Friday, 28 September 2018

The rape of the forest

The forest lies on the ground
Discarded, raped
Her belly open for all to see
She's been assaulted 
For the pleasure of puny men
To fulfil their petty greed 
Their idea of a good time
The protective layer of the Canopy
Has been  ripped
Letting the sunshine in
Drying the soil turning it
Into hard clay
Sterile in an already stressed terrain
No moss, no orchids are to be seen
No bird calls can be heard 
Amid the lament of the chainsaws
And the Roaring of four wheel drives
Crashing through the remaining bush
Ruting roads and avenues
Follow them to cross and crisscross its length 
They have ripped open 
Its body
Branches, trunks lay 
Abandoned 
Never to be picked up
So why the massacre? 
What reason can justify this carnage
And slaughter ? 
Why the waste? 

Lucette C. Bailliet
All rights reserved 

September moon


See
When the night
Is brighter than predawn
When shadows are sharper
Then you know it
In her flowery gown
Spring is on its way
To attend the moon harvest ball.
Suggestive and romantic is
The music played by the softest breeze 
The roaming pigeons in love
Add their cooing to the night chorus 
Sustained by the bobook owls beat
The last of the wattles are lighting 
With their fragrant golden blossoms
The open halls of the forest 
Hurry up if you want to see her
In her dazzling brightness
As Spring has to rush on
Leaving us behind her.

Lucette C. Bailliet 
All rights reserved 



Tuesday, 18 September 2018

Size matters



I don't care about 
The shape or size
Of the president' s penis
What I care about
Is the size of his brain
And his state of mind
Because that is the matter
Isn't it? We know he's a beast
He might well be a ball wrecker
As we say Downunder
But he is impacting on our lives
We aren't Americans
And we haven't voted for him
Change the chef
Or as the red queen would say
Off with the head! Impeach him!

Lucette C. Bailliet 
All rights reserved

Friday, 14 September 2018

Musical musings I




Sonata no 1 - Carl Vine

First movement 
The mood is clear and light
In this Normandy landscape
Slowly the tide turns in
The weather grows stormy
The rain breaks 
With rain lashing suddenly
The waves become choppy 
The storm is here fully
People are running to take shelter
Before getting drenched 
There a break in the clouds cover
Shining sun is announcing
The end of the storm
The wind drops 
The odd drop falls here and there 
From a gutter or a tree branch
The grey slates of the roof glisten
Tentatively at first
Doors open
People get out again
With their dogs
To enjoy the petrichor of the wet bitumen
In the late afternoon.

Second movement 
Quick swift cockroaches race
On the kitchen floor
Once the light has been switched off
Up the cupboard doors
Exploring every nooks and crannies
Quicker, swifter
Time is running short
Humans may wake up
In this way the night disappears
Eaten away in that fashion
The floor vibrates from the slow 
And hesitant morning steps
Of the human, the door opens
But all is in place
There's no trace
Of the night visitors
Or of that a repast has taken place
The window is opened
Letting in the lovely fragrance
Of the newly sprung daffodils
Spring is here delivering its bounty
The twittering birds in love
Reaches a ruckus point
A frenzy spreads over
The day business 
Ev n the underground  roar 
Of the rush hour traffic 
Doesn't perturb her
She is still daydreaming
Of quieter days 
Long holidays by the sea.

Sonata opus 26
Samuel Barber

Going down the stairs
Running, jumping down
He is a hurry
To meet his beloved
What a delight 
It will be, he's sure of it
He crosses the world 
As a butterfly flutters
From bloom to bloom
Always more enticing 
Than the previous one
He's almost tipsy 
He's planned the day ahead
But first to meet her
He does not know her yet
It does not matter
What she looks like
He does not know
What she'll be wearing
The universe will take care of this
All he knows is
His heart will skip a beat
And there is is
Walking purposefully towards her
The pigeons are wowing each other's
And his heart knows
This will be the day
The sun crosses the sky
Morning is gone
A small grey cloud is forming on the horizon
It's true she has not shown up
He is still strolling the town cobbles 

