axeman: between two words

between two words that rhyme lies the metaphor like the magpie and its song like a round of firewood and the blade of my axe there the image unfolds in its personal melody the ballad moves me to the high country when I close my eyes I sing the mountains blue the valleys my story …

katy’s scrubbing up

Poem #22 from The Book of Evenings Back to: The Book of Evenings – Introduction mama's checking out the make-up rummaging for things she hasn't seen since well let's say they've been missing awhile but she thinks she might know where to find them they'll be in katy's room katy's scrubbing up tonight glitter in …

the new west

this is the west the new west a place of contrasts old industry and aging housing for the 50's immigrants old Europe come in hope to live in new Australia to be 'New Australians' more recent the stagnant slippage into unemployment boredom drugs and suicide rates urban leprosy and tawdry reputation new housing tracts of …

within the weave

the cloth is spread black in all its shades of darkness across the table spread evenly yet wrinkled in small spaces tidy but occasionally cratered by an errant fold smooth but here and there a thread so slightly misaligned the cloth is spread across an empty table ~ I live inside a wrinkle in the smoothness …

identification from height

Poem #21 from The Book of Evenings Back to: The Book of Evenings – Introduction ahum ahum shelter me from storms ahum there's a monotony that comes from living in the tree-lined the leafy streets that promenade all up and down the smallness of this tiny town a figure is at the bed in a …

for differentiation

he watches her familiar enough to anticipate the next movement next gesture the face she’ll make to distract him from his study accustomed to her place in their mutual life these things have become commonplace ordinary and unremarkable and yet and yet they are necessary like air to breathe like sun to warm a day …

danced (on the needle) into silence

there is no room on the pin for an angel to dance the space that she needs is gone and she fading into a place that once was more gone like the silhouette of an echo thrown into silence © Frank Prem, 2017 March 2017 Poem #28: within the weave

socks to tell no tales

Poem #20 from The Book of Evenings Back to: The Book of Evenings – Introduction it is a sock a grey school-sock from one of the boys on the mat outside the front door curious herd the boys in set the packages down start the kettle a cup of tea and then . . . …

Dead Shrub

the shrub is dead there is no doubt of that a collection of fragile and empty dry branches suspended pointlessly until an angle of falling light reveals twenty-two intricate webs woven in identical silk patterning varied only as much as needed to capture and embrace those twigs in immediate vicinity and two small dragon flies …

enough

Poem #19 from The Book of Evenings Back to: The Book of Evenings – Introduction she was at the bar with a friend when he bowled up to say hello larger than life after all these years full of bounce told all that had happened to him marriages divorces children work play all in the …