Returning Themes – A Pingback Pair

Some recent events and discussions have taken me back to some of poems or yore.

One is about discovering, finding, uncovering, our voice – Finding Your Voice.

The others are about those feeling on the edge, alone, in a physical or personal isolation or separation –  Out On The Pier and The Great Alone.

Don’t get too lost in them.  Best read some happy ones afterward.

Lost Soles?

Vincent Van Gogh did a number of studies on work shoes. He saw the meaning and story behind them.  Even the philosophers, such as Martin Heidegger, would write about it.

This frivolous verse seems light and vague at first. Beyond the humour is more. 

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Lost Soles?

 

Dropped

Discarded or

Lost.

Lost soles

Looking and

Longing

Lingering.

Oh the hide

Of separation!

Past postured parable

Perhaps?

Of the lost soul

Who lost them.

Booty of the bereft

Isolated

In lack

For a place

To pace

Where soles

And souls

May roam free.

 

Simon C.J Falk  27 April 2020

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On the Prospect of Not Celebrating Easter this Year

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On the Prospect of Not Celebrating Easter this Year

Will Christ not rise again

This year

For us?

 

Is he in fact

Still

Dying among us?

In those succumbed

To COVID-19.

 

Or is he

Still

Dead?

Is he in the tomb

With us?

Quarantined from life

Before rising

Infected and decaying

With the virulence

Of toxins?

Of needy-greedy panic

Grabs at shopping shelves?

As panicked voices

Constantly ask questions

What about this?

Or that?

What now?

What now indeed.

 

Will there be no people

As the body of Christ

Holding their candles

Light in the Lord?

Signs that Christ

Has risen

And shines

In us and

Among us?

 

Or are we consigned

To private piety,

In our own place,

So foreign

To genuine faith

That seeks to hold us together

As parts of the body

Of the Risen Lord?

What of this distant,

Isolated,

Seclusion?

Dying alone

In the dark

And waiting

In the tomb?

 

When will we rise?

When shall we hear?

Magdalene’s cry:

“I have seen

The Lord!

And heard his voice!

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 21 March 2020

 


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Pebble in the Sand

Pebble in the Sand

This little verse of whimsy is a response to a sketch by Anthropologist Alice Roberts as seen on her social media @ancientmodernist .

 

Pebble in the Sand

Pebble in the sand

of what epochs do you tell?

Sifting across sands of time

in well

moments, and in storms.

What of those shores have you felt?

In sediment or on lava melt.

Pebble in the sand

Tell the stories

of this land.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 22 February 2020

It is Awakening

It is Awakening

 

Awakening

The spark of interest

Fascinated and curious

Fixt

On a face

All animated with the story

It is relating

That is

S

 p

   i

    l

     l

      i

       n

        g

Out through arms and gesturing

Hands

It on

To us.

Too full!

Shouts the heart

Absorbing all of it

At pell-mell pace

The words

And the whole

Beautiful face

Awakening an interest

Fascinated and curious

So full it floods.

The waters remain

Soaking the desire

For more.

 

Simon C.J Falk 16 February 2020

 

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Remembered Scent

 

Remembered Scent

 Car ignition

The motor and

a smell

long, long

forgotten

returned.

A long forgotten

scent

of him,

one loved deeply.

The same smell.

And we

remember.

The nose knows

and remembers.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2020

To Forget

To Forget

 

We at table

talk –

to forget.

Muse over a morning

of banter and doings

of what we do –

To forget.

Pick up pages

of someone else’s

story, in a book,

escaping to….

Forget

The window hazy

The smoke entering

Open door

We remember.

Lest we forget –

The furrowed and frazzled brow

Of Firies*:

their boots

seared to the soles.

Sear not their souls

too much

we plead

as images roll in,

role in too,

as politicians posture.

The worn weariness

worn like a day’s drearies,

As its been months’ now

that our bush has burned.

But

We remember

The Firies

and those who

offer water

shelter

food and

their love

tapped away on keys

that carry updates.

We remember

sacrifices made

by volunteers

leaving homes,

some leaving

country,

at the call

of the crisis.

Children paddle

families to freedom

Sons bear medals

Meant for their Fathers

Under the smoky

Southern sun.

 

 

*Firies is a term of endearment for Firefighters.

Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2020

Short Read

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Short Read

 Short read

Refreshing amid

Verbiage jungles

Containing its own

Compact wildness

Adventures unspoken

Yet….

 

Simon C.J. Falk 29 December 2019.

 

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Acrid

Acrid

Acrid

Acrid is the smoke sliding down our throats

Choking the lungs of many

Raging are the persistent flames upon the bush and homes

Incinerating are the fierce forest fires

Destruction and death visits our land among the daring fire fighters

Acrid.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 21 December 2019

 

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I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense of A Silo

I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense Of A Silo

At times people use the image of “silo” or “silos” to describe people working independently and for their own ends.  It has never sat well with me as an image. For reasons shown by the poem in this post.

This could be because I spent many years of childhood in the sheep and wheat belt.  Later I would return there again (twice) to live and work.

Perhaps the disparaging image of “silos” comes from the Christian parable of Luke 12:13-23, where a greedy land owner was seeking more and more profits for himself. The image is not a good one for many of us and can increase a misunderstanding between city and country, rural and urban lives. In times of drought and bush fire we are best not to fuel any city-country enmities.

So, before bringing the “silo” image from our metaphorical storehouse, we might spare a thought and dig deeper into our imagination.

 

Ardlink

Picture: Ardlink Grain Dump just West of Ardlethan NSW a few years ago.

 

I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense Of A Silo

I am a silo grain dump,

And live on the edge of village and of town,

I often have a fuel pump,

And dot the plains or down.

 

Sometimes graffiti coats me,

Or I’m adorned with mural art,

But in harvest time they come to me,

And trucks and trains then dart.

 

They come to me in many trucks,

From farms big and farms small,

And now with massive agribusiness,

I struggle to fit them all!

 

So scattered near my concrete side,

On specially prepared ground,

Tarpaulin covered grains dumps,

Keep grain stored safe and sound.

 

I’ve witnessed many tragic times,

And lots of moments of young love,

Of busy and of fruitful times,

Or when no rain falls from above.

 

School leavers find some work with me,

And uni students do the same,

I’ve taken on some newcomers,

Or those of long time known family name.

 

Yes, some approach me greedily,

Thinking of number one,

Others come skidding speedily,

To get that fast job done.

 

I hear some make an image of me,

To talk of people and of teams,

Who keep things cut off separately,

And store isolated dreams.

 

Before they talk of silos roughly,

They need to come and visit me,

Then they’ll get the message toughly,

That does not describe me.

 

I don’t hide away people or ideas,

I network the city and country,

And stage people’s tears and fears,

The locals catch up by me.

 

They may see someone not seen for weeks,

They may see for frequent visits then,

And as harvest season peaks,

They may not be seen again.

 

Before you use me as an image,

Of some isolated or greedy lot,

Come pay me a visit,

And then you’ll get the plot.

 

Simon C.J. Falk     17 December 2019

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Picture from the Australian Silo Art Trail. More here.  Accessed 17 December 2019

 

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