the drafter


he draws words
like paint shaped on canvas

tiny brush strokes
of language

stories
spun from flax
stories
spun out of gold

an alphabet
hued in colour
like the leaf
green then yellow
to wine
then to earth

onto earth

into earth

there is a word
call it
drafting

a journey-tool
of lettered precision

he carves the mark
that is himself
into strokes
and curls
and dashes

until the peace
that is the falling of the sun
descends upon him
loudly in the evening

and he finds he doesn’t know
what was sentence
what was shading

he gifts it to you
the picture
with its brush-pattern words

to you
to seek the meaning
in the work
of a draft-shapen
man


© Frank Prem, 2017

May 2017 Poem #01: so handsome (what a guy)

end of the world (until tomorrow)


what if the world
ended
today
again

if things came
to a close
the nighttime meant

over

the daytime only

gone

what if
this has been
all
that there is
just like

just like yesterday

what if this one sunny day
when the blue
the green
and all of those colours shone
bright as heaven
is the only one

good night

do you close your eyes

good night

until morning

is today
the end of the world
is tomorrow
a dusting of faith
just as thin
as a dreamless sleep
waiting its substance
tomorrow

I’ll see you
when the morning comes
sweet sleep and sweet repose
I’ll see you
after the world comes to an end
again


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #32: the drafter

what is, if it won’t


what is time
if it will not last
for me

what a waste
in the end
If I can’t hold it

what is time
to me
if it is so
fleeting

if I take a moment
only to find
it is gone

what is time
without a little body

it is a spectre
that holds everything

that I am was

everything that I was

what is time
how long do I have
to tell you

all that I know
about time
is already gone


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #31: end of the world (until tomorrow)

wake


do you think
about the clock
at night
as you lay down
to bed

do you think
that it is
ticking
through your time

when you close your eyes
you lose yourself
inside a minute

when you open them
at least
you still have breath

the hours of the night
go by
in darkness

the hours spent
not sleeping
are whole lives

wake you
wake you
wake yourself up rising

today light
might be all the time
that still remains

think about the clock
when you lay down
just before your sleeping

think about the clock
you
in your bed


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #30: what is, if it won’t

what day is this


the day
is not long
but
my boredom
makes it longer

impatient
I with the this and the that
of my lot
I cannot bear
to bother

and time drags
on me

the day
is not short
but
my excitement
makes the minutes heighten

and before I know
hours have flown

the day
is a day
but
in my mood
I shape it

into more
into less
into nothing at all
into forever

this is my day
what will it be


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #29: wake

waiting westerly

the wind raises its intensity
before a change
that’s full of weather

I am lying in the darkness
waiting
for the rain

the stars I watch
through a window
are swallowed
by slow cloud
and leave nothing
but the restlessness
of leaves

like me
they are waiting
the weather
westerly


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #28: what day is this

why is the magpie


the magpie
was quietly wardle-ing
speaking his thoughts out
aloud

his theme
was the song
his ordle to himself focused on
why

I wardle because …

that’s just the way
that I am

I wardle for the love
in my heart
that is song

and I wardle when I’m alone

I wardle when I am happy

under the sun
in the rain
up high
in a tree

wardle-ordle-ee

at a family reunion
I ordle so everyone
can hear me

and sometimes
they join me
we ordle alike
and we wardle
in part-harmony

but mostly I ordle
as something
I can’t live without

I ordle my name
and I sing my songs solo

I can’t tell you why
but ordle
and wardle
are my sounds
and I make them
and they make me

wardle

wardle-ordle-ee


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #26: being (Shakespeare)

turn my coffee


if I want
my coffee to love me

if I want
my coffee to hold me

my coffee to please me
to make my life be easy
I’ve got to
turn my coffee on

~

I don’t want
my coffee bitter, Joe

I don’t want
my coffee too black no (oh no no)

my coffee macchiato
make sure I start so
I’ve got to
turn my coffee on

~

I don’t want to be latte (hey hey)
I don’t like any milk fern
in my froth

I want my coffee to pick me up
so I’m going to have to
turn my coffee
on

I’ll turn
my
cof-
fee
on

(so strong!)


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #25: why is the magpie

dark substance


there is a sleep
that comes
as nighttime weaves
around you

patterns moving
speckled light
against the black

shadow substance
tears away
before your hands
if you reach
to touch it

wraps
inside the dream
a still-shaped form
of you

patterns move
the play unfolds
contorted situations
show as real

but it’s only nighttime
weaving
the speckle dark

insubstantial
as the dust
of what you dreamt
before


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #24: turn my coffee