Tag Archives: poetry

Mid week madness.

The Kookaburra song is well known all over Australia, although to be honest, I don’t recall ever hearing the third verse.

The original.
Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,
Merry merry king of the bush is he.
Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra,
Gay your life must be!

Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,
Eating all the gum drops he can see.
Stop Kookaburra, stop Kookaburra
Save some there for me!

Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,
Counting all the monkeys he can see.
Laugh Kookaburra, laugh Kookaburra
That’s not a monkey, that’s me!

Alternative verses
Kookaburra sits on the electric wire,
Jumping up and down, with his pants on fire.
Ouch, Kookaburra, ouch! Kookaburra,
Hot your tail must be!

Kookaburra sits on a rusty nail,
Gets a boo-boo in his tail.
Cry, Kookaburra, cry, Kookaburra,
Oh how life can be!

Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,
Eating all the gum drops he can see.
Laugh Kookaburra, laugh Kookaburra
Gay your life must be!

And this brings me to this mornings picture. I’m making coffee and then that distinctive laugh comes through, very close, so I grab the camera to see how close.
On the power pole at the end of the a car port, two of the cheeky buggers.
Not the best picture, granted, but there they are. And they stayed long enough for me to get a picture.

20140604-075315-28395281.jpg

Slug – poem

Small and brown.
Almost unseen by
Unforgiving feet,
Squishing, flattening.
Dying.
Slippery and gooey,
Sliding silently across the grass,
Never to know it’s fate,
Eating cabbage leaves,
Grasses and plants.
Hiding under rocks,
Eyes drawn in
away from danger,
As yet unseen.
Coming out at night,
Slippery, sliding, messy.
Leaving behind only,
A trail of slime,
shiny and sticky.

Yet another from high school, this time I’ve shortened the original.

Jen.

Running Fast. Running Free. – a poem.

Another poem I wrote at 16. The last section I changed from the original, the rest is the same.

Push-ups,
Sit-ups,
Sensible eating,
Living for the run.
It’s her life,
Her one love.
She runs the roads,
And the fields.
Up and down hills,
Through the mud,
Along the beach,
Across the streets
And through the village.
It doesn’t matter to her,
As long as she’s
Running fast, running free.

The 5k is easy,
The 10 is getting harder,
But then,
All her strength is
Put to the test.
Her life will end,
If this one’s lost.
She runs harder,
Pushing herself,
Thinking of home,
And the sea.
“At last” she cries
“Running fast, running free.”

The miles disappear,
As her feet pound the ground,
Forever moving, never still.
It’s in her blood,
A constant, she cannot stop.
Wild like a horse,
Flying like a bird.
Always on the move,
Running Fast.
Running Free.

Charging headlong into the week.
Jen 🙂

Identifying as such

A short while ago I did a post about creative writing and how I don’t class myself as a writer. The responses got me thinking as to how I see myself and how others might see me. I took all these comments on board and have been thinking about it on and off since. I will admit that at first, I was annoyed at what was said, but after some contemplation, it is purely how others see me, and not a reflection of me personally.
I realised that as our opinions are based on our experiences, how I see myself as compared to how others see me (even through writing on a screen) is neither right nor wrong. They are just different aspects of the same person. Of course I have always known this, but it’s been some time since I’ve really thought about it.

I came to the conclusion also, that what we think we are or are not comes down to what we identify with. Being good at something or having the potential does not mean we identify that and call ourselves a “….” It simply means we are good at it. So I write well and if I put my mind to it, I could be a writer. That’s all well and good, but I don’t identify with that persona.
For me, calling oneself something is identifying with it on a level that requires a passion, a need, a yearning almost, to live and breath it. I don’t get that with writing. Not identifying with something doesn’t mean you’re not, it’s just how you see yourself. And that is the important thing.

What do I identify with? Photography and beading. Absolutely.
While I am definitely not a great photographer, everywhere I go I see things that would make great pictures. Whether in my way of seeing things, or a standard postcard snapshot. I see pictures everywhere. I don’t always have the opportunity to make it happen, but it is there. I yearn for a more physical type of creativity, rather than the mental. Take the other night where I went on a baking frenzy. I had been busy all day but once I stopped, had the need to do something. And writing it was not. If my room was tidier, or it was daylight I may well have sat and played with beads or taken my camera out.

I enjoy writing, and several locals here have even told me they love what I write and how well I do it. But it is easy when it is not about you, and is something you love. I will be re writing those poems and short stories because I like what I am reading and want to make them better. Because I can. Because I want to.

What do you identify as? Would you say others agree with you, or not?
(I’m not a writer, really)

Jennifer 🙂

What was I thinking…?

This is from another sheet of paper in that pile of crazed teenage creative writing I hunted out. I really have no idea what I thinking when I wrote this. I have done a very small re-write, the bulk of it is the same.

(I can’t even think of a name for it)

The moon shone through the trees,
Yet they remained dark,
No silhouette to be seen.

The wind blew gently,
Like a puff of air on a feather,
And I knew it called to me.

I heard my name,
It wanted me, needed me,
To go, go, go.

I left the house,
Quietly, quickly.

Once beneath the trees,
I felt it, what was happening,
why they needed me.

The breeze stirred suddenly,
The trees rustled and wove,
As if talking, discussing.
I felt the pain,
Quick, sharp.

As I fell to the ground,
The breeze stopped,
The trees silent,
As if in mourning,
Silent, respect for the dead.

Like I said, I have no idea how this poem emerged from the murky depths of my brain. I was not depressed, even in hindsight I didn’t have the same teenage issues that some go through. (My only angst was over boys, which was normal and completely unrequited, ;/).

If any one has any ideas what this may mean, please share your ideas, I welcome any thoughts.

Have a great day 🙂
Jen