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    tanka_oz
    Jul 10, 2019

    THANKS for admitting me as a member

    Hi All,


    I am David Terelinck and live on the Gold Coast in Australia.


    Many thanks to Maggie for approving my admission to camp – much appreciated. A little about me for anyone who is interested:


    In another lifetime I was involved in academic writing and had many articles published in peer-reviewed nursing journals. I left nursing after 20+ years and got a “real job”; by that I mean no shift work, no rotating rosters, no more socially unacceptable hours, and the only person I had to care for and clean up after was myself!


    I had written poetry when in my youth, and had abandoned it for decades as I charged up the career ladder. When I was done with career, and I had found me a nice 9-5 job (sans weekends), I started to dabble in poetry again. In 2007 I was kidnapped by poetry in the form of tanka. I wrote almost exclusively in this genre of poetry until 18 months ago, when I ventured back into free verse.


    I have dropped to 4 days a week, and wish it were much less. I am now starting to loathe my day job in injury management and return to work, and really just want to write full-time. But if one wants to put food on the table and take holidays in business class, poetry is not a great bread-winning occupation.


    I am looking forward to reading the poems of others, and sharing some of mine along the way.

    Here are a couple; I hope you enjoy them:


    *********************************

    Spicy


    by morning

    the blizzard has howled

    itself hoarse –

    you sleep in my arms

    after coming three times


    the spark

    & crackle of shifting logs

    makes you stir

    slither of sheets

    slither of hands


    on the rug

    listening to Billie croon

    stormy weather

    today’s forecast

    more of the same


    a shower

    large enough for 2

    the hiss of steam

    a sharp intake

    of breath . . .


    eggs & bacon

    sizzling in the pan –

    every word

    you whisper in my ear

    spiced with tabasco


    *********************************

    Appalachian Nights


    A running faucet and snatches

    of song from beyond the fly-screen

    door. Wheezing & rattling,


    the old icebox palliates

    its way toward another

    tomorrow. The closing jaw


    of noon has lost its bite.

    No longer fixed high overhead

    the sun slowly circles,


    flames the ridge of red pine,

    then sinks below a stand

    of old-growth birch. Shadows


    gnaw at the hind leg of day.

    They limp up the graveled path,

    nuzzle around the steps. Furtively


    they climb each swayback tread

    to finally rest at the foot

    of your rocker. With each


    rhythmic rise & fall your feet

    dosey doe with dusk.

    You find comfort in the creak


    of mellowed bones & ageing

    porch timbers slacked by time

    & weather. With welcomed habit


    rivulets of twilight once more

    torrent into nightfall. Stars

    calve from obsidian skies


    & the avalanche of darkness

    is complete. A far-away freight

    whistle strobes a crisp night air


    spiced with leaf-fall,

    hardwood smoke, & a hint

    of mountain moonshine.


    Fireflies swarm to puncture

    & repair the night. They fluctuate

    like an undecided jury;


    their gilt-edged light bright

    enough for passing judgment

    on a descendent life. You’ve chosen


    your resting place in mountains

    which have cradled your soul

    long before your birth.


    But for now, your nose hooked

    by frying catfish, buttered greens,

    & coffee two-days strong.

    1 comment
    0
    Scribble Camp
    Jun 13, 2020

    I enjoyed Spicy.


    Though have some thoughts on form and line lengths for Appalachian Nights .


    Lovely drafts. Maggie




    A running faucet and snatches

    of song from beyond the fly-screen

    door. Wheezing & rattling, the old icebox

    palliates its way toward another tomorrow.

    The closing jaw of noon has lost its bite.


    No longer fixed high overhead the sun circles,

    flames the ridge of red pine, then sinks below

    a stand of old-growth birch. Shadows gnaw

    the hind leg of day, limp up the graveled path,

    nuzzle around the steps.

    Furtively they climb each swayback tread

    to finally rest at the foot of your rocker. With each

    rhythmic rise & fall your feet dosey doe with dusk.

    You find comfort in the creak of mellowed bones

    & ageing porch timbers slacked by time & weather.


    With welcomed habit, rivulets of twilight once more

    torrent into nightfall. Stars calve from obsidian skies

    & the avalanche of darkness is complete.


    A far-away freight whistle strobes a crisp night air

    spiced with leaf-fall, hardwood smoke, & a hint

    of mountain moonshine. Fireflies swarm to puncture

    & repair the night. They fluctuate like an undecided jury;

    their gilt-edged light bright enough for passing judgment

    on a descendent life.


    You’ve chosen your resting place in mountains

    which have cradled your soul long before your birth.

    But for now, your nose hooked by frying catfish,

    buttered greens, & coffee two-days strong.

    0