Poetry and Verse
I have written lyrics for songs about endangered species, and have included verse with some paintings in the gallery. Please find these below for your enjoyment.
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- Kent
Ballet of the Brolga
Pirouette, tango, rumba and waltz,
Courting makes dancing as parts become whole,
Crimson crowns dip before lithe bodies vault,
Leaping in unison, ballet of souls.
Mating dance bonding pairs loyal for life,
Guarding and raising their young with sweet care,
Protecting small creatures from danger and strife,
New lives that one day may dance in plein air.
Once brolgas would gather in numberless flocks,
Marshland and swamp under warm summer suns
Would ring with their hooting and trumpets and cries,
Fall silent and still now from fence, plow and guns.
Ungainly or stately is not the main point,
Brolga and human both finding a chance
To leap and to curtsy in simple pure joy,
Joining with others in soul-thrilling dance.
Gliders
Chainsaw and clearfell, ringbark and dozer,
Harsh words stir fears and passion and hate,
Sounding a warning of dead barren landscape,
Watching proud forest become real estate.
Some other words slip with ease from the heart,
Word-painting scenes of gliding and grace,
Mahogany, feather-tail, squirrel and sugar,
Acrobats clinging to time and to place.
Language is sly when used to convince
That absence and loss is the sure price to pay,
For progress and ease and throwaway things,
And owning the earth is leading the way.
Gliders will go and may never return,
If comes a sad time when all forests perish,
And yet still some small secret spaces persist,
In rare sylvan remnants to guard and to cherish.
Flamboyance
Flamboyant, flashing, dazzling bright,
Gaudy, sequinned, colours loud,
Preening, strutting, draws the eye,
As birds showcase their plumage proud.
Fey young boys to colour thrill,
Until they hurt from cruel darts,
Forego the ballet of the birds,
As monochrome bleeds dry their hearts.
Why cannot boys too dance and preen,
In glorious shouting rainbow hues,
With sparkling iridescent sheen,
For joy and heart and staying true?
May men all find a chance to revel,
Taking wing to fly with those
Who soar above the beige plain level,
The tender soul with colour grows.
Bat Wings
When reassuring daylight fades to grey,
With shadows drifting deeper into gloaming,
A stirring comes from darkness tucked away,
As beating batwings herald nighttime’s roaming.
False myths and folklore stoke our ancient fears,
Of vampire, monster, evil prowling night,
And bloodlust, greedy fangs that rip and tear,
From bat-filled nightmares wake in quaking fright.
Why do we fear a flying, furry bat
That lives a life predictable and true,
When what we really need to fear is that
Grim monster that resides in me and you?
Bum-breathing Turtle
This turtle is a marvel and delight
To little boys who giggle as they speak
Such naughty words as poo and fart and bum,
What fun is had with grownups out of sight.
Chorus:
Bum-breathing turtle, bum-breathing turtle,
Let’s all say it out loud - Bum-breathing turtle!
Now bum-breathing is such a cheeky phrase,
When nature gives a creature that is so
Adept at breathing through its fundament,
Unique and cool in very many ways,
So let us now rejoice in words that stray,
Into the realms of vulgar, coarse and crass,
For being nice can sometimes be so dull,
And naughty words are part of fun and play.
Every Wounded Bird
From summer in Van Dieman’s Land,
To winter in Port Phillip Bay,
Across the howling gale-tossed strait,
Swift Parrots make their ancient way.
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Migrating follows dreaming paths,
Seeking shelter, food and peace,
Moving to a distant shore,
As welcome morning warms the day.
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When forest fall and fences march,
When rivers die steep mountains mourn,
When no bird finds a sheltered valley,
Colour fades and weeps the sky.
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Home is not an angry word,
Deep hearth easing stranger’s fears,
Embracing weary pains and tears,
There’s room for every wounded bird.
