Poetry Descriptions
Tettrennial Drift
by Duncan Weller
This backbone
A staircase of vertebrae
Embedded with crustacean fossils
Driven downward,
Upward enlivened
Whirls me into the air
Throws me down.
I’ve drawn and painted
These emblematic symbols of duality
Where the resting space,
In the light
Is the midway purgatory
Where the sleep of nothingness
Is the black below.
The encrusted stone markings,
The remnants of a human cartography,
Ride these steps
To heights unknown.
This ancient pathway
Is a chamber of contemplation
With unknowables at either end.The Quadrennial Lift
Is where my mind can drift in four worlds.
There is the present settlement
That resounds with confidence
And an ability brought on by wakefulness
And a desire to observe with honest eyes.
Condescending scorn appears
When I’m weak and suffering darker days,
After I’ve fallen.There are the hopes and dreams,
The desperate desire for strength
Of some future with an endless line
Of moments of wonder
When I look up.
There is the art
That is the separation,
The comment
That keeps me up
away from the sickness that might instill itself
If I didn’t have it,
If I didn’t have it to improve upon.I like the drift.
Avoiding the temptation
To corrode the trust between us,
These little emblems and symbols
And thoughtful meanderings
Resonate meaning for me.
I am never distant enough to really know
On what to foreclose.
There’s mystery in that,
And much trepidation.
I’m restless and hurt
By all that I leave behind
When I reflect and regret
But I’m always sailing
some kind of sailing.
The oceans,
These depths,
The cause for all this mystery,
In all its troubling blackness
Has a real and rocky bottom
that reveals itself when the light is cast down.
All these little lights of words I’m making
Give me strength to swim these oceans
And share with you this humble journey,
And hope the heavenly muses (don’t laugh)
Who temper and delight my hands and eyes
Are encouraging enough to brave the storms.
What a magic challenge it seems
Where such great honesty and research is required
Into the human heart and head.
This whirling world
Is lit by some unseen doorway, midway
And when I stand here on the landing
And look up
Or down
I either rush in one direction
Or become immobile
Immobile because it is a noncommittal day
And if no direction moves me
nothing captivates
I enter another world –
Yours.
If you are so welcoming,
I’ll walk out the door and enter the world you inhabit
Where it’s you I might encounter
On any given day.
When I have the words, the supply, the starter light
It’s a wonderful palette of colours to play with,
To ruminate on,
In my little world made large
With Tettrennial Drift.
He sold a triumvirate
a world of desirable control
straight from their table,
a playpen freeway of toys
as readily available
as a morning’s cup of coffee.
Behind them
the window to reality
must be made of very thick glass
because it blocks out the noise
of the screaming and moaning
of the masses,
people who at a distance
must seem like tiny figurines,
lost discarded broken dolls.And because there are so many
of these light little limned micronaughts,
all this derby death destruction
must simply be natural,
all the fault of the drivers
who can’t take the hills.
Together they are all desperately apart
Together they are all losing their hearts.A head-clamped artist loves his vice
and turns the handles on himself.
He paints the back of a bald head
as it loses its brains to space.
This man with the happy face
admires the dry gaps of self-slit wrists.
The artist did not offer up beautiful distraction
to stop the poor man’s eager suicide.
Two men who love each other
and fought to speak the words
have driven through their open minds.
They are impatiently waiting
for bridges and turnpikes to others,
and grow tired of the thin road
that connects them.Forever angry,
with crazed self-induced misery
the solitary man blames all but himself.
A park bench and a cool pool
surrounded by birds and trees
is all he needs
before approaching others.In a crowd of such individuals
they are all desperately apart
they are all losing their hearts.
Where I go
the seeds will shake me,
jammer at my frontal lobes,
germinate in my brain stem root,
and see with double sided eyes.
When I view the folds
of the metaphor flower,
I cape in wind
and roll outside.
This swim of colour
fins a floating body
of ideas slowly dancing in
amongst falling petals
of the rain.
All this lovely meander
vanishes
as the voice of a stranger
intrudes.
I find myself in a cafe,
and the voice
incongruent to petal jammering
asks,
where I am.
He Comes Home Truth
by Duncan WellerHe comes home truth
and leaves a mysterious.
This house is grass for bending light,
fertile for worlds in stories,
fertile for red trees to grow
to astonishing heights.
He wanders soaking in the elements
and rests in floating beds and chairs
in a shelter where his mind wrestles out the excess
and plays with the order of the essential.
He comes home truth
but leaves no mystery.
This house was grass for bending light
now left infertile for worlds encased in order,
infertile for red trees to grow
to astonishing heights.
He leaves home spent
and soaks in words
that mist and dew
and makes small poems
of interlude.
Thoughts ponder on directions.
Paths and roads and tunnels
and whether to be still
or racing,
racing home.
