Orble - Potter in a Harry

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My sister’s eyes have lost their spark

the flint of life that once ignited
lights that burnt so bright
has worn away

Death’s glint shines
in eyes that cast a thousand looks my way

glances

understood through intuition
only born of brotherhood

Are only siblings free to roam back yards
beyond the family tree?

As cordial kids, we both could walk for hours on lime-
stone roads, without a word

The sight of Granny Hardy tredlying her bike
would strike us
like a lightning bolt, and
crack our sides in two

In a flash
we’d turn
and face each other
like two smiling mirrors

and do the knee-slap dance

Those days are way behind me now
yet always at the forefront of my mind

Beyond the tears on summer grass
strangling winter graves
and sad departures from home towns

life pushes on and up
towards its wilting end

In my new town and house
that’s hardly home
I could meet a woman
or maybe even two

We might press skin-on-skin
and I might find myself within
an exchange of fluids, high and low

But our younger years run parallel
and always will

We might see eye-to-eye
now and again
from time-to-time

but within the specks of yellow
within the pools of many colours green
inherited, or just passed on
I’d find a relative or two
I’d never met
or ever even ever spoken to

not near the room for me
my sister’s dying fields of green contained

Nature makes me want to scream
why do all the flowers have to die?

I need a mediator on the other side
or transport to that place
where tears are all wiped dry
and truth replaces lies

Who will laugh with me now?
and who will share my smile in advance?

When life’s great feather-duster brushes my funny bone

I turn

expect to see

those eyes

but the swoosh of quills
brings on a chill
that leaves me
cold and miserable

I have to drag the sparkle from my memory

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: My Son's Writing

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Black Angels. The Grime Of Life’s Air.

October 3rd 2008 22:19

You asked me what, if anything, interested me about life when I was young? Death. The answer is death. I never really found life all that interesting. Certainly not anything to get excited about.

I sometimes wonder if taking a short-cut through the local cemetery on the way to school had something to do with this.

There was this black angel over a child’s grave. And, I’d always stop and just stare at it.

The angel obviously used to be white. Years and years of dust and dirt dug up by grave-diggers or kicked up by burial services or sheep in the nearby paddocks, the grime of life’s air, splattered insects, bird shit, exhaust fumes from cars, soot from goods’ train engines on the nearby railway track, and maybe even the odd goosey from an atheist, had turned the white angel black.

I used to just stand there looking at the black angel. Guarding the grave. Guarding the dead. As though the dead might escape. Guarding its own plinth, the tombstone:

[name]. Died in infancy. Beloved son of [name & name]. Too pure for this world. Taken by God.

Having Bibled up in prison, I now realise why I used to stop and stare at the black angel. It was God’s way of saying to me, that’s what your soul will look like if you never give it a clean.

But back then, I used to think. He’s got a pretty good life. He’s already dead. He got out before the grime of life could get to him.

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: My Son's Writing

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Untamed Irish Eyes

October 3rd 2008 01:19

Untamed Irish Eyes

At dusk her eyes blink farewell to the day
and open to the darkness of the night
to drink in its delights

Her evening eyes are wild

deep as an Irish ocean
on a dark as a dog's gut night
when her waves twist and turn
to fists as she fights
her nightly battle with the land

Serene white mornings filled with light blue slaps
(delicate lovers’ taps
as her waves lick the shore
and the tips of her tongue
tickle the seaweed strips)

give way to sounds to make the darkness shudder

Crashes and cracks as she arcs her back
and pounds the rocks with a ferocity

her daytime often lacks

sliding up and down the polished stone
like molten wax, dripping with delight

The moon slips into a crescent dip
from beneath its milky sheets
to listen like night's earpiece

Tis the erotica of nature on display

Tonight she'll go the distance again
in saturated clinches and sweaty-faced embraces
lashings of unguarded tongue

she wants to engulf the coastline
swallow it whole

Morning will find her flat
last night's scrappy canvas stretched taut once more
mopped into a shimmering glaze

her vast, wet smile splays across the land

Tis what she calls
companionless exhaustion
as she basks in
torturous delight

Tis just another day

and lazing around is just her way of
preparing for another fight
tonight’s return bout

When her blinks at the sun
make it scatter and run
to shelter its eyes from

the wink she reserves for the night

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: My Son's Writing

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When Fibre Falls Apart

October 1st 2008 04:31

I don’t actually want any comments on this poem. I’m just putting it up for archival purposes

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: My Son's Writing

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Blood From a Dead Dog’s Donger, Dad?

September 27th 2008 19:57

Dad always gave me lunch money for school. He’d just leave $5 on the kitchen bench. “Your lunch money’s on the bench, pal,” he’d say

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: My Son's Writing

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Merging Sperm and Stains on the Front of Your Genes.

September 25th 2008 23:48

Dad had this thing about his hair. The part had to be dead-straight. On the left-hand side. He kept a small mirror on the ledge above the kitchen sink. And a comb next to it. To this day, I don’t know why he combed his hair at the kitchen sink, and not in the bathroom. Or why he took so long. But I do know you couldn’t interrupt him until he’d finished. Unless of course you were into sado-masochism and liked abuse of the physical and mental kind

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: My Son's Writing

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Mr Teddy

September 25th 2008 02:35

Well this is a continuation of Nothing Land. A screenplay I want made into a film. But because people in the film industry would rather make remakes of Robin Hood rather than original scripts, I'll turn it into a novella. And then get letters from the literature industry telling me to write it into a screenplay? Yossarian!!! The insanity of modern life

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: My Son's Writing

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