Peter Yowie Poetry
poetry is death at pompeii or the buried pottery of an ancient civilisation, all roads lead to poems. I walk the river track, with a sign saying beware of snakes, I’m surrounded by white butterflies, embers from a hot sun, I’m surrounded by love, some of the creatures are hiding, my features are smiling, some of the trees are older than my grandparents.
The clouds are like shallow breaths and the sun rises in the east, I stayed up all night listening to jazz on the radio. I won’t go chasing history. On take-off and landing, leaving Queensland, I sat in between two men reading like I was the story and they were my bookends, some people make the most of long weekends. Onto the baked streets of the city in summer and the sand on the feet of beach fairys, I cool off in a melting ice popsicle tram. In a tin hat and corrugated iron skirt the city flirted
we all have a voice inside us, a heart behind velvet ropes. Sometimes life is a clash of the titans standing at the supermarket checkout. There’s a hot, record breaking sun in the sky. Seek your fortune on the Gold Coast. Twice a year I leave the metropolis and come to paradise. Last day in my cousins garden, she shouts me a bud of marijuana. Water lillies are a caterpillars dinner, red cordalites, frangipanis that were my aunt’s favourite flower, plants changing colour like a chameleon, camouflaging,. Waterfalls behind tortoiseshell sunglasses, an arm around the mountains, that’s what family is
