Poems

Separation
Raised by his hand into the sky at dusk
the flock explodes above a small backyard.
He watches for them in the shrubs and dust,
a family breaking like a deck of cards.
 
Their calm grey wings and simple nodding heads
become wind waves that ripple on the sun,
a soaring instinct in the wings that spread
beyond the cage the suburb has become.
 
You feel the weight as they pull overhead,
watching from inside your rented flat
and wonder if the will that holds the thread
is strong enough to make your own come back.
 
Next door the sound of sudden flight subsides.
Your neighbour’s children tumble from the sky.

Shh
don’t kiss me yet
just rest your lips
against my mouth
while I taste
the faintest touch of you
but breathe me
while our senses scan the past
until we’re here
curves & angles
resting comfortably
complex lives a perfect fit.
then I take up your hair
half autumn leaves half sun
& spread the strands upon the pillow
the web of one night’s life
then breathe me
while I pin your outstretched arm
to the edge of the world
& breathe me
as moonlight spreads
to show the light & dark
we’ve both come through
to be here
& breathe me
one last time
& only then
please move your mouth
the millimetre more
until it enters mine.

Bio
Ross Donlon was born.
He is a man,
a son, nephew, cousin and father.
He is a reader, writer
and reality wrestler.
 
He has degrees in dreaming,
First class honours in complete and utter fantasy,
postgraduate work in wondering.
His master’s research into Why
has recently been expanded and upgraded into a PhD
incorporating Why Not?
 
He has been highly commended for not entering poetry competitions
both national and those of small country towns.
He has been forcibly rejected by some of the finest
literary magazines in the country,
including Northerly, Southerly, Easterly, Westerly
and Meanjin.
 
His published works include:
after which, he self published:
This latter was praised by Les Murray for its minimalism
and      use       of        space.
 
He reads his work
and is currently engaged in the major project
of being published
in Northerly, Southerly, Easterly, Westerly.
and Meanjin.

The Good Father and his Daughter Kiss
they lean towards each other
as safe from folding
as a pyramid
yet fragile as the baby fist
she shook aloft like lightning
when he was the boat she sailed in
harbour to safe harbour
now he makes sure
hips don’t touch
hands are placed on shoulders
just so
and lips kiss
one centimetre left
of lips
then she turns
and flows into her mother
like a river

Cicadas
They came to us from far away
their older selves left
like suitcases by the door.
we crunched them as we trod to school
or crushed the shells to crystal
 
when summer broke above the small backyards
and hot wind woke the neighbours’ tree
we caught cicadas clinging to the leaves
shook until they screamed
stripped the fairy wings
(tiny stained glass windows fluttering down)
then squeezed until they pissed
inside our fists
 
once we kept some in a cage
feeding them with boredom
watching as they tried to understand
the metal floor    the sand    and plastic swing
but found them in the morning on their backs
as though they’d crashed
while racing in the dark
feelers gesturing
bodies posed for photographs
 
we went off to explore the choko vines
and trails of rainbows left behind by snails
our petal eyes wide open
our faces pushed like feelers into leaves
(and the mystery of chokos)
still learning how to see