Saturday, January 29, 2011


Creeping vine
T'ward sunlight curl.
Entwining branch
In tangled whorl.
Newborn ferns
Reach and unfurl,
Midst shafting forest light.

© Strauss
9th May 2007
Image by David Blevins.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Red walk

Spike-heeled stilettos
roam the streets in wait.
Red Light District,
in the dark corners of the night.

Shiny leather boots
march defiantly as one.
The world's Red Armies
Unite the Communist front.

Winter pale toes
stomp the season's first fruit.
A silky red wine
born from luscious juice.

Bare Indigenous feet
dance The Brolga with precision.
Dry red dirt
swirling with the movement.

Dorothy's famed shoes
click at the heels.
Ruby Red slippers
Just want to go home.

Swollen ankles - mine,
throb from standing.
Red woollen socks
With a hole in the toe.

© Strauss
6th March 2007

Monday, January 3, 2011

leather gloves - Magpie 28/12/10

I found her driving gloves in the drawer of the hall room table. They lay neatly beside her keys; soft, smooth leather contrasting the sharp edges of cold metal and steel.
Carefully, I lift them into the light. It feels like a sacrilege. It is too soon. Too confronting. I am holding her hands; cold and limp.
I imagine her slim, elegant fingers outstretched in them, as I have seen many times in the past. These gloves are synonymous with her - a second skin.
Iconic images forge through my mind; her leather clad fingers wrapped around the steering wheel - leather upon leather squeaking with each flex and tightened grip, like sure, taut ropes against a ship's rigging.
A long elegant finger stretched skyward pointing out a hawk circling overhead as we huddle on a mound of ancient seaweed under a red woollen blanket spread over our knees; a brass wrist buckle glinting in the restrained winter sunlight.
Tentatively, I slip a glove over my clumsy hand. My hands are not slight, my fingers not elegant . The leather is tight around my fingers; snug and comforting. Bending my fingers, I wonder if the creases in the leather matched those of her palm and whether I could read her life through these same creases....if only I knew how.
The familiar aroma of well-kept leather is heady. She looked after her things as she looked after me.
Gently, I pull the glove from my hand. I stare at the gloves and swallow hard, contemplating the necessity of placing them back in the drawer; surrendering them to darkness for the final time.
"Keep 'em", a ragged voice strains from behind me.
I turn feebly toward the voice. Our watery eyes meet. Same eyes in different skulls.
With a barely detectable nod my eyes cast down to the gloves. "Thanks..... I think I will". Carefully, I fold the gloves into my coat pockets, quietly bid my farewells and leave.
I walk home with my hands in my pockets; her warm hands holding mine.