Quick, in a hurry
She's running late
She bumping into him
He takes her hand
To waltz the day away
Around the plaza
Around the fountain
Laughing for joy
They are young and in love
They keep running
They keep laughing 
He shows her his favourite spots
Sharing , showing her all
But night comes
Ending this delightful day
He only lets her go
After she promises
To meet him on the morrow
He returns home
Slowly, reliving the afternoon 
In his mind the tone she spoke
Each word, each expression
Each movement of her lips
Each laugh escaping from her sweet mouth
He has noted them all
Each moment Stretches into eternity 
When he keeps adding each nuance
Each variation to her smiles
Each answer she's given him
What whirlwind is raging  in his head
His world has turned topsy-turvy
The doubts are creeping in
What if she wouldn't be there tomorrow?
What if she misunderstood him?
What if she got cold feet?
What if she found him wanting?
Questions, questions without answers
For the love of his life has gone
Maybe to never come back
His trees have lost their spring
And weighs him down now.

But no, this won't be 
She said yes, 
She would be there tomorrow
And with that in mind 
His steps get lighter, 
With a spring
Resounding on the cobblestones 
Life is colourful enough
A glowing mood prevails
The night serenade down the trees
Where the birds are settling down
Surround him
Breathing in the inebriation from the mimosa scent
Bringing light headedness 
He muses that nothing will come to marr 
Tomorrow will be a white stone day 
A perfect day
It will never end
In his mind 
He sees his future life with her 
He will, they will,
They certainly will
For now and ever
He won't never be alone!

Lucette C. Bailliet 
All rights reserved 



Musical musings II



The green dressed lady
Settles quietly in the green room
Of her mind
Her recital faces her
It is up to her
Nerves or not 
It is time to perform.
She bends over the keyboard
As above a cradle 
Hovering tenderly, graciously
Coaxing each note 
Teasing each key to give her their best
She is in control
The piano disappears
To take flight from the red and purple draped stage
Leaving behind it a trail of volutes
Escaping but still linked to each other
By the magician hands
Never giving them total freedom
To roam randomly 
Like the child pulling or letting go
Adding or releasing tension
On the rope of the kite playing in the wind
To reach the clouds
To reach the sky
Its freedom always illusory 
When gravity calls back
Weighting forces it back to earth
Despite all its efforts 
Reality, stark reality
Is waiting for it
With its obligations, ceremonials
And heavy Rituals
It tries to fly away
Resisting the infernal pull
Of the last link
The tension grows 
It can't resist and it is brought down
To conformity, constraints 
A short reprieve throws it back in the air
Before crashing down
There it shivers, looking at the sky
Rejoicing at the flights of galas 
Crossing this way and that way
Looking on their wounded companion
Lying on the ground 
Mounting an attack to free it 
From the spell of the evil magician  
The battle is epic
The music stops, the spell ends.


---------------------------
A white petal 
A single petal is leaving 
It's tree anchor 
Flies away traveling towards the sun
Towards greener pastures
Eloping with the softest breeze
Of a perfumed Spring
Who promised to take it
To enchanted shores 
Where eternal Spring exist
Easy talk to an easy prey
Ready to believe anyone
With such a lightness , delicacy
In his touch
What a symphony
He made on her skin
Exploring the world together
A genuine pleasure 
Renew his jagged sense of déjà vu 
It's only a love game
Renewed yearly
A mindless one
Ending soon,
Too soon for boredom sets in
Once again day and night
Melancholy pervades all
She remembers the old orchard
She thinks of the warm embrace
Of her loving sister on the Corolla
She has lost her freshness 
Rot has settled in
She can't go back 
It is too late.




