elementals

I’ll rain across Red Cliff
there’s no dry within my song
no dry
in my song

I will rain down

………………………………………………………………….I will burn over Stanhope
………………………………………………………………….the Sun is never wrong
………………………………………………………………….the Sun
………………………………………………………………….does no wrong

………………………………………………………………….I will burn

I’ll fall down on Mildura
no drought will still my song
no drought
still my song

I’ll fall down

…………………………………………………………………   I’ll bake brown Dimboola
……………………………………………………………….       where clouds do not belong ………………………………………………………   …              .the clouds
……………………………………………………………    …   .do not belong

…………………………………………………………………  .I will bake them

……………………………………I’ll slake thirst in Echuca

……………………………………I will dust down Strathmerton

……………………………………sweet river sing the song

……………………………………and blow the dirt along

……………………………………river

……………………………………red dirt

……………………………………sing the song

……………………………………roll along

……………………………………I’ll I slake will you blow


© Frank Prem, 2016

the gentle art

a gentle science fiction
has taken me
from small town
to the sky

it doesn’t want much
to get me there
just a jet pack
and a helmet

perhaps a bubble
filled with oxygen
and me
that rises

rises
up

maybe I just thought
the thought
of floating
above the blue orb

or
I only saw it
as a speck
such as grit
removed from the eye
of Sol

and spun away

I believe that I imagined
me
within a sleek and silver tin can
in some other galaxy
suddenly
in the fight of my life

well
how about that
just one second out
of warp speed
into a dogfight

pow pow pow

pow pow pow

in the middle of the darkest space
turning round
running for home

so much for
gentle

science fiction
is the seat-of-my-pants
because
the shields are down

(oh no)

communications off
and no-one cares
about me

except
to shoot me
without hesitation
back to earth

maybe
to eat me

arrghh
the hell with this

science fiction

now
I’m going to turn my mind
to a yacht
in brilliant white
sailing on blue
running smooth
as a dream

you and I
a peaceful harbor

and at night
the shooting stars

comprised
of returning debris
from some
gentle science
fiction


© Frank Prem, 2017

March 2017 Poem #3: goodnight colours

an accusation boogie

the wind accuses

you-you-you     you-you
you did the crime

you-you-you      you

(me?)

you did the crime

oh no
it can’t be me
no
I was not there
at that time

you-you-you     you

no-no-no
you’ve got it wrong

you-you-you     you

no
can’t you see you’re wrong

it’s you-you-you

nuh-uh your case
isn’t even very strong

well who-who-who     who-who

the wind demands to know

who-who-who

(not me)

who was it
do you know

no-no
I cannot say

she’d never speak to me again
and then
she’d take my heart
away

(so sorry
mister wind)


© Frank Prem, 2016

Poem #24: green lady

ping pong, under certain conditions

there are special rules
for special players
and special games

a wing tip
a flipper
both double up
as paddles with which
to strike the ball
each
is painted to highlight
the sweet spot

waddling legs
are enabled

a tail that propels
its player
into his preferred position
is equalised

the dull green
table surface
is white-lined and ruled up
according to
interstellar standard

suspended in the ether

~

game on

the dolphin
spins his serve viciously
a slide on the diagonal
skimming
just above the net

dart forward
the duck
sharp slice
to forecourt left

cross-court the dolphin
a little high
perhaps

smash
smash the duck
without mercy
pounds the celluloid ball

eludes the dolphin
who cannot make his ground
a flipper flashes through the nothing
at nothing
the ball is gone

the players
as one
watch the parabolic curve
and relentless trajectory
of their ping pong ball
arcing through space
descending
into the maelstrom swirl
of darkness
below

a last ray of light reflects
orange
then the ball
is swallowed

down

and down

~

quack

said the duck

there goes
another one

eck-eck-eck
eck-eck-eck

came the reply

you win that set

let’s start
a new game now

you
have the privilege
of serving first


© Frank Prem, 2016

Poem #22: just finishing up now

my a*** belongs to the government

I’m not
in any way
a paranoid

no
I’m not

but I believe
the government
is after my arse

~

the day that I turned fifty (somethingsomething)
it was quite a long time
ago

the government
sent me a letter
signed with love

send us
a little specimen

they asked

collect it
on the spoon
that we’ll provide

don’t be embarassed

it’s for your own good

you can trust us

we love you have your very best
interests
in mind

~

well I ignored that letter
as you can
well believe

no specimen of mine
is going
for tests in a
white-coat
lab

no thank you
kindly

~

time passed

~

today
I was anxiously
awaiting

the mail should bring
an exciting new
old tome

I bought it on e-bay
a French Philosophy
a book that’s going to set
my poetic heart
on fire

