Aubade (November)

As we read these words, they come more to light.

Words bound and found for consideration.

These words unfolded in day’s early light.

Come to sight, mind their business, close at hand.

Like a city we grew up in, shades and shifts.

A city in here of countless suburbs.

Like the writers we always were inside.

Their reviews come speechless, ineffable.

Such words seen by you, your eye enlightened.

Words for your personal insight alone.

Like sentences only you understand.

Frame by frame and dated one November.

Tucked in a book that comes to light later

In its special envelope.

Eclogue (November)

“As we speak these words, that which goes unsaid

Will spread considerably come midday.”

“Perhaps, and unfold their meaning further

Into tales untold, and carry the burden.”

“Like cities that must remember to build

Suburbs tenfold as they enter new day.”

“Like writers whose mornings scribble out stars

To erase and review them, after noon.”

“Words, words! Mornings return with more to spare:

Inventions and insights and hopes and words.”

“That afternoon sorts and censors and slams

Like the frames of a film called November.”

“I saw that one get the nomination

For ‘Best Script All Told’. The envelope please.”

Nocturne (November)

As we speak, these words go unsaid, unread.

Words considered good remain in darkness.

All words folded way stay out of sight.

Out of sight, out of mind in the closed night.

Like a suburb whose name is forgotten.

A suburb out there in another city.

Like a star named after a dead writer.

A writer who knew all the moods of night.

These words and words like them exist unseen.

Words invented for the personal voice.

Like syllables might explain creation.

Like chronos frames the frame of November.

These words, made in hope to share the darkness,

Night envelopes.

Threnody (November)

Our work screens are the stream of rust-free waterproof poppies, minuted by the news feed, flowing direct to the catafalque. Our early walk meets the ageing digger’s price-tag poppy tray. Bright November light turns us each into familiar human shape. Item: thousands of miles of ocean whitened under iron sterns. Item: old photograph of lonely landscape fought over below ground. Lost voices we guess at, returning in sounds and laughter, we make our own, talking in past tense of grandparents. We cry out ‘No more!’ as brainless technology synchs up, inventing more modern ways of getting us in its sights.

Threnody (November)

Our work screens are the stream of rust-free waterproof poppies,

Minuted by the news feed, flowing direct to the catafalque.

Our early walk meets the ageing digger’s price-tag poppy tray.

Bright November light turns us each into familiar human shape.

Item: thousands of miles of ocean whitened under iron sterns.

Item: old photograph of lonely landscape fought over below ground.

Lost voices we guess at, returning in sounds and laughter

We make our own, talking in past tense of grandparents.

We cry out ‘No more!’ as brainless technology synchs up,

Inventing more modern ways of getting us in its sights.

Barzelletta (November)

Moustache month brings out the best in all of us, the hairy and hairless. Death is its own particular bless: far be it from us to make a jest. Election nights are ones to remember, rampantly yes or the sum of glum. Ballot papers return to sender ticking who’s best and pointing out scum, surely you don’t think we’re really that dumb: the hand gets something off its chest. Downtown the swaggies couldn’t care less, their names don’t make the list of guests. Mainly it’s warm now in November. They sit near the heater called the sun, answering to no-one.

 

Barzelletta (November)

 

Moustache month brings out the best

In all of us, the hairy and hairless.

Death is its own particular bless:

Far be it from us to make a jest.

 

Election nights are ones to remember,

Rampantly yes or the sum of glum.

Ballot papers return to sender

Ticking who’s best and pointing out scum,

Surely you don’t think we’re really that dumb:

The hand gets something off its chest.

 

Downtown the swaggies couldn’t care less,

Their names don’t make the list of guests.

 

Mainly it’s warm now in November.

They sit near the heater called the sun,

Answering to no-one.

Mesostic (November)

Montage (November)

bluestone roadsign undergrowth daisybush latticework doorknobs shoelaces earplugs letterbox backyard lamppost totebag earrings ponytail creekbed walkway cufflinks sunglasses fenceposts sunlight downpipe palmtrees leafmould milkweed shirtcuff tincan overheads honeyeaters flagpole plateglass wheelchair eyeliner ballpoint foamcup tabletops stairwell skateboard handout hubcap network footbridge ankleboots tramline churchbell powerlines bikehelmet nameplate potplant sundeck freeway rollerdoor overcast wednesday spraycan flywire highrise waterbottle timetable afternoon november raindrops wroughtiron redlights creambrick clearway taxicab multiplex laptops roadwork signboard roundabout speedhump stainedglass skylights treetops substation windscreen monkeybars flowerbeds polytechnic silvertop gumnut warehouse rainclouds overflow plasterboard downpour stormcloud hilltop headroom headlight thunderstorm driveway nightfall runoff rooftops mockvine stormwater chimneytops frontdoor