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Weaving
Weaving by The Poet Mj ©
Weaving through time
hands, minds, the techno Web
the body lived
transformed and lead.
But woe to words
that Shelly bleed
which blew on sands
and into dust…
“I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… these words appear:
‘My name is Ramessess II, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
So the weavers of the Reeds ‘Buandik’
to the Egyptian dreams
and times of artisans modern climes
falls away like all things
and stand and bow to the new
weaving of social connections
profiles, reviews
consciousness left in a heavenly web
and AI melds with our minds
weaving its deviances into our
pores, ‘til one flesh
And ask…
which in time
what is left
wonder on…
‘The Next’
becoming?
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
April
No rain yet, tanks low.
Climate change is beginning
to affect seasons
and predictability
of defined, certain seasons.
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
March
Fire season dragging
on and on, until I lapse
into lazy mode
that a bushfire will not come
this way and burn our snug home.
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
February
Smoke on horizon,
radio tuned to updates,
a distance grass fire
down wind of me, to the south.
Let’s hope, no wind changes come.
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
January
Resting at the beach.
Tanning my white skin to crisp.
Sand between my toes.
Sand down my bikini top,
washing it away in waves.
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
December
Christmas rains, fills tanks
one last time, before the heat
sets in and the dust.
Flies and mosquitos appear
in great, rapid bombardments.
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
November
Burning off ending,
ready for the fire season.
If we smell the smoke
we now dread it’s coming forth
like the tiger snake sightings.
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
October
I smell it, I know!
Spring hath arrived suddenly,
with buds pushing up
in the fruit trees and the vines.
O’ awake and glorious!
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
September
Winter continues
no spring yet felt from senses
or tangibly seen.
Winter continues, spring where?
Rain, fog, chills and dead leaves strewn.
Seasons by Mj © (Renga Poem)
August
I’m over winter.
Our neighbours swamp is brim full.
The mating frogs call
so incessantly each night
and day, as birds of prey gorge.