Poetry by Pip Wilson

Page 11

All poems Copyright © 2001-now, Pip Wilson, Wilson’s Almanac

 

 

Hail song (the white doorway)

When the blackening sky cracked with hail
I thought I would love you always.
Did you really love me with my skin so pale
or hate me in that bright doorway?

Polish your rubies your tiger eyes
polish your pearls by this pale moonrise
Peruvian bracelets aquamarine
come swim to the other island with me

Where was I when my mother cried?
   Concocting a style on the broad highway.
What did I sing when our romance died?
   I will never forget the white doorway.

Polish your rubies your emerald crown
for the ladies and gentlemen come up to town
sure I am he who once cracked with hail
I doubt you recall the white doorway.

 

 

 

 

6 a.m., travelling on the Trans-Australian

 

A clipping of the moon beside a diamond point of light,

both studded in the velvet sky that holds the world in night,

are painted off the canopy as pastel grey and blue

wash over land and over sky to start the day anew.

As hints of bold and golden-tinted clouds show night is done,

we wake from sleep and so roar on towards the rising sun.

 

Rotten luck (to J-9)

Never heard of such luck, such damn rotten luck.
You must feel like Job, like a kill on the road.
Did a solemn black curse made your bad go to worse,
did hope swoon and stagger beneath all this load?
Is your pillow still wet from the tears that have flowed?
Does your mind get all shitty and say “Stop the self pity”,
that others are worse off, to think of the starving,
when all you can see are the young and the pretty
in parties and taverns cavorting and laughing?
Tough luck, bad luck, such damn rotten luck
and while you were reeling from one lousy blow
and you tried to get up and brush off the dust,
another from left field laid you lower than low.
And things couldn’t get worse, your friends all agree,
“Chin up” they tell you, “There will be no more.
It’s got to end soon. These things come in threes.”
Then “Bang!” comes another one, making it four,
then five six and seven, and so on it goes …
And don’t you just want to punch out their damn lights?
“There must be a reason” or “God’s plan is unknown”,
and “we’re praying for you” or “I’m sending you vibes”
or “I know how you feel, I have blues of my own”.
Such damn rotten luck, such pitiful luck
like a motherless child, nothing ever goes right.
What can I tell you, what can I say,
what can I do for despair in the night?
Will it help if I tell you, if I had heaps of money
I would give it all gladly, if it helped in a way.
What else can I do for you, what can I tell you?
Oh, God, how can I help you? What can I say?
Does it help you to hear of your brother in tears,
of the nights that his pillow has also been wet?
Will you share your bright smile when I tell you that I’ll
not desert you or hurt you, like I haven’t done yet?
Then I’ll say it: I won’t grieve you, and friend, I won’t leave you.
And I will not forsake you, like I never did yet.

 

 

 

 

 

Recalling the holidayness of life

Fine she walks the pearly streets
wind around rain shining wet shoes
leaves dancing back tapestry
illuminated by the sudden silver Sun.
Is no more.

 

Hot caravan roof salt smell
rejuvenation hyacinths
chrysanthemum fireworks silver
blue-shimmer sparkle fire and
flash. Raindrops spark crash of
orange arc flash white and seagull
eye blue merging into molten sky
the ocean slaps the mirror road
the universe invades her cells.

 

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