Biodiversity

“If we lose the insects then everything is going to collapse,” says Prof Dave Goulson of Sussex University, UK. “We are currently on course for ecological Armageddon.”



where have all the flowers gone
the insects are disappearing too
we are currently on course
for ecological armageddon
oh for the wings of a dove
convenient transport for lady birds
no longer available

would you like to swing on a star
carry moon beams home in a jar
and be better off than you are
or would you rather be a pig
far too many here already
with and without trotters
you can be better than you are
you could be swinging on a star
and who knows
without light pollution
you might even see one

Mid Week Motif - PU

Dingo

 the dingo dogs

 sit together
 teeth bared

 pretending they are leaping tigers

 watch for an opportunity
 to strike the lone monk
 meditating in the paddock

 learned in the art of cowardice

 they hunt in packs
 only attack the unprotected
 even babes in swaddling clothes

 Sundays Whirligig #211

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THIS WEEK'S WORDS come from "White Dog" by Australian poet Susan Hampton: meditation, sit, tigers, together, monk, cowardice, protects, paddock, learn, dog, leaping, watch 

The Sunday Muse # 53

it's all over now veronica
you're at peace now veronica

twenty six
and  already considered  over the hill
marriage to a lord
was not what you expected
veronica


no one important
came to the wedding
except a dusted off
old dowager countess
propped up for the occasion

afraid a major's daughter
didn't  quite cut the mustard
in the aristocratic circles
veronica

ensuing
bitter divorce battles
custody battles
brutality
beatings
drunkeness
gambling
drove you to the edge
of insanity
no one was going to take your side
veronica

poor nanny  sandra got murdered
by mistake
the bludgeon was meant for you
veronica

you
were murdered in different ways
veronica

lost your children
no contact with them for thirty five years
never met your five grandchildren
died alone
poor veronica





when it rains or snows
maybe  a  kind thought
can be spared for the woman
who gave the homeless
shelter

when they are dry and warm
i hope they at least remember you
veronica



Veronica Lucan left all her wordly possessions  and money to the homeless.

ANZAC DAY

when i'm feeling blue
when i'm feeling alone
i remember a place
where i am welcomed
with big smiles and hugs


Carpe Diem Meditation  # 81

A Letter To Vincent Van Gogh

well, dear vincent
you are a household name now
you even feature on wall paper
everyone knows about the ear too





they have made movies
written books about you
your work sells for obscene amounts of money

if you were alive now
you would look like this
cool



they say you were obsessed with yellow
people are not obsessed with colours now
they are obsessed with money
we have returned to the dark ages



just think you could be sleeping in this bedroom
with your backdrop wallpaper of  beautiful almond blossoms
instead of this one



how about this for a kitchen




better than dining with
the potato eaters
in this one eh?


these dutch lamps fetch a fortune now
i carried one on board as hand luggage
and dislocated my shoulder


on reflection
i think
you were better off
even without  a sou
to your name


life is too fast now
no one has time for each other
forget about drinks with the postie




or
madame ginoux
she would charge you for the mending and meals
nowadays




you would miss this



the south of france is not the same
full of tourists ad foreign residents


i found this
doesn't look like one of yours
no one knows about it
it's ok
your secret is safe

Mid week Motif - Poets United

The Sunday Muse # 52

it is so heartening
when one legged people
find each other
at the bus stop
and make a connection
especially at easter

Counter Culture

THIS WEEK'S WORDS  at Sundays Whirligig come from "Daylight Rain" by Australian poet Michael Dransfield:







daylight, drunk, hearth, forward, inside, money, fire, anywhere, words, sometimes, spacious, map


veni vidi
and decided it was not for me
none of them made any money
out of words
there was no map to success

painters and poets of the counterculture
lived in spacious dilapidated condemned mansions
with big fire places
mantlepieces piled high with mail
which was never forwarded


people would sleep anywhere inside
after drunken parties
stoned off their faces
on the stairs
on the floor near the hearth
sometimes awoken by the occasional crash
of a falling ceiling
amazingly
no one was ever killed


i don't remember
much daylight or sunshine about them
grit grey was the colour of cool
the dreaded bourgeoise existence to be avoided at all costs
suddenly became enormously appealing