queens & emperors

& princes & princesses.

 

And not a single chambermaid or sharecropper

or plumber among them.




Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review


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