harmony (minor)

if we harmonise

a minor chord

we can make the wind
blow-woe-woe

ooo ooo
I feel the thrum of you
deep inside me

a vibration

ooo-ooo
woe-woe-woe-woe

o-ohhhhh-ohhhh
o-ohhh-ohh

I watch you change
the shape
you are holding your mouth

you close your eyes

ohhh-ohh
ohhh-oh-woe-woe
ohhh-oh
woe-wo                ooh-oooh

I watch you

oooh-oooh

we harmonise
the wind

in a minor third


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #01: empty, starlings

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outline of today

no hunt today
for exotica

no creatures
on the run

there’s only oak trees
waving
while they wait for Spring

socks on the line
jiggle in the breeze
underwear
oh my
oh my

around they go
on the rotary hoist
around they go
to dry

magpie
finds the highest branch

precarious
is not an issue

a little of acrobatics
is a tiny price
for swaying
nearest to the sky

nearest to the sun

look at me
look at me

the magpie

and then he’s gone
and the silence sits
in the shape that he was

when I look again
I can outline
the bird
in nothing

still there

but gone


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #37: harmony (minor)

the hunt for the wild arancini

the wild arancini
gallops
across the driving range

the Golf Club chef
so close behind him
holds his implements
up high

his cook’s knife

the roasting fork

a sharpening steel
held to his wrist
by a shortened length
of cord

the apron flies
a-flap
around his knees

his moustache
holds beaded sweat
while his jowls
are in full motion
and broad wobble

but he runs
full stretch
as a lion
might

the prey
leaps and bounds
more like
a gazelle

across the 10th
over the light undulations
of a two shot
to fairway
from tee

out of a rough lie
the chef emerges suddenly
but the arancini is
away

the chef seeks
only a small cut

a smallest cut
the Club President
will dine today
with guests

but
the gallop
a sustained chasse
of the arancini
wild
wild

wild
will brook no trade

no portion mutilated
be it large
or small

he will remain uncut
until the pennant
waves

the chef sits
sadly
half-sprawled
across the 11th green

the only ball available
rattling
lonely
in the cup

alas
alas
mere batter
poor rice and filling
will have to serve
for this entrée

there is a bray
from the woods
that run alongside
the 14th

the arancini
a-prance with the strut
of freedom
now stops to graze

no backward glance
no moment
so wasted

the magnificent aperitif
drifts
almost vanishing
beyond
the back nine


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #33: forever

faux song in the city

he awakened
to the rain
steady rain
falling and falling
a constant
strong
patter

only with the slow rise
of awareness
came the realization
he was not
at home
beneath a tin roof
but in a hotel
in the city

on the first floor

through the window
he saw the source
of his not-rain

air conditioners
humming
rattling
in a constant patter
of sound

an auditory imitation
of home


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #32: the hunt for the wild arancini

fending

the ristorante
shuts down
sometime
in the early hours

tables and chairs
taken in from the street
overhead gas fires
turned down
turned out

all that remains
is a sidewalk corral
and the stiff plastic sheeting
that keeps away
the road
stops the weather

in the morning light
there’s a body
in a swag
with a letter
on the beg
beside it

life treasures
in a supermarket trolley
in the inside corner

a good long sleep
restores the body

shelter
from the storm

another day begins
fending off
the street


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #29: let’s call it sailing

collage – frost

Frost - Leaf

an oak leaf
cold serrated
on the ground

preserved
in cold crystal
until sun
burns the frost

and chill
like a breath
melts away

Frost - Grass

grass
is impatient
for the sun

the ice
is impermanent

a temporary cell

sun kiss
the day start
again

2 frosty

raggle taggle
stems
no longer
straight
or reaching high

the cold white
is too strong
it bends them

they lean
burdened

the sun
may come too late

if it comes
at all

1 frosty

the white
of the day
is almost blue

the shadow
hues the crystal

the diamond

my
it looks so pretty

it’s so cold


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #27: the serious work

sog descending

there’s a mist
from the west
blowing over the fence
in fine waves

abandoning the neighbor’s house

it drives
like the wind is behind it
though it’s still
outside

a dampened quiet

last night
I lay awake
to the sound of rain
in downpour

in droplets

like wet blows
struck upon the tin
by a tympanic hammer

with all asleep
struck specially
for my ear

it’s turned
to fog now

a sog
is closing in
taking the tall trees
out of my sight

though I know
they’re still there
.
.
.
.
I believe
they’re still
right
there

cling-wrap the day

there is nothing
else
to do


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #26: collage – frost

collage – ti-ri-ol

collage – ti-ri-ol

sky2 180717

ti-ri-ol

the sky
so grey
it is white now

ti-ri-ol

the tree so bare
is a black
silhouette
against the sky

against the white

ti-ri-ol

the green
of the base
is flecked
littered with brown

becoming
the black

in silhouette
against
white

ti-ri-ol

magpie
walks on the green
stirring
the brown

and then
is the singer
high up in black

ti-ri-ol

ti-ri-ol

against white

ti-ri-ol

grey
hanging
still
is the sky


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #25: tba

how it begins

it begins
with a roiling
of the clouds

deep gray
spinning on itself

light grey
cast
streaking through the sky

it begins
with the troubling
of the limbs
of a winter eucalyptus
swaying sprays
in agitation

while a setting sun
golds the canopy
as though denial
is so easily won

it begins
with the restless relocation
of fallen autumn leaves

most already gone
into earth dreaming
but the few that remain
sleep troubled
and move
across the ground

it begins
with a woo-ing
of the wind

streaking past them all
raising tensions high
flying past
again

the trembling grasses
know
it has begun

the sleeping oak
is aware
it has begun


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #24: collage – ti-ri-ol

collage – yellow not sun

not only sun is gold

winter lichen
stands out
brightly

Lichen 1

beetroot roads
through
a topographic range

beet mountain

shades
of solar breath
on wire

screen

even
even beams
seem light

Yellow Board

grapefruit
wait-a-while
will ripen

Grapefruit 1

tomato
plum

well
take your pick

cantaloupe tells tales
of summer

Cantaloupe

but in the end
I’ll just have cake

cake 1

and shine a little
before the fire

firebox


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #23: how it begins