puff of red dust lacing endless static heat bringing me home
All poetry
All categories and themes
-
Benediction
Have you ever noticed the stillness that gently calls when the world is just being?
Not doing. Just being. Waiting for us to notice.
I notice it most in the shifting Summer, as afternoon slants towards dusk. The world is embraced in light. Kindling from within each tree, each home, and the passing breeze. A singing glow that remakes each line and shape and colour more true. More real. The radiant trees seem almost to burst in their perfect, vibrant stillness. The luminous faces of buildings speak of people who have grown and loved and lived within their walls.
I love the world I live in. Those moments of stillness when I feel the world sing, hold my moments of silent thanks.
-
Astigmatism
all that I know is shaped
within
the opalescent membrane
of a looping
colour-bleached bubble
forever tethered
to our collective —
my tribe
stretched to the widest
of limited reach
while shadow self
whispers the way
beyond translucent caul
are shadows and light
in constant play —
never surely known
except by the tales
I’ve dreamt
to myself
today I ask, what shape
my space, how wide?
from in here
can I truly know
you, over there?can we trust all we know
lands in truth?
-
None of This is the Truth
A spoken word poem
brain fart
puff of self deception
cortisol coursing
discoursing
divorcing reality
thoughts false
true
false
‘my truth’
the truth
One Truth?
place
time
perceptions shifting
sands shaking
tomorrow’s truth in flux
yesterday’s truth
forgotten
reformed
reshaped
restyled
remade
a new truth
which truth mine?
which truth where to wear?
which truth to fight for?
which against?
for which to di—live
…breathe
none of this is truthImage: home, Wagga Wagga NSW, Australia
Reading: Anne Seebach
Designed using Canva Pro
-
Happiness Sketch
The three of them straggle toward the gate
dust dancing the playground behind
Youngest rushing to join the lead, feet tangle
he stumbles, he falls –
‘Ooph’ flat on his belly, almost frozen in time
small face wide
in anxious trust
eyes fixed on the man ahead
Murmured reassurance as father leans in,
a brief and urgent reply
then “Pop!” Dad calls, and the older man halts
“Joey wants to hold your hand.”
—the look on the older man’s face
—the look on the young fella’s face
So together ahead they stride
chests full in shared delight,
uncomplicated joy in the other
Joey and Pop
-
Reading
Mind hangs lazy
on the hazy edge of real
Couch cozy days
scented with drifts of laughter
wafting from beyond
the wall
A sleepy Sunday…. Monday?
Whenday
Drifting between the pages
time bound, unbound, unravelled
remade
beating to the rhythm of the page
Who is me?
synapses patterning
to the texture of the tale
lines blurring
merging
emerging
lifetimes traversing
And somehow all of me
before and now, is more than
anne.seebach.poetry 