Category: General poems

In the dread of the night

a bird sings.

From the world beyond sight

something springs.

And ribbons of satin

flash colour and pattern –

I reach out, clutch inwards

and cling.

But this flight of the Spirit

won’t be held

in hands grasped too tight

for its spell.

Hope’s quicksilver flicker

will shimmer and shiver,

while the song that it sings

won’t be quelled.

So I listen so close

in the dark

while the mopoke calls back

to the lark.

Old sadness and sorrow

soon lifts on the morrow

and sweet birdsong

will herald its path.

©     Sharonne Price March 2018

The company of trees

These are the ones who endure,
who hold their sway
through the storm and the still.

These are the ones who grow
deep down in the stillness of things.
Ancient burials.

These are the ones who cradle safe
both raven and sparrow young
on slender ledge and landing.

This short green season of bounty
has grown from recent cold.
Exposed, retracted, reserved.

Now the leaves flutter
like prayer flags
released to summer breezes.

So in their company strengthened
I breathe in their living breath
Gentle gifts of sustenance.

And so may we grow strong together,
Quivering, but living old
One season at a time.

Colorado, May 2007

Drought breaker

There is a whisper about.
Subversive, unfastened.

In the darkening, long shadows blur.
The magpie spreads her dusty wings
and chortling softy,
abandons her summer sentry post
to wait.

Soft leaves turned brown before their time,
Crinkled now and drooping sad,
Sense the change and flutter faintly,
Heads turned gasping t’ward a murmur
of hope.

The world’s gone quiet.
Muted, mysterious, grey to black.
The wrens twitter their families home.
They fluff and settle, burst expectant,
then still.

The earth turns her face to the broody sky.
A drop or two, then gentle release.
The soft cloudy veil unfolds
for the consummating kiss.
Rain.

Sweet rain.

© Sharonne Price

Dust

There is a road to Mavele
in South Africa.
We fill the taxi
and cram in cheek by jowl
like the fruit in the bags we carry.
We watch each other,
smell each other’s sweat
and the dust comes in.

There is a road to Mavele,
just out of Tzaneen.
The driver brakes and turns,
slips and slides,
and we hold on
through the dips of soft potholes
and the dust comes in.

Oh Mavele
where young girls fight danger,
hunger, TB, HIV, and fear itself.
Grip hard
for life’s sake !
And the dust comes in.

Oh Mavele
your Tsonga and Sotho songs
are quieted.
And the kids hang about
’cause the teacher’s on strike.
Water is carried like gold
and the dust comes in.

They are making a new road
just beside Mavele.
The trucks bring gravel and tar.
They rumble all day.
It may go past Mavele.
New South Africa?
The dust comes in.

There is a child in Mavele,
who fashions a rolling toy
from old wire and odd wheels.
He smiles and watches,
dreams and schemes.
He is the new South Africa.
He will not bypass Mavele
where the dust comes in.

© Sharonne Price June 07

Ahmed Khatib was a 12 year old Palestinian boy who was shot by Israeli soldiers in November 2005. (Source: The Weekend Australian Magazine July 22-23 2006).

His friends say that they were playing the Palestinian version of Cowboys and Indians.
His parents donated his organs. Four of the six recipients were Israelis. Some months later all the recipients were invited to a “thank you” party. Not everyone came.

A young man, tall in stature
Is laid to rest in Gaza,
Without heart, lungs, liver and kidneys.
Life shot out.

Ahmed, Oh Ahmed, Oh Ahmed my son.

They threw a party in El-Bqa’a
A joyful parade of heartfelt thanks
Mohammed with a new kidney,
Samah with a new heart.

This is my body, given for you.

“We don’t need to be grateful,” some said.
“After all, they’re still bombing us,
him and his crowd”
“Israelis give organs to Palestinians, too
you know”
“It was really the doctors who did the job”

Love your enemies. Forgive those who persecute you.

I am bent over in sorrow
Head and heart in hands.
We are all sick with difference
and blood soaks our common ground.

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

Sit and draw on the sand
ancient brothers and sisters
cry humble with me
for even the Lion stoops to drink.

Sharonne Price

It has been speculated that The Falling Man, a famous photograph of a man dressed in white falling headfirst to his death on September 11, was an image of an employee at Windows on the World . Although his identity has never been conclusively established, he was believed to be Jonathan Briley, an audio technician at the restaurant. Commentary at the time asked the obscene question, “Can someone who takes their own life in those circumstances be assured of grace?”

Free fall – 911

That September morning
from Windows on the World
he fell.

Stepped, flung himself
into a roaring, tearing wind,
then still.

He flew outside
old structures, old beliefs,
propelled.

A city named twice
once watched, now watching,
breath held.

A step, a choice,
from final conflagration,
that hell.

Sweet clarity
to know that no-one falls
from grace.

A flagrant act
to fly with heaven
in terror’s face.

Sharonne Price

Swept down the footpath
like McDonalds’ wrappings
the Adelaide-igentsia blows in.
A bit crumpled –
it’s Friday after all.

We’ve all come tonight…

The upright and responsible,
With the week on their faces –
Old weight on Armani shoulders.

The ancient and crippled
With cane and accomplice
For Bethsaida’s plunge.

The young and aspiring,
loaded up with things to do
and someone to be.

The bored and ignored
stuck deep in the having
and having been.

We all shuffle and crank ourselves
into slots and corners
to hear honey sweet music.

And it comes.
It flows and smooths
like the great trickle that spills
until its mountain stream
slows to the plains
and delta fruitfulness.

We are composed.

Sharonne Price 2011

In this dappled mountain clearing
Razor light captures the tiniest joys.

A flicker of leaf
floats to the forest floor.
Insect wings sparkle pink, then blue,
then disappear in flight once more.

Magic in the morning.

Maybe half-light brings its blessings,
hard baked truths no more to teach,
but here in filtered shafts of sunlight,
moments glisten into speech.

Sharonne Price 2017