oonga boonga (power to the people)

the government wants to charge me
for the electricity
I make

I have a power plant
sun-worshipping
on my rooftop

even though
I make it for myself
the government
wants to take it

they don’t to build
a power plant
oh no no no

they don’t want
to be touched
by dirty coal
oh no no no

they love the sun
oh yes yes yes

they love
my
sun
oh yes yes yes yes

they pay me peanuts
for power
they pay me
enough so I can’t say
it’s nothing

now they want to levy
a small premium
oh no no no

a little extra
something
I’ve never before
had to pay
oh no no no

when will it end
no never ever

will they never leave us
trying to support the earth
she’s dying all the time

think I’ll go
to Stone Age
oonga boonga

think I’ll just
regress
ka boonga

sometimes
I can’t wait
for the end
it’s surely coming

the end
surely coming

surely


© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #34: the school cleaner

passing familiarity

grass 1

the night
does not shine
she doesn’t show

she keeps her cloak
worn tightly

only the distant light
only the luminous elsewhere
invades her spaces

what shade is green
at in darkness

is night life a blur
or is it
I
moving too fast
to take it in

I know these things
in daylight
I know them well

but here
I am the stranger

here
I am alone
realizing
the transience
of the familiar
grass 2


© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #33: oonga boonga (power to the people)

stripping

beneath the paint
the timber
resides

mountain ash
that once grew
oh
so tall
so straight
in the heart
of the rain forest

length by length
painted
canary bright
used to seat the children
swimming
in municipal pools

Yellow Board

beneath the paint
still pure
heartwood

in dabs and blobs
a coating applied
of a jelli-um

a something derived
from a something

wait and watch
paint cracks
and bubbles rise
soaking deep
while lifting

Yellow Scrapings1

I feel the burning
of the stuff
seep into
across my fingers

this is not sport
it is a fire
of redemption

and as the scraper
ploughs
and digs
yellow ribbons curl
above the sludge
and fly
off to the side
away to ground

but  where the paint
is pushed away
pale
like new skin
cloistered beneath a parasol
the wood
the straight grained wood
is revealed again

Clean Board

I would not have thought
to be so moved
by this
rescue
and revelation

but when the garish
yellow-ness
is gone
what is left
is the passing purity
of mountains


© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #32: passing familiarity

shadow me

shadow me

here I stand
here am I

grey on grey
and I
the dark one

where
do shadows go

will I be there

in another day
another angle

a different sun

transient as light
will I fade
into the passing
of a cloud

shadow you
are you still me

or am I your passing thought
an idea of grey
laid temporarily

just
a little darker


© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #31: stripping

sky down

3 foggy

he looked across the valley
sun morning
middle winter

sky had dropped
a bed of down
and fluffing

blanket blue
spread above

it’s so hard
to wake
these early hours

he spread his arms
closed his eyes
felt the wind
the sun
kiss
and bathe
his face in balm

his feet
rose
from the ground

drifted
back to bed

the world
and he
could wait a little while

a little longer
today


© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #28: hoary hoary

shush-ing the oak tree

Leaves 2

shu-shu-shush

the oak tree
is dreaming

shu-shu-shush

his leaves
are all leaving

shu-shu-shush

he’s not paying attention
to you
or to me

shu-shu-shush

maybe he’s listening

shu-shu-shush

let’s sing
he might hear us

shu-shu-shush

let’s shu-shu-shu-shu
shuffle his music
along

shu-shu-shush

let’s shuffle his music
in this song

Leaves 1


© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #27: sky down

go and pick (ordering alliums)

onion 1

who
will go and pick
three alliums

thick and lush
they are
so young

onion
leek
sativa bulb

who will pick
that I might eat

onion 2

 

will no one
brave
these three alliums

they are strong
but
be not weak

three stalk leaves
and one fine bulb

who’ll bring flavor
for my feed

onion 4

 

must I go
to pick three alliums

they are forest
like to trees

tough and hard
and garlic strong

must I go
to get my peace

 

is there truly
no one
to rid me

of these paltry
alliums

they are but onions
do you not see

bitter
weeping
grow some skin

who’ll brave
alliums
for me

onion 3

 


ordering alliums  oops, I linked this to ‘focus’, but I wrote it for order <embarassesd>

© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #26: shush-ing the oak tree

about solitude

where do you go
to find
your solitude

he thought about
his home
the clutter
of his rooms
the gentle and the fierce
demands
of belonging to a home
and to a family

he thought about
his garden
always in a state
of change
from the first sprouts
of springtime
to the autumn decays

winter sleeping

he thought about
the sky above
the vast expanse of it

of cloud
of blue
of sun and moon

day time and night time

he thought about
a prison cell
enclosure
within walls
in light and dark and nothing else
but mind

turning over thoughts
and dreams

rehearsing
how to write them

he thought about
a weaving flame
wavering
like water running
up
a burning log

yellow blue
and dance
and dance

in answer
to a question asked

he thinks
it was a question
asked


© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #25: go and pick (ordering alliums)