poem

Rottnest Island | Neil Creighton

The wind blows across the dunes,
low trees and shallow lakes.
It doesn’t weep or cry aloud
but it should.
The swells roll across the sea,
curl in foam then slap on the white sand.
They have neither words nor tears
but they should.
The luxury boats bob at their moorings,
and the restaurants stare out to sea.
They do not weep or cry aloud
but they should.
Should they not weep for the 369
indigenous men and boys
perished from disease, malnourishment
or the cruel violence of guards?
Should they not weep for the 3700
indigenous men and boys
cramped in fetid cells now converted
to luxury accommodation?
Should they not weep for men
ripped from the Karri forests of the south,
or the red soil of the north
and imprisoned on this low island?
Should they not weep
for these soft eyed men
with their bleak and hollow stares
and for all the horror of humanity’s history?
But always the wind blows across the dunes
and still the waves slap on the white sand.
They have neither tears to weep nor words to lament
but surely they should.

More at https://windofflowers.blogspot.com.au.

Rottnest Island is a popular holiday resort situated 18 kilometres west of Fremantle, the port for Perth, capital of Western Australia. Daily, ferries take crowds out to the island and there is little remaining evidence of its sad history. From 1838 to 1931 Rottnest was a prison for Aborigines, taken from all over the large state of Western Australia. The airless, untoileted cells, into which seven men were cramped, were a tiny 1.7m x 3.00m. One in 10 of the prisoners died on the island and lie buried there in unmarked graves.

Anguish | Cattail Jester

You left me knocking at
the door cold below
your banner proclaiming
love.
You did not notice me
or care even when I tried
to offer you my gift twice.
Three times, four.
Maybe more.
You sent me away
with looks and disdain,
judgment and agenda.
This is how it always is
with you.
Proclaiming you are love
on earth – I can see my
breath in your proclamation.
I will strike out
on my own, find out what
love really means.
A wandering pilgrim trying
out the path.

Sunday Morning Breakfast at Our House | Stan Morrison

Fresh juice, never buy Sno Crop
Moscovitz fresh warm bagels
Cream cheese, deli belly lox
Smoked white fish or sturgeon
Tomatoes, cukes and capers
Can only be served open face
Home-made herring in a large jar
Cups of percolated coffee and cream
Chocolate Babka and cinnamon rolls
Such were the joys, so it now seems
Nostalgia’s a mere closed eyes away
That was so long ago and far away
Things like that don’t happen nowadays

Us | Chris Byrne

As a species we self-implode
We forsake love for lust
Lost in translation, confused
Feelings awry
Words become meaningless
Love becomes forgotten,
Actions speak volumes
Love becomes seen
Not forgotten

Elementary | Langley Shazor

Tiniest morsels
Minuscule bits
Finite particles
Subatomic molecules
If we only had
This modicum of respect
For ourselves
And each other
Imagine the large difference
With all those
Quarks
Compiled
In which all that matters
Could be changed

Endless Wonders | Stan Morrison

It takes a while for pale green dots
To turn into some grape varietal
It takes only time, soil, rain, sun
No need for supervision or religion
These sacred green dot embryos
Own all the information in code
To build asymmetric conical clusters
The endless wonders that abound
Stakes and trellises optional

Best Poetry Online