day-made green

all the clouds
are gone

a sun re-taken day
glints
into my eyes
the shine of netted wire

I haven in mind
parrots
in red plumes
I have in mind a pigeon
wheeling the sky
in the heart of a flock

twists a choreography
of oh

oh

I pursue my breath
catch it
where the pigeons
let it fall

gulp
a tease of pleasure

because yellow
makes good green
blended
with the blue

when all the clouds
are gone


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #22: tba

a west side story – Wagga in the park

I feel pretty
oh so pretty …

the Army is out

Sergeant Major
is a one-man baton charge
backed by brass
by wind
and by reed

Maria is in love
and the Army plays sharps

not a gang
but close

the Air Force
can play the Jets

tonight tonight …

I think I can hear
castanets
or percussion shakers going off

it’s hard to see the band
from where I am sitting

I know they’re under
the bandstand rotunda
and I have clear vision
but
they are blending
into the pavilion
in camouflage fatigues
and by general stealth

only the luffing of air
as it kisses the microphones
points me towards
their actual location with

… America
ok by me in America

Maria
and the Army band
West Side of Wagga

the wind
whisks up a score
as it passes
and tumbles it away


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #21: day-made green

surely Wagga

rainy day weather
nothing to do
but watch
as sodden raindrops fall

the clothes line
is sagging
a sad little jewel
hung
from every peg

the trees
so bare
are pre-hopeful

so
let’s
go
to Wagga

Let’s go to Wagga

surely the sun must shine
in Wagga

colored birds out
everywhere

the Baylis Street flowers
blooming like a carnival

in Wagga

surely Wagga

must be better
than
this rain


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #20: a west side story – Wagga in the park

re-winter

the day is spent
gazing
through the window

winter
has come back hard
in a squall
last night

the rain
the wind
the howling
through the heart
of dreams

a restless storm
to drown sweet sleep

and today
through the window
is the aftermath
of bleak

today he looks
through bleary eyes
at the bleak


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #19: Surely Wagga

wired awake

I’m in my bed
it’s before first light
there’s a bird I don’t know
belling
outside in the dark

she has a quiet call
not loud enough to disturb
but here I am
eyes open
and wired awake

wondering
if the rain will come
before the bomb gets dropped

I’m not afraid
but I think there’s a chance
that I might die
before morning

it’s not the kind of thing
I’m used to
at this time in my life

if I were a drinking man
I’d keep scotch
in a bottle
by my side of my bed

the world is quiet
except for a bird I don’t know
belling quietly
outside my window

belling outside

but not loud enough
to disturb


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #18: re-winter

a jonquil song

jony 1
hey
hey
it’s jonquil day

sing spring

(sing spring)

hey hey
it’s jonquil day

sing spring

(sing spring)

jony 4 (2)

hey hey hey hey

(hey hey hey hey)

hey hey hey

(hey hey hey)

hey hey hey it’s jonquil day
sing spring

(sing spring)

it’s jonquil day

(.onquil day)

spring

(…ing)

jony 3


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #17: wired awake

new fruit (the eggvacado)

eggvacado

it’s a new fruit

plucked
from a chicken

it’s a new fruit
laid down
by a tree

a new fruit
crack the shell
and open it

let’s all take a look at

new fruit
avocado
was its father

new fruit
henny-penny
was the mum

it’s a brand new fruit
I found it
in my garden

a new fruit harvest
I can’t wait
to market them


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #16: a jonquil song

the itch (a worried man ramble)

I believe
that I’ve begun to see
the ending
of the world

leaves that fall
will not regrow

and I can feel
the scratch
of itchy fingers
that need to rub
on triggers

~

I go to work
despite myself
in the morning

it’s still black dark

I wonder:
what am I doing?
when I arrive

the madhouse that I work in
I understand it well
the bread I put on my table
gets buttered
there

but when I look out
beyond the walls
I work within
at lunatics
unrestrained
I feel an itch
creeping up
in my finger

~

and I wonder:
what of you?
and
will I ever see you
again?

there’s no guarantee
this day will last
till teatime

when I have watched the pictures
of a military rocket rise
it always seems to me
to move
very slowly

I hope
the next one up
takes long enough
that I get to hold you
before night falls

~

and then
I look around
and I look around
and the button looms large
in my mind

I see it
by its colour:
a shade of high-gloss and red
that’s when I feel
an itch start
in my finger

I look around again
and try to point my rifle-mind
that’s flowing over with bullets
made of what I’m thinking

if I locate
the button man
I think I’m going to scratch
the itching
in my finger

and if I locate
the other button man
I think
I’m going to scratch
the itching in these
my fingers


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #15: new fruit (the eggvacado)

factory work

the factory was led
by the primary dreamer

his job
to see the way
using the vision
of the night

to tell
with just a glance
the true state
of the factory

of the way things are

the way
they need to be

the guard
stationed at the gatehouse
an unskilled job
was meant to receive
was not supposed
to judge

but every man
and woman
must present their poem
at the gatehouse

or else
no work

or else
no pay

or else no life
to warm their hearts
before the glare
of the red-eyed kiln

the unblinking kiln

he thought Madelaine
had progressed
the most
in the last few months
had high prospects

her verse
held form
and flow
a strict metre

Pedro though
was still stuck inside
little doggy rhymes

not much

enough
for the right
to get his cheque
on payday

Kenny
the guard
sometimes read aloud
quietly
a few of the stanzas
he steals

down at the pub
in the parlor
with a pint of beer
when he was
by himself

all the time
thinking

one day

one good day
he would
write a poem
that he thought himself
on paper

and earn the right
to hand them in
to some other guard
while he worked
the better work
with the other skilled

in front of
the red-eyed
of the factory

under the sleeping hand
of the dreamer

the master dreamer

until then
he’d accept the scribblings
and notes
of every working man and woman
who filed by him
to start their shift

and he’d practice
by reading them
in a murmur

his lips
moving
in the near silence
of an act
of faith


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #14: the itch (a worried man ramble)