The Wave Caller

The Wave Caller

On sharp-edged rocks, he curves in ecstasy;

a calligrapher’s brush stroke, black and slender,

he salutes the stars, calls the waves

as salt air sprays, fans around him,

his didgeridoo a hollowed log,

but a horn of plenty

breathing secrets in fierce longing,

vibrations rumbling out to sea.

He leans into the smell of ocean,

his mind alert to subtle clues.

Courtier to the king tide’s coming,

piper to the great Pacific,

paying homage to the mighty waters,

tuning into their surge and swell.

Now the waves rear up, heave and roll,

gigantic breakers barrelling in,

full throaty riffs that thunder, roar,

shred the air, pound the shorelines

while a full moon lifts, a silent shimmer

as Mount Warning locks in mists of night.

And all the while he weaves his songs,

mournful rhythms rising, falling,

communing with the ancient magic -

synchronicities long forgotten,

exorcised from the golden coast.

He doesn’t see the gathering crowd;

he doesn’t hear their restless murmurs

when cell phones, cameras, iPads click.

He’ll be on Facebook within the minute,

a digital presence, 

then the moment’s passed.

But I’m filled with questions,

awash with wonder,

as he slips into the velvet night.

© bba 22/04/2012

New Beginnings

“The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.”

- Emily Dickinson

Could I bring my poetry to Paradise,

or is it just a madcap dream,

a reaction against a cafe culture,

the ironic pose -

a southern signature

of icy veins and cool disdain

blowing in Antarctic winds?

Could I be reborn

in the Sunshine State,

where the yearning sets of crystal waves

lap long white beaches,

carve jagged rocks in astral shapes,

where surfers come to dive, drop in,

stoked on spray, on pure delight,

the roiling joy of golden mornings?

Could I find a poetry of new beginnings

in the frolic of the iron men's steel,

in knife-edged thrills

that tease and tempt

the blurred dark shapes

of a predatory ocean,

as lean young limbs

ignore the peril,

send spirit reeling to apricot skies?

Could I offer the sturdy northern tribe
the power of words, fresh thoughts to gather?

And would they listen, or

just half smile, be kind,

text emoticons that chart contempt

while I chase freedom,

airy ways,

the light and shade of coastal wonders,

remembering only too well

how a southern dawn breaks

hard and grey

in my chilly urban seas?

© bba,  07/02/2012

The Garden

Under cloudless skies, the lavender bloomed

while we basked in summer’s heat and splendour.

Heady with ripe flower power,

we gorged on promise, passion’s fire;

plucked the petals of destiny.

He loves me, he loves me not.

Our eyes were soft with liquid dreams

as a rogue moth flitted close and low,

and brown bees hovered in sensual swarm

over beds of marigolds, sun-splashed, sassy,

clumped petunias , scarlet, purple.

He loves me, he loves me not.

We followed Sol in his sky-bound circuit

on the quickened pulse of electric days.

Filled with breezy affirmations,

trust, the zen of youthful seasons,

life was ours – a game we played.

He loves me, he loves me not

But transient was our sacred space,

as shadows draped the perfumed garden,

light blurring as bold magpies swooped,

black and white, dark feathered omens,

amorous in their wild attacks.

He loves me, he loves me not

Our talisman for sun-bright days -

a plaited crown of marguerites,

fine white petals plucked too soon,

cascading, slipping through our fingers.

Yes, daisies chose our giddy future…

He loves me, he loves me not.

© bba 31/01/2010

Last days ...

A hot sky glares down

on the gathering crowd as

Bob’s people come flocking, 
eager to honour him,

to tell him they love him,

they’ll miss his bluff presence

and wish him the best.

He’s a brave man in crisis,

on the edge of dark fears,

but he steadies before us

as his mind - always striving -

raises deep questions,

brings hope to the hopeless

and leads us to prayer.

Our much loved old priest

just wants to keep working.

But there's no room for compromise,

even less for the face-offs with

the powerful world of the prelate elite.

Bob’s losing his sanctuary,

church, garden, home,

that place of rich purpose

through thirty eight years.

His mission is tireless, legendary, true.

He’s the soul of the parish,

a maverick's world,

where the poor and the broken

come, garner some strength

from kind words, a few jokes,

smiles, warmth and bread.

We hoped he’d enjoy

a gentle old age -

the peace of his garden,

some fine treasured moments

in this quiet sacred space.

But now when his years

should be safer and calm,

not haunted by grief,

or uncertainty’s burdens,

rough storms swirl around him,

cause him to fear.

Truth takes a beating.

Promises shatter.

Such a great priest, still needed,

but a good man forsaken.

No gold watch for service,

no final acknowledgements.

All is shrouded in secrets

as his church casts him out!

What’s wrong with this picture,

Bob's heartless eviction?

Contempt for his chapter of sterling achievement?

Bob's blindsided, ditched,

even labelled 'a crazy',

while an archbishop toys with him,

imposes his will.

Our priest has been silenced,

too vocal for some.

Heaven help those who speak up,

who tackle raw issues,

help life’s human failures.

It’s tough work on the ground.

We're chasing belief,

some faith in the system,


as we plead for compassion,

hope for a miracle.



But that’s fairy tale magic.


And anger is rising


as this last day has come 

and we find there is none.

 And where will Bob go

now his last mass is done?

And what thoughts will rise up
when alone in his room,
he finds his new quarters

a strange place, not home,

as he sits there in silence,

to pray to his God?

© Barbara Boyd-Anderson, 29/01/2012

 

In the Slow Lane

Indoors, wide pools splash and spray
as athletes speed through aqua waters;

sleek and tanned, a buffed elite -

Olympic winners, with trademark style

peaking in their youthful training;

tsunamis surging in the lap lanes.

You’ll find me elsewhere – in the slow lane,

swimming where the strokes are smooth,

in companionable silence with other bodies,
all shapes and sizes, weary seasons

fretful, fading, but moving forward

as aging cares dissolve in dreams.

Outside, the desert air harasses.

A merciless sun stalks time-bound days.

On the wind-whipped lake, black swans sail,

feisty creatures of reedy marshes,

dark punctuations of dip and dive

on the cool-edged fringe of watery realms. 

But there’s no full stop to aged dilemmas.

Questions cease.  Seem pointless now,

for what can I tell you as mind-body shrinks?

No crystal gazing will make us young,

nor find fresh wisdom where none exists;

though we’ve time for gems, precious moments,

odysseys to make the memory sing.

Soon we'll swim the deeper channels

in tides of mystery, fierce, raw cycles,
a marathon past our mortal knowing -

eternity, the last adventure

brooding over slow lane worlds.

© bba, 23/01/2010