Patrick Dennis Poems
|2.||Epitaph To My Father||1/25/2014|
|6.||We Are Here||1/25/2014|
|8.||Jubilee Prayer 2000 (Australian Version)||1/25/2014|
|10.||Outside The Library||1/25/2014|
|14.||Ink (Or Symptomatology Of A Poet)||1/25/2014|
|15.||The Old Station||1/26/2014|
|18.||Dead Horse Corner||1/28/2014|
|21.||Wickham Park 6am||2/8/2014|
|27.||Things You Can'T Say In Poetry||2/11/2014|
|33.||Requiem For New York||2/14/2014|
|35.||Why I Don'T Like Poetry||2/17/2014|
|39.||Light & Colour||1/26/2014|
|40.||The Long Lever||1/26/2014|
Down from the trees, a Kookaburra,
tempted by the throwdown of meat, descends,
hops, chuckles and gobbles; and bounces back.
I want to give him something of myself;
I want to rapport with him.
But to him I am only a voice calling for meat.
Funny that a family-man who, as I,
marries till death do him part
and plots and toils for his young
seems to know me not.
But over across the creek
where he lives beyond such cloy and smack
we meet by-and-by when his belly laugh
brass-clangs the forest.
I have seen snowcapped mountains and pristine fields
adorned with the blush and hues of Heaven;
but I live here on this arid plain
stretched four ways to infinity.
Here there is no beauty
save which is drawn from first light and the rising sun;
from noontide and harmony of crows;
from sundown, soft gloom of dusk,