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The Leaving
I had this feeling
that I was sad for my self
not that I needed to apologise
or mull over failures or regrets
Just for whatever it was that I might have missed
or didnt take seriously
and cant for the life of me
think what those might have been
That brought this phantom pain
I have a kind of nostalgia now
a whimsical yearning for
more time to breathe
I know though that the allotment
is what it is
and there is no gravity that will contain
the leaving
But for the rememberings
contained in friends and loved ones
who will surf and spill in the wake
and that is also what it is......
© Max Arvidson
2023
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The Imaginary friend I never knew
Long ago
I left without
my imaginary friend
nevertheless
Things unfelt
words unspoken
sights unseen
and dreams undreamt
Finding me
a message in a bottle
come to shore
just in time
and now it seems
part of me returns
my imaginary friend
© Max Arvidson
2014
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Jack the Dancer's Diagnostic
( fünf Minuten vor Mitternacht )
Ever been nearly run over
by a speeding car ?
Been thrown from a newly tamed brumby ?
Had a near miss with shrapnel from a bomb ?
Or been surrounded (your kiddies in the car)
by a group of bikies menacing ?
Had a steel beam swing at your head
from a failed and out of control
construction site crane ?
Had your lungs filled with evaporating
lime ?
Had a high pressure acetylene bottle
gauge fail and surround you with burning gas ?
Lost control of a vehicle on an
icy mountain road ?
Swum above a two metre stingray
or looked into the baleful eye
of a four metre
tiger shark
in the surf ?
Or been diagnosed with melanoma ?
No ?
Have you heard Jack tapping at the window ?
How does it feel ?
You havent lived, Boyo.
Like its five minutes to midnight.
© Max Arvidson
2015
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My paintbrush speeds
but the days
are not stilled.
The bush,
knowing ,
Touches my senses
Briefly
The hunger subsides,
In places of power.
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All me Mums - Auntie Joan, Auntie Nell, Mum, Nanna, have died.
They maynter knowed they ad me,
a blow in bleedin son....
But all me Mums are goin,
now
One be bleedin one....
I claimed em for me own,
an wore their earts unstrung....
an all the time I loved em,
now
lookit they bleedin done....
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Our Children
We are adorned by these little folk
closer to angels than beings
from other planets,
that we called children.
Then at once we fall in love
with them (or fear for them so much)
and herd them into the
corrals of Our learned wisdom.
As though Our lives depended
upon it and the loftiest imperative
to fit them to our cloth.
When all they needed
they brought with them
only wanting to recall
the ability to fly.
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Never conquered the Irish will sing you dead.
Hamilton
East
We called it irishtown
when we were little.
Our names cast in bronze
nailed to the oaks in Steele park
after the Maori war
a declaration of powers,
of greatness,
or a soothing palliative
to the guilty.
I couldnt tell.
Each bronze celebrating
the recruited
or impressed
Judas's
sacrifice
to glory.
Then, our names were nailed to the Maori land
what terrible knowledge that
for a child ?
And later, more wars and more
the "English" war my Mothers name for it
perspicacity
in another land.
I recall flying
around the park at night
just above the ground not high
and over the cricket pitch
borne on the back of barely enough,
and cleansing conflict,
and protected from wealth or comfort,
or too much education,
and riding serpents through
the garden of Eden
to spite the church
one block back
from the Royal Pub
instead of feeling miserable
Was important work,
in the interegnum.
Being still
without music
and owning stuff
and not making jokes
is the way of the Dark
not ours
It was somewhere to live
after the potato famine
and heartrendingly beautiful
but not humane.
Unconquered we are
and if you should try
the Irish will sing you dead.
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I, The Quarry.
Spring is not forgotten
as Autumn closes in.
Determined
I lay down false trails,
Hiding in thickets
Running in streams.
Weaving and circling.
My journey, you see,
offered many futures,
did not contemplate escape,
or different paths.
Running the gauntlet
I come, Determined,
to My Season.