On a hand-hewn pedestal
imagination coalesced;
on milk-white face alight
eyes sparkled with a liquid flame.
...
and out of the sombre light
a quiet entrance he makes-
a poet in whom life is not so much delight
as it is the unfolding of self amid the pain.
...
a harrowed ref equals
photojournalist's bucket
communicating targetted
wishes - blank images
...
for many a thought have now gone astray
once boisterous clacking keys now grey
letters fade as have these wondrous lines
like shriveled fruit wasted on withered vines
...
sitting here staring at that blinkin' cursor
having nothing other than that buzzing
familiar as the chirping of Spring
anticipating the rusting of Fall
...
wreathe of words sprout upon doorstep bed
beneath a far-looking moon, whisper to ear
...
for whom threadbare scraps
are treasures under your table
deserts, ever undulate dunes
...
give up shallying, on finding and sharing
what could be thought of as inner beauty
when these hirsute thoughts bristle again
berating what little of self regard remains
...
think of me, of us, some time
bandying of thoughts will do
let them sidle up close to you
just as we did not so long ago
...
Three years, three months and three days
Perhaps it's a random amount of time
But in three hours this flight will take off
Gotta take three minutes to freshen up
...
frost laced teeth of cracked leather
course through bare back thighs
frigid sheen of yellowed ivory
caress tentative fingertips
...
You are encouraged to interact with the poems posted in this site. Please leave some word about your visit in the comment box or the messaging feature. This form of contact is highly appreciated. Reading and writing, pen and paper, they have given the younger Frederick a passion from his primary school years: as soon as the alphabet was learnt; the very moment he could wield a pen, there began a continuing journey wherein the destination is not placed more highly than the moments spent, the sojourns explored, in writing. Will you come and journey with the author, traversing time and space, imagination - of things real or conjured in the mind when the wattle blossoms dance in the wind, the birdcalls and the dingo's howling.... in that hour of phrases catching, we shall see the wonder of life itself unfolding.)
Galatean Resumé
On a hand-hewn pedestal
imagination coalesced;
on milk-white face alight
eyes sparkled with a liquid flame.
Some build ivory towers,
their hands raw from driven labour,
on scratched cheeks, a stricken eye
ransoms a sculpted orphan dream.
Across time and the Middle Sea
another calloused hand chiselled;
laughter on a pine-white face
resurrected an ailing heart.
Some can only imagine
what others have without trying;
when vicarious journeys fail,
reality's block they will assail.
(A sort of raison d'etre definition for the artist's creation,
drawing from both the stories of Pygmalion and Geppetto.)
One of the the most talented and original poets I have ever encountered.Check out his work on youtube and be very very impressed
Hi Fred...your poem 'Snow Song' is such a precious capture...of thought...of mood...of feeling. In other words...this is good stuff... Lare Austin
Hi Frederick...Your poem 'Third' is so very well written. I very much enjoyed it. Thank you. I would hope you might have a book of poetry in print... Lare Joseph Austin
'Whence a poem dies is conceived a phoenix.'
At the uttermost reaches of what's known is a glimpse of what's beyond.
Somewhere beyond suburbia is our forgotten self.
Nothing is as sweet to the lips than the ashes strewn from the phoenix rising.
memory is a child seen and waiting to be heard
Opportunity is seen not found. It is a matter of how we see things and our interpretation of situations arising.
It is best practise to not be forgotten.
In the end of it all there are only two kinds of people, those that do and those that choose not to.
Hope can be us, grown and stronger, on the other side of adversity.
Some thoughts peddle better than others
...each ear is listening to its hearing, so none hear
Karma is not out to get you, it's just a reflection of yourself coming back in tangible form....
To know of another's suffering And to share in that selfsame cup Is a true communion unlike any other
A 'dying' family car can drive a child to grow up or become sad.
The lizard with the shortest tail lives to tell the tale.
Like Vincent we speak to generations after us. As with Van Gogh our voice is caught by generations yet to come.
sometimes out of sadness a new chance at beauty and grace arises
As today yields to the morrow it's hope shall curb our sorrow
For it is a poet's ink that writes upon the bare tablets of each reader's heart!
Looks wrinkle and fade but words and thought inspire forever.
...crazy missed the bus
The King's sovereignty allows our leadership to be harnessed for purposes far greater than ours.
It's easy for everyone else to be wrong when we are in the right.
Familiarity reflects truth or projects and refracts our inner conceptualisation
Betterment steers us away from bitterment
May there always be a spark in the eye of the beholder.
It's amazing how our thoughts in their thinking often keeps on giving and revealing more facets waiting to be mined and treasured.
Pain, even in its minutest form is a potent driver hiding in the shadows of our smile.
To seek beauty is to find oneself.
a sunrise has not failed if we are together
Do we not bleed on billowy scrolls in the breeze?
Memory is a child seen and waiting to be heard
the night, the night; give in to the night
at the uttermost reaches of what's known is a glimpse of what's beyond
See you are now an Australian poet. Best country in the world. I hate England full of pommies.