Haiku (frustration)

a string of warm days

these bare branches do prevail

midst winter's cruel hold


© Strauss 23rd July 2011

Haiku - Moreton Bay Fig (Scent)

four decades fulfilled
beside the Moreton Bay Fig
I am but a child

© Strauss 23rd July 2011

The Demolition

An angry arm rises skyward; slamming down with cold intention; wood and metal are no match for this iron fist.

The heart has been ripped from this house; the soul, having already escaped, bears witness, quivering at the proceeding destruction, like a feeble animal in the shadow of a looming aggressor.


What remains are strewn across a razed field; spilling onto a grotty sidewalk beyond the chain-linked perimetre. A rusty letterbox stands erect like a tombstone out front - a somber guard inscribed with the number 9, who has turned a blind eye.
© Strauss 2011

Tulle cloaked bride

A gauzy veil silhouettes a softened landscape,

Leaving a world of vague shapes

To linger like enigmatic shadows.

Conifers spire toward the heavens;

Leafy renaissance towers

Shrouded in a lost world above.

Tiny birds bolt from a nearby cedar;

Feathered darts

Shooting through a tranquil haze.

I breathe this dawn enchantress

Before she vanishes with the heat of the day;

Knowing not when she might return,

To slink across my lawn with dewy steps,

Lick my eaves,

And caress the naked branches

With a thousand gentle tears.

Tomorrow,

The rains will lavish

These whisper-soothed lands

Like an insistent groom

Pursuing his tulle cloaked bride.

She will succumb.

© Strauss

 

Bruised

Sunlight strains through a dust stained window,

Speckled in last spring’s dried raindrops.

Bruised shadows fan the entirety of a compromised chamber;

Not radiant, not luminous, not exactly dull, but – gentle and subdued.

They flicker as the sunlight plays with the stirring foliage outside

Like shadow puppets behind a calico screen.

I could cleanse the tainted glass;

Lift the burden from its smattered lens;

The light would then flood blindingly, naturally, dazzlingly,

But I have become accustomed to the bruised shadows,
And they trouble you not.

Those gentle bruised shadows, they dance for me.

© Strauss

2006

Image by David Evans

Jewelled Pebbles

Your eyes were sculpt

from polished white pebbles,

and adorned with a jewel

of opal and onyx.

Eons ago,

the jewel came to life,

and sparked with delight

and mischief.

Your eyes,

they've cried happy tears;

sad tears; they bore witness.

They've squinted in the sun;

Clamped tight in fear;

and swooned

in the presence of a lover.

In my despair,

I peer within,

hoping that you still remain.

But though I do search,

your last breath

long expelled,

all I behold

are jewelled pebbles.

Strauss

8th June 2011

The Long Shorts

‘Why do fellas these days, have to wear those bloody horrible long shorts?’ asks Dad glaring down the passage to Nigel, who was wandering in our direction.


‘I dunno Dad‘, I sigh. ‘It’s the fashion. They are all wearing them like that. Forget it….Did you have a read through those brochures?’

I attempt to bring Dad back to the matter at hand. I know he is struggling with the idea of his own mortality. It’s not my favourite subject, but it was his idea to get matters sorted. He said he didn’t want us to deal with it; not after what he went through when Mum died last winter. I said I’d help him, but I don’t think either of us is ready for this discussion.

‘Don’t they realise how bloody stupid they look?’ says Dad, completely ignoring my question, and sniggering as Nigel approaches.

‘What?’ asks Nigel, wondering what the joke is.

‘Nothing Love’, I say, waving him away.

‘It’s them shorts, Son’, Dad is laughing so hard he dissolves into a coughing fit.

‘What about ‘em? Don’t you like me shorts Grandpa?’ Nigel smirks and does a little jig.

‘They look shithouse!’

Nigel stands there for a moment looking at his Grandfather, who is now coughing and wheezing like a madman.

‘Settle down Dad. You’ll cough up a lung in a minute.’

‘Grandpa, me old mate’, says Nigel slapping his Grandfather on the back, ‘trouble with you is…. you’re old!’ Nigel scoffs in his Grandfather’s face before grabbing the keys to the Commodore, which lie on the kitchen bench. He laughs all the way to the front door, continuing his pants jig.

Dad stiffens, feigning offence, ‘Cheeky bastard!’

‘I’m off’, calls Nigel from the front porch.

‘Bye Love’. The front door swings shut and the V8 engine revs outside.

Dad leans in with gritted teeth and eyeballs me across the table. He’s not laughing anymore.

‘If he turns up to my funeral wearing those bloody pants, I’m gunna jump out of my fuckin’ box and kick his arse!’

I sit across from my father, holding his stare. Casually, I turn to the casket page in one of the funeral home brochures, ‘Pine, oak or mahogany?' I ask dryly.

Dad is silent for a moment, before a smile spreads across his face.

‘Mahogany, of course. I’m a classy bloke!’