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Taking stock: Triptych

Of Feet.

Take off your shoes
Reveal your feet to the ground
And sigh, as your mind lets go that leather bound
Vestige, and lay with your toes buried sound
In the knowledge that feet are best unclothed
Against the foot of the world
And our toes don’t tell tales to our souls
About the paths we tread as we walk,
Toward each other.

Of fire

All aglow, a burning spur of hill
A bluff, a reddened mouldering show
In basalt blackened night
A sulking hill, hunched mimicking
A volcanic eye
Wood smoke sucked though the radiator vent
Permeates and marinades
The car interior light
Heart of oyster black unopened night
Gouts of smoke sheet mistaken for
Mysterious fog
A town twinkling in the dark valley groove
Below, awaits the approaching headlights
Roar of tarmac on slick black road
Here we come, down we go

Of rivers

The river keeper sees his charge
Crawling on its knees
It trickles by degrees, dries
To a thirsting mouth

Its pools lay oil flat, slick
And stagnant. Tadpoles ticking
North and south under
The sick skein

The only sign of life
Etched into a cleft
Where no burbling music comes
But wildflowers still dance

And sway at the oozing rivers
Slowing edges where now
He stares down onto
The baked naked nape of sedges

Where once, fifty years gone in youth
Noise he heard, the mellifluous flow
The rivers poise of mercy ran down
Its life’s course in rivulets and sweet eddies

To the people holding up their bowls
In the valleys down below it sang
Ringing through the mountain air,
Where did you go, what did you know?

Style / type: 
Free verse
Last few words: 
Alright, I know this is cheating, you only get one poem submission, but hey it's Christmas and I'm heading off for a while! Three little narratives, of life observed and felt down here. Apologies about the formatting, in particular the capitalization which is frowned upon by some (ah Word, will fix it one day) - will return to ammend some day soon. Happy holidays, whatever you're doing. Cheers. Chris.
Editing stage: 


north american culture..
we ran on telegraph and coal oil
then the serial movies hit
everyone has the attention span
of a gnat sometimes

I grew up on poetry like this
my friends who went on too University
or created their own line of work
to support their families then as
twenty year olds made me read
books that weighed a pound
years later I pored over Lord
Jim and Atwood again and other
beastly long winded....(for me...
I had too use a dictionary...
) but I loved reading..once into
the voice of the work..
Atwood it takes ten chapters of
her work for me too find that going over music
a song played till its meaning
is meant...for me...
some people pick it up hearing
the lyrics like that...not me
always been this way..but I
like this...I like your writing
the way you see things
structurally its different then
my works...I think U see more
and ur more descriptive.

we grew up with a cottage
a straight plain jane box
still place designed one
alike with enough space
set up like..well the late
fifties dictated...they
were smaller versions
of the bungalow homes
and in some cases
could be and probably
were built as homes..
but the smoke and river..
we had a creek north
and a causeway outflow
east...that mist of fog as
smoke I remember well
often mixed with the
real fogs..and rains
of course...

rained here..good for
the lilttle gardens here
and lawns...lake
levels and they can
lift the fire ban

thank U !

With my colourblind eye, I 'm not sure if my world is more vivid, or monotone than others, it's completely subjective. Fire bans are part of reality here too, they come and measure the dam levels, send choppers overhead like mosquitoes - checking, always checking for the tinder boxes secreted up in the mountains, before the tinder dry heat of summer kicks in and it all goes to hell or to plan, either way, nature, in all it's ferocity or calm both astound equally.
I read Atwood, I found some of her stuff dense, impenetrable - others, just got me from the start, reaing comes in bursts now, that time required for deep reading, bled away with responsibility, now I read in bursts, or smash a really good book quickly - usually a shorter read, whenever and wherever I can take it.
Poetry is like an antidote for the time-poor reader, i think that's why it will survive, perhaps even outlive the longer form, the steady deep histories, the "heavy reading" that put so many off.
I like weird European writers, that translate poetically, one comes to mind concerning the literal "weight" of books - the protagonist constantly concerned that he's going to be crushed by the enormous shelves of tomes that lie over his bed, a great metaphor for the fear that knowledge will bury or overwhelm him, it's called "Too loud a solitude" by Bohumil Hrabal - Czech writer, it's a short, beautiful read if you can find it:

Chris Hall - Tasmania

Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's stores.

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