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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

 

SUNRISE KID
By Ross Jackson

 

 

 

Sunrise kid

his line of sight between smooth cream
vee of sugar gum’s double trunk
whiskers sprout radii of gold
from puckered areola of sun
pulls on his pistol, fires one out
a messy shot which dries off slow
under fast climbing light

 

 

 

On a windy day

from the footbridge look down
at city pavement
Chinese musician plays his erhu*
as a pigeon lays dots round

a half circle of idlers’ feet
two African men are tall swaying masts
see that straw hat removed
by unforgiving gusts

what little depends upon
that yellow plastic bag jerking like a drunk
down the gutter of the street?
remind me imagist poet*         

*Erhu- a Chinese three stringed fiddle.
*Respect due for the late William Carlos Williams.

 

 

 

Dazzled by smartphones

before breakfast
swiping away
beside the forest pool

sunrays glance tiny panels
of leaded glass
on a dragonfly’s wings

yellow waterlily hearts
open to beaded bodywork
of the drone

bobbing lily pads
touch and go spots
for each sortie flown

such delicate touches
touch and go spots
on the smartphone

 

 

 

Humanless places

These places seen from the train are never
destinations  

Dulled toothaches from a chalky past
the rotted abattoir on a coastal swerve
the once was jetty under the cliff
On weekends, empty Chem Labs
with lights still on, that remote bit
of hospital where a chimney
pours black smoke              
Creepy, how they make you feel?

But especially
electricity farms screened by castor oil plants
fenced with steel bars:
colossal cabinets with coiled wire hairdos
steel/rubber chess pieces eight metres high
ceramic stacks
Fritz Lang meccano
naval mines and whisky stills bolted
on to concrete acres

 (Post modernist sculptors, take note
These are sub stations. Eat your hearts out!)

                     Imagine tending these monsters
in darkness

Dawn comes up a burgundy sunflower
This is the real deal
This is lethal power

 

 

 

About the Author:

 

Ross Jackson lives in Perth. He has had work in many Australian literary journals and some of his poems have appeared in New Zealand, Ireland, England and Canada. He writes about the experience of aloneness in the suburbs, about aging, visual art and other topics.

 

 




 




 

 

 

     
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