Musical musings III



 Debussy

The pianist takes hold of the music,
He has to with Debussy
Glued to the piano 
The pianist is one with it
Knitting tinkling notes
In the enclosed atmosphere 
Showering us, 
Overpowering us
Smoothly harping
On the intense 
Slightly discordant accords 

Marche funebre-Chopin

The funeral tempo is too light
For my mind ritualistic mood
Too close one can't breathe 
Too rich in memories
Weighting it
Youth where have you gone?
Stultifying atmosphere 
Filled with so many details
Discursively Tangential  
So Proustian in its rhythm
Looping ensnaring
Taking you away and back
To the same starting place
Death, the beginning and the end
Static, immobile while moving
Constrained into pump and circumstance
Prisoner in the present
Afraid of the finale.

Brahms
The stage Red and purple curtains 
Set an intimate mood
Of the Viennese  life
Soft lighting coffeehouse,
Full of music, puppet shows,
Burlesque tragically 
Walzing away life worries
In the cold snowy night
Leading to the frozen Danube
Like destiny knocking at one's door
Tonight won't be the night
Everything stop
Back to work with frenzied activity
Sustained until glorious success 
Is followed by emptiness.



Lucette C. Bailliet
All rights reserved


Musical musings IV

Musical Musings 
Australian national piano award 2018
Oliver She

Rachmaninov 

The fine translucent cup 
Holding a smooth golden scented tea
Slow volutes of steam rise above it
Before total disintegration 
Into thin air
The tension around
The coffee table 
Mounts ineluctably 
Reaching crescendo
Hovering above conversations 
Hiding the tumult in his mind
He can't see anything 
For the tears running down his cheeks
He only wished for a lighting bolt 
To strike him down
She came in
Regal, imperious 
Dressed in a golden gown
No hesitation in her steps 
Leading her to him
The world was back in equilibrium 
The universe breathed love
She was his sunshine 
She brought life with her
Her soothing presence
Was cooling to his nerves
As a harp tingling ripples
Will induce a child to sleep.
-------------------

Mindless white noise
From the blaring radio
In the background
Emptying without rhyme or reason
The news of the world
With its catastrophes, 
Its unending war games,
Its  opinionated politics,
Daily cacophony he didn't enjoy
He preferred the soft whispering 
Of the wind in the gumtrees
The rushing creeks along the cliffs
Falling headlong into a precipitous chasm
Diving and giving him the thrills 
To be alive, fully alive,
Every pore of his skin was breathing
With delight a cool breeze 

Oh what was it to him
The worldly rotomontades
Of a human world out of kilter
The mountain would stay 
Whatever the past and coming seasons
Living each day  for itself
Facing it being a daily challenge in itself
A reason to live, even when destruction 
Came bringing Fire in its trail
Evolving evil with the commotion
Of a steam train at full speed
Noise and smoke surrounding 
Invading nooks and crannies
Hiding any refuge.


-----------------------


Beautiful voice singing the day
Rowing boat on the Volga
Willows bathing on the banks
Their long trailing branches
Fishermen skiffs passing by
Friends drinking, joking
In the distance, the other bank
Barely distinguishable,
Another world, a new  border,
Happiness is on the river
The current push downward ineluctable 
Wooden huts, fragile shutters
Against a vigorous winter of censorship
Freedom is on the Volga
In the cradle of its current
Fresh air lifts historic stale air 
Remnants of barbaric invasions
Caught, murmured by the river flow
To the pale dawn hiding in the rushes 
Life is a long quiet river of falsehoods 
To be lost in this unending beechwood forest
That line the river bank
To run free, to scream away the frustration 
Of wild imagination in this mundane world 
Indifferent to ones woes, to one's story
Still the river flows evenly
Unperturbed by the sudden whirlpool
Echoes of time
Echoes of history
Echoes of battles
Echoes of conquests
Echoes of destructions
Echoes of war
Echoes of tribulations 
Nothing stops the mighty river
Human troubles are no concern
The Volga is eternal.




