Joanna Walkden Harris & Pete Spence

Odd Ping.

it is odd to have a separate moment weighing
like lead in his legs skipping his mind the flight
path dotted with grassy marshes alight showing
the way through a stretch of rancid flowers in
a solvent hastening a fermentation of orange
neon on black plasticity like a lisp on a handrail
transparent when turmoil approaches a whiff
of sanctity advances to turn his face through
the wind launching a bevy of hand claps from
the slippery embers of the red smears of clouds
while shepherds use their crooks on fleecing
suspicious geese of floating aromas seeping
below the horizon as cracks in seismic shouts
alerting frogs eating thunder eggs to flee
the closing escape routes flattening the hills

Clutching the Straws of the Wind.

in a field full of pre-fab hills thirty one sulphur
crested hounds crow from the cricket pitch
on a dog star evening are there any chickens
in Kiev? clouds with fluted edges like pinched
pastry cases accumulating the reservoirs pitch
a spectacular mush absorbing the air herding
under the clouds winged seeds drifting slyly
propelled by a tsunami of bees obstructing
the horizon imitating starlings their compass
a blip in the weather trimming the mainland
billowing steam engorging the darker shadings
filling the acrylic din painting in a breeze as it
swims north leaving a trail clinging like the tail
feathers of the sun aiming some fine heat tilting
the sea dragoons into a swelling release a broth
fuming its way through thickets of glass reflecting
a mood of increasing venom fins cutting the briny
spinnakers of sea urchins purple spines curling
sphincters clutching at the straws of the wind

Jet Stream.

lamenting variations in the jet stream
red beads falling from a pocket of air
fading like a string quartet singing
into the hair of evening comets in a trill
of applauding feathers fanning out
as an overture catwalks to a melody
of descending scales wets the surface
in a brocade of stars going around
as a cavalcade floats off the rails into
a handy ditch steeds champ at the bit
toss their galloping manes of stubble
taking air under some ancient clouds
hung out to dry some centuries ago
whipping up sturms brewing elements
of stress in a baffling irony of leeways
through an elongated night where
some spherical music goes on its way
illuminating the pitfalls of lunar promise

Joanna Walkden Harris is a photographer/printmaker/poet who has always lived in Melbourne. Born there in 1950.
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