Tag Archives: Poems

Vanishing Point – Poem


A sleepless walker strides by dusk

The Brisbane River glassed

Beyond the vanishing point, houses blackened

A large orangey pink blanket covered the sky

It reflected on the river glass

Under the trees, an egret beamed

Its milky white feathers lit the roots

The walker disturbed the egret

The bird flew towards the orangey – pinkie sky

Looking to where the bird landed in the tree

The walker spots an odd couple – he tall and large

She is tiny and frail

They stand, side by side, arm’s length apart

Their arms are each folded; awkward

They stare into the river

Maybe they were speaking about the glassy river

Or the orange sky, the sleepless walker or the egret

There is a promise of love beyond the vanishing point

The walker smiles. Maybe sleep is coming tonight

Reflections of the Day – Photography


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Day’s Reflection – Poetry & Photography

JK.Leahy©

A reflection mirrors the day

Trapped waters, throw light

Finding its way as water may

Leafy dense cannot hold sight

A rainbow lurks as if to say

Blue sky might come to stay

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Moon Games – Poetry


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Moon in Bellbowrie. JK.Leahy picture©

Moon Games – JK.Leahy© Poetry

She waits for the day’s end

To let her luminous games begin

When yoke slips beyond horizon,

where naked eyes sees reflection,

she watches the day’s lingering torment

In his reluctance to let go of moment

The day throws hues of fire and gold,

across the massive body of water

And tiny fallen stars appear

where sand banks glisten sapphire

Dusk performs and summons night

to what we call evening.

She smiles, time is right

As shadows define, reaching tall,

the moon reveals herself, but only,

to be captured by wandering clouds

 

Birds Talking – Poetry – Drawing


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JK.Leahy © – Sketch in pencil and ink on paper. 2015.

 

Birds Talking – Poem JK.Leahy©

Birds Talking

Silent words, only seen

Scratching, screeching and bursting to surface

Extending wings, feathers, beaks and necks

Swooping, flying, walking and talking

Birth by imagination

Birds taking forms

Living on paper

 

 

 

Life Has Left Me


Life Has Left Me  © JKLeahy 2015

In The Fog
Paddling In The Fog by Tim Curtis

 

A proud, strong and phenomenal woman

The time awaits me for what I am to become

Across the dark lake the fog has hung

To shield my journey I obeyed to take

Like many a journeys I have taken

I push the boat into the lake

Paddle cuts thick in life’s oblique

Each stride reaching for the end

I break the fog as it consumes me

Heart not willing to let go, I know I must

Upon reaching the other side, body shivers in cold

Darkness encloses, waters still

Life pushes back against the will

The shadow arrives and becomes me

My life has come to decease for now

In a fleeting glance I see my daughters and son

The grand children and friends

My heart swells in love and happiness

What a legacy I have constructed

Living on, the beauty of life and its greatness

Unto him I will see – the final release lifts me

I drift to the heavens, where my final resting place

 

Written in loving memory of Mum Kathy by Joycelin K Leahy. (copyright)

Sunday March 29th 2015.

For a woman who was beautiful in and out. My friend Belinda’s mother Kathy Moeder who died peacefully after illness. We buried her today in Brisbane after a wonderful funeral where there was sadness and pain, but many stories of Kathy’s life with happiness, humour and celebration. Kathy Moeder believed in love, family, rights and safety of others. She was a Peace and Women’s advocate and a dedicated Christian. She was truly loved.

 

The Song in Gwen’s Sonnet


I was recently asked by my younger son Chris to read with him some Australian poetry. Chris wrote a critique for two of the poems for his Year 12 English studies. Chris and I found Critically Acclaimed Gwen Harwood’s words and her life fascinating so I wanted to share her story.  Gwen Harwood also grew up in our neighbourhood in Brisbane’s western suburbs. Below is part of Chris’s critique.

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Sydney Morning Herald image: Gwen Harwood

Gwen Harwood was born in 1942 and grew up in Taringa, in Western Suburbs Brisbane. She went to Brisbane Girls Grammar School and All Saint High. Harwood had studied music and completed a Diploma to teach music but found herself in a typist job at the War Damage Commission. Although early in her life she had developed an interest in literature, philosophy and music, she was limited to what the society enabled her to do in her career. She would later be described in our time as brilliant but was understated.

Harwood’s father taught her music and her grandmother introduced her to poetry. For years, Harwood could not publish her work under her own name because she was a woman. The society, male editors mostly, thought a woman should not be a writer or get published. As a woman poet in a largely male dominated place, Harwood used Pseudonyms to be allowed or belong to the publishing world. A local Brisbane publisher, Minjiin first published her poem in 1944. From 1960s, Harwood started to publish more of her writings in journals and books. Her discreet life in the literary world reflected the place expected of a woman during that time (from 1940s). Poems such as the Suburban Sonnet reflected Harwood’s strong views about how the society’s view of women was.
Generally in a sonnet, the poem is about a beautiful woman in love. In this case, Harwood depicts a woman in a chaotic household in contrast to the traditional rule of a sonnet.
Drawing from her own experiences, she wrote poems that question the status of women and the right to be whatever a woman aspired to be. She portrayed the suburbia woman to boring and ordinary. In the Suburban Sonnet, Harwood showed the restricted society she and other women belonged to by challenging the norm of the social and cultural ideologies on suburban women, especially mothers.
The dead mouse could be interpreted as her dream of teaching music being dead. In her society, a woman’s artistic ambitions may as well be dead, because her society expected her to do things in certain ways. “The Stale bread” could refer to a woman’s domestic life, which she saw as boring. Harwood was accepted as belonging to the male dominated publishing world only after she made a startling publication. 1961, The Bulletin accepted a sonnet from Walter Lehmann, and after it was published it was brought to the editor Donald Horne that the initial of each line formed the phrase “Fuck All Editors”.

The Suburban Sonnet : Boxing Day (Gwen Harwood)

She practices fugue, though it can matter

to no one now if she plays well or not.

Beside her on the floor two children chatter,

then scream and fight. She hushes them. A pot

boils over. As she rushes to the stove

too late, a wave of nausea overpowers subject and counter subject

drain out with soapy water as she scours

the crusted milk. Her veins ache.

Once she played for Rubinstein, who yawned. The children caper round a sprung mousetrap where a mouse lies dead.

When the soft corpse won’t move they seem afraid.

She comforts them; and wraps it in a paper

featuring: Tasty dishes from stale bread.