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)

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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)

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

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

creative space

everybody tells me
I’ve got holes
inside my head

I say

no

they’re just
sinuses

no
that’s space
around the cortex
of me

they tell me
that I’m wrong

that I’ve got emptiness
in the places
where my thinking
should get done
but I say

no

that’s just
silence

no
that’s the place
where my thoughts
grow
and turn themselves
into my big ideas

they laugh at me
say I’ve got nothing
there

but I say

no

that’s the place
where genius
will show

and anyway

and anyway

I have nothing more
to say to you
just now

I’m busy
thinking


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #23: dark substance

inside

what is the inside
of a poem

are you there
if you live it

do you have to know
or is it
anyway

~

what is the inside
of your life

do you reside
in stanzas

must you recite yourself
or are you
because you

~

your image has
a lyric flow

your life is rhythm
rhyme

your world
the driven cadence

how is it
living
on the inner side

come read to me

your life
in time


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #22: creative space

victory (over hornets)


I will take
courage in my hand
and I will weave it
into an armour
to drape
across my shoulders
and to cover
arms and legs

I will take
the earnest of my endeavour
and I will beat
until it fits my head
a helmet
through which to see my goal

I will be suited
in a cloth
cut for my purpose

out I go
to face the enemy
airborne

I know the place
the location
of their lair

my shovel
I’ll anoint
not with oil
but a special powder

hold my nerve

move stealthy

catch and hold
my rasping breath

brace with all my body

then BANG! the shovel
down
onto the tunnel mouth

fling the powder
deep inside

then run
before the boil
of yellow black and lethal
rises up
to see which way
I have fled

run run
the better part of valour
is not chivalry
but
the safety
of a door
between us

I am victory

I am nemesis

I am trouble
for the sting that never rests
in my back yard

that tries to enter
into my kitchen

yah yah

I am victory


© Frank Prem, 2017

April 2017 Poem #21: inside