The Coltsfoot’s revenge

Thinking that a poet should look

(like God)

not just on the outward appearance, but on the heart,

I plucked one golden, soft, defenceless bloom

and sniffed.

Liking the mead-sweet fragrance

I inhaled more deeply

like a connoisseur of fine wines

searching for words to describe the honey bouquet:

words that would shine bright and glossy as petals.

Then I sneezed

and sneezed

and sneezed again.

Not gentle, lady-like sneezes (I never could)

but violent explosions

each pollen speck a bomb

planted inside my skull

shaking my brains

reddening my nose

flooding my eyes

turning my sinuses thick and heavy.

I picture my gravestone:

Died 11^th April

Killed by a Coltsfoot.

My last thought:

‘Do bees sneeze?’

Barbara Mearns

Running

Hares flee from me

panic along hard roads, on hot feet

sprint through bare-earthed fields

dodge through brashings in gloomy shelter belts

and dash across salty turf, leaping the high-tide plastic debris.

In what kind of a world would they stop

brave the sight

the scent

and look me in the eye?  

Barbara Mearns                                                         

Leah’s Humpback

 From the

Strait of Georgia

she broke the water

into air

with one purpose in her last aborted breach

she beached

to rest herself with death

and not be

drowned

Such mystery

splayed onto the sand

in such an

unbecoming beast

but tragically too everyday

and much too long in not disentangling her thrash

of trawling lines

her freedom

snagged

her powers all but snapped

she lies leviathan with raw and salted

lacerations

and strangely

safe

on warming

ground

Finally

she is cut free

from breath itself

in a visitation more

than all the curiosity

the loathing and the crying

among  

two hundred hands

of little ones

the earth

so quickly

found

Unfettered now

with no cry of dereliction down

into Pacific

deeps

she dips

into her  final

sound

 Allen Goddard

  

With great thanks to Leah Kostamu, for sharing her story of the Humpback

Things look up

On a February flagged veranda

the Alexandra Police Station

in insect stopping heat

floats in song

from jaunty Striped Canaries

taunting mischief

on a bedraggled Jacaranda

I slow as long it takes to stop

uplift my view from rush

for pause to nod to mind

that smiling wisdom more than Solomon:

these feathered upbeats in the leaves

have not a care

or single sweaty page to bring

to a Commissioner of Oaths

Anonymous

Wind on the Witte Rivier

A ruffling southeaster

soon after dawn

ripples a Wellington mountain pool

to wake and blink

then wink white, as if light

layed on these reachless deeps

knowingly hints

at the dazzling presence

gusted and circling in whispers

Water arms furl under the breeze

pushing waves to the banks

countless stones clack in as many fingers

These unfreighted rocks 

under wind on the water

ask seasons of heaviness

changing my gaze 

to answer the blustery now

of this river’s frank youth

All I can say? Yes! I am here

to be torrent roughed, tousled

and cooled

like today’s first sun

sprinkled,

to answer God’s voice over water

unspeaking

like a lad half clothed whoops

ankle deep in the daybreak

all sparkled

then finding breath

leaps

Allen Goddard

A City Butterfly’s Sunny Break

Leaving

 the Receiver’s office

down on Pietermaritz Street

there’s a brightening chance

of ultra violet vigour

tingling on my skin

after a long La Niňa sodden week

 but mind you there’s a

a spiking wind.

Snow in late November!

Yes, far west, high and deep

Beyond the dripping blanket

greys on Inhlazane’s

peak

Between a pavement and a drain

the warming spot of solitude opens flat on ember bricks

unflustered in loud acid puffs of morning traffic.

Little opals glint on velvet, fanning to a standstill

as though puzzling where the city flowers fly

to fill their solar tanks.  

Her formal black and lace of eggshell

halts me like an intersection red.

I almost drop my SARS receipt to see her wink

as if she wants me close enough to hear her say

I know just how much  

the Tax man’s

going to pay.

La Niňa is the Atlantic counterpart to the Pacific El Niňo

SARS  is the South African Receiver of Revenue

Allen Goddard

Make Way

Dry leaves scratch in spirals blown

The hot dust desiccating eyes to leather

Whispering wind she raises caution

Calling out the warning – Make Way, Make Way.

Drumbeats faint the pending timbre

The dogs of earth go running scared

Heavy soon the feet of thunder

Bellows out – Make Way, Make Way. 

Cables spark whilst loosely swinging

Attaching all things earth to heaven

The sky lit graphs of God aren’t hidden

Candescent tell – Make Way, Make Way.

Heaven sinks earth’s veins disgorging

Spewing pungent effluent streams.

Apocryphal Refiners River

Hailing down – Make Way, Make Way.

Spectrum fan the clouds are mending

Fresh baked roads rise up in steam.

Jasmine breath the wind now calling

Renew the earth – Make Way, Make Way. 


Dave Barbour