and there
when I glanced out
of my window

a package
too big to fit inside
the mailbox

oh boy

oh boy oh boy

oh boy

~

hello Frank
this
is your government

last chance now
we’re asking you nice
we’re asking kindly

where is
the specimen we require

don’t try to tell us
that collecting it
was too hard

we gave you
the spoon
we gave
the jar

we gave a stamped-return-envelope
with each step
illustrated
on a how-to-do card

we want our your specimen

we want it now

we need to
take a deep look
inside your bowels

why do you resist us

we are your friends

if you don’t return this
the friendship ends
takes on a new twist

send 
your specimen
NOW

we await
your swift reply

~

oh boy

oh boy


© Frank Prem, 2016

Poem #28: the last annual show

describing mr volta’s love life

the vacuum’s in a love affair
with chair legs

a three timer in the lounge
he peeps
one edge
around each corner
just in case
sweet-sofa is on the scene

a long-hose clean-a-nova
with a filthy pick-up line
he gives a satisfying rattle
when the trash-chat starts
and he can dish up dirt

and give his girls
the low-down
on the living room
what goes on
beneath the beds

and sweetheart
did you hear
about the rumpus …

winks the slide on his air flow meter
and smiles
in that special way
a grin that stretches
right across his nozzle

then he pivots round
whisks away
and it’s

bye bye bye
mr volta
see you again
in a week or so

come and wrap your cord
around my queen
annie curves
and tell me more
tell me more
yes tell me all your stories
about the world
beyond the plumping
of my cushions


© Frank Prem, 2009

bones, just bones

I saw
the hand coming up

I saw
the fingers

twisted out of shape
and grasping as they rose

trying to catch something
unawares

~

I saw
the smile shining on a skull

and I saw
the rictus

happy happy joy
just to escape from the grave

teeth and jaws
clickety clacky gigglers

~

I saw
a skeleton at dance

I saw it
limbo

nothing goes low
like a bunch of bendy bones

play xylophone
on that rib cage

~

I saw the hand
one dark dark night

I saw
the hand
and
I saw the fingers


© Frank Prem, 2016

Poem #15: baitfish waiting

world tour

I shall now proceed to take
the very best verse
from my greatest poem
on a world-wide tour
of Beechworth
including Wooragee

three special shows
in the empty old hall
just off the Wodonga road
at Leneva

there’ll be one in the hut
usually set aside
for the Scouts and Girl Guides
on Second Street
in Yackandandah

I will wow the crowd
beside the quick-fill dam
at Osborne’s Flat
before I turn round
with my entourage
to recommence the tour
going back again

never forgetting
no I’ll not forget
the sell outs
because there are no tickets available
for Markwood
or Everton
and nothing at all in Whorouly
where the floods also toured
this summer

I think they’ll like me
a hell of a lot
when I make it as far
as Tarrawingee

so thank you
thank you El Dorado
thank you
Murmungee
it means such a lot to hear the echo
of your heartfelt applause
around Mount Pilot
you have been the best
the very best
of my audience


© Frank Prem, 2012

birthday surprise

birthday morning

café cooked breakfast

juice
then coffee

the paper

~

eggs fried
mushrooms
bacon on toast
with spinach

ah
spinach

but wait …

is that …

it looks to be
a hair

a string

something curly

~

between fingers
he pulls the culprit away
from the bacon
from beneath the toast

and he tugs it
a little more

and then more

and then some more

with two hands now
this is surely
some conjurers trick
played especially for the day

because that the curly hair
or facsimile of same
is still emerging
as he hauls now
with vigor
and drags it away
from underneath the innocent
innocuous
toast slice

~

as time passes
small by small
beside the table a hair-mound
grows
tugged and extracted
without relent

he looks around the café
as this extraordinary thing
is drawn from his left
to accumulate
beside his right

and he glimpses
as he glances
the waitress
mid-collapse
behind the counter

she seems to shrink
falling inward
then disappears
leaving only a soft-uttered

oh

behind her

and a small
hardly heard whisper
in appeal

help


© Frank Prem, 2016

Poem #7: way poem #16: open to new

Daily Prompt: Hyperbole

that hare o’ mine

my hare has very large ears
she leaps
I call her bounder

she goes to sleep
in a grassy hide
and listens to the world
around her

my hare has very large ears
she runs
the wind behind her

she zigs and she zags
all across the field
but won’t come when I call
confound her

my hare has very large ears
she twitches
and her nose is wrinkles

she can smell when I
am waiting nearby
but she is coy and I don’t
understand her

my hare
with the very large ears


© Frank Prem, 2016