Lucette C. Bailliet 
All rights reserved

Typo

It all started with a typo:
Nooks and grannies
It became
Books and grannies
Which seemed reasonable
But not in a tree
Then it went
Hooks and grannies 
Rather sinister grannies
Or poor grannies
From there it was only a step 
Fools and grannies
Grannies are well known 
For not suffering them, really
How do I know ?
I'm one of them!
It went all downhill 
Boobs and grannies
Gravity is not a conversation topic
When one reaches a certain age
Take it for granted
To change the subject
Cooks and grannies
Now I know a few cooks
That could take lessons from grannies
That is all I will say
Poops and grannies 
Grannies on deck 
Fine but not in trees.
Sooks and grannies 
You always get one of them around grannies 
More than one and you got problems
Tools and grannies
Even knitting needles have been known
To be a most useful tool
In the gnarled hands of grannies
Cool and grannies
Some grannies have been known
To lose their cool unfortunately !

Lucette C. Bailliet
All rights reserved

Cheerfulness

A few hours ago
We were online
A few hours later
We are offline
The wind storm is disruptive 
Drying the paddocks on its way
Already the grass is turning yellow
Under its repulsive touch
Can't walk, can't call 
Can write though
I'm pissing lines
Like others blood
Time is slowing down
Inside my mind
While waiting for him 
To bounce back from bed
I'm not a good nurse
For cheerfulness was never
In my DNA chart
Sure it might help
But then is cheerfulness 
The cure of all ills?

Lucette C.Bailliet
All rights reserved

Ads break

The ads were on,
Lauding the crap food,
In those shitty places,
You know the ones I mean,
With the neon signs
Where the best compliment 
One can delivers
Is that their toilets are clean.
Why , but why don't they advertise 
That point in their ad?
It's a selling point,  surely
It's true, is it not?
When you arrive in a foreign city
Ask for the nearest joint
When in need to go .
Oh yes, it's the ad break
And I need to go!

Lucette C. Bailliet 
All rights reserved

Prompt @ Murchison Scribbles

Colours of Spring




Spring brought its palette 
Look at the canola fields
With their fringe of white almond trees
Like poached eggs on a plate
The scrumptious pale green of the willows
Bathing their boughs like bashful youngsters
Along the canals
The pink blooms of the peach tree 
Hovering over the purple iris
Against the bleak concrete
The green paddocks turning 
The landscape into a parkland
The glorious wattles lining the driveway
The white blossoms of the old pear trees 
In the orchard legacy of a former time
Oh to take it all in
Before it disappears.

Lucette C. Bailliet 
All rights reserved

Thursday, 6 September 2018

Spring 2018

Spring is all round
Wattles lighting up the forest
The small and fragile orchid
Peeping up from the ground cover
Wherever you go
Something new adds to your walk
Even death is beautiful 
Look at the intricate, delicate,
Finely carved by erosion 
Volutes of the bark on a dead trunk 
Still standing proudly
This is Spring bounty
Is it rendered so
Because of the shortness of the season
When the slumbering old orchard
Suddenly bursts with flowering activity?
The almond , peach, pear trees
Compete in a showy exhibition 
When the humble grey homestead drive
Is lined with the golden floral display
Amongst the soft greenery of the paddocks?
Already the lack of water is showing 
And soon, too soon
The world will dry out and leach colours 
The garden is touched too
With daffodils and iris 
Complementing, competing each others
For the bees attention 
Driving them into a feeding frenzy
In the warming days.




 Lucette C. Bailliet
All rights reserved 

Wednesday, 5 September 2018

A delicate earl grey brew
To refresh after the last mouthful 
Of lemon cheese cake
Oh  what a delightful pleasure
That a humble cup of tea
Brings to blasé tastebuds
Not that my usual
Evening cuppa of mint tea and ginger
Does not satisfy me
But that special cup
Brought flavours long forgotten 
So enjoy it while it last
Oh the cup emptied so quickly
Resist the temptation of another one.
Familiarity breeds contempt 
Isn't so?

Lucette C.Bailliet
All rights reserved