Poetry Sunday

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Photo by Hide Obara on Unsplash

Woke to see a red sun
sitting on the ocean
first honeymoon morning
shimmering fire
in the half-light predawn

a pause in real time
you sat up and glanced
then pulled me back down to bed
saying I was more engaging
my body better to see
hotter than the sun

kissing with closed eyes
your red hair backlit
golden and glowing
lips soft
insistent
flesh pliant
giving

just married
tangled all up in you
over excited by it
I hurled the pillows
to the floor

kicking off sheets
laughing like a maniac
in a frenzy
of excess
of desire
lovemaking…


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I heard a plaintive cry outside the lounge room. It usually means the finches are in danger, that either a goanna or a snake threatened.

Looking outside, I couldn’t see either. Then, 8 finches flew up from the wheel-barrow. October has been incredibly warm, but there was a cold snap at end of September. Firewood is still stacked outside.

Next to the cut logs was a tiny Double-barred Finch. It’s wing looked broken, though I wasn’t sure. Completely motionless, the bird must have hit the glass door. Its family flock were encouraging it to fly.


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In spring
birds fly
two by two
playing
chasing
dancing on branches
bobbing and bowing
presenting
mating
nest building
finding feathers
for beds
for eggs
to nestle nestlings
the hatchling
chicks to be

*Author’s own photo.


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Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash

A let down.
Seems like overwhelming disappointment.
I got so into the characters I would dream plotlines.
Then allow doubt to infiltrate all the premises of my novel.
Spending a decade writing something, only to save it in 4 places.
To let it sit, to rot and petrify in multiple folders and thumb drives.

Tried to give the draft a final editing push, but fall back again.
It seems like trash, hardly worth the effort to whip it into shape.
Who am I kidding, no traditional publisher would want this crap?
I’ve been neglecting the manuscript again, a bird with just 1 tweet.
The ‘not-good-enough’ ear-worm haunts me for the millionth time. …


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When days are bloated with sour lemons
squeeze the life from the bastards

Press until they’re hollow
trim
cut
stick the knife in
boil those rinds in bubbling sugar

Once they froth
glistening golden
cool down
then devour the candy
dripping goodness

Sweet

*Image is the poet’s own


My orchard is a place to step out of myself and into nature.

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Rainbow Bee-eaters are back from wintering in north Queensland or New Guinea. They’ve returned to our farm to breed and gobble bees. And the best place for bees is our orchard.

In the first week of spring, apricots trees blossomed and bees swarmed.


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Blurry blue-eyed babes
the big milk guzzlers
with tubby tummies
snagging teeth
always hungry
biting ankles
pulling laces
nipping tails
pouncing
chewing
suckling
barking
playing
pooing
peeing
pups


How to bliss out from a viral world in twelve easy steps.

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Spiny-cheeked Honeyeaters have come to my home again. Unlike the world wide travel ban, they’ve been enjoying six months of warm weather in arid central Australia; now they’re back for breeding.

These birds have pink beaks with black tips and blue eye rings. Tufts of yellow feathers stick out like whiskers on their cheeks. They like to hang out upside down, or sideways, sipping the sweetness from new spring flowers.


Broken bones and being let go won’t break me

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Photo by Alex Iby on Unsplash

I fell on Tuesday, August 18.

Getting petrol at a service station, I tripped on broken concrete.

I’d put my hand out in front of me. The impact slammed my wrist backwards, twisted my ankle, skinned both knees and made me feel as if something died inside.

My head buzzed the way a phone does on vibrate.

The sun was setting, light was dim, I lay on the concrete, unable to move.

In a high traffic area by the bowsers, I inched my way up sideways. No sudden movements, everything throbbed. …


and five heart-shaped leaves of luck

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I can’t write.

Can’t type on my laptop as quickly as racing thoughts flower in my head.
Right-handed for 5 decades, every word is spelled wrong, every line askew. The 2 hairline fractures in my wrist ache as I sit at the laptop in my sling.

Thick, heavy plaster bumps the wrong keys constantly.
Each sentence takes a laborious 6 minutes to put down.
My forearm hurts, but the pain of not writing cuts deeper.
I’m mourning not being able to put words down with ease.

About

Therese Ralston

Writing about the real life, farm life, reading life, birdlife, wildlife, pet life and school life I have in my life. My blog: birdlifesaving.blogspot.com

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