Roslyn Ross

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Shapes

The day carries its own load,
forgotten moments, buried,
repressed, denied, dismissed;
like packages tied neatly and

then packed carefully into
a space, which can be then
covered over, as if it had 
never been, and yet, it was

and still is, and remains in
its own dark truth, despite
the fact that it cannot be 
easily seen, unless time is

taken to uncover, unwrap,
release, and make real and
raw, that which was once
consigned to the grave of 

painful, non-being, as if
in the removing from the 
now, it could be taken out
of existence, and cut from

the cloth of being, which
remained; but of course,
the shape was always seen
and as the edges frayed,

even then, its form could 
not be denied, caste eternal
in those marks which called
forever true and always 

known, even though, the
eye and mind could discern
no fixed shape - still, it 
lives and surely grieves.
​

Storm

Grey clouds gather, rippled,
fringed across the hem of sky,

ruched in certain order, stitched
in darkening threads,

so they burst ephemeral, 
crouched against light’s death;

billowed, skirting, ruffled,
searching for a place to die.

Leaving

The jacarandas are in flower
as the blossoms fall purple,
small deaths, sighing at
the side of open suitcases,
coming to rest in the dust of
gathering memories, waiting
to be packed along with the
myriad possessions; dregs

of life and tree, scattered in
that song of inevitable ending,
where what was, can be no
more and what is, calls, in

soulful whisper, reminding
all is impermanent, nothing
lasts, or can endure, beyond
its allotted time and for the

expatriate, there will always
be a moment to go home, just
as the tree sheds its beauty,
making way for something

new, and for that which is
destined to come after -
fated to the turn of the wheel
of life, the eternal cycle,

slowly spinning in silence,
unseen, revolutions of days
and minutes, dropping into
the past, as the now rises

in gentle roll, to the top of
consciousness, holding for
a brief reality, impressed
as template of our being;

so we begin and move to
our created end, which
has always been written
even if we did not know it.
​

Infidelity

The template made clear cut,
fine-edged in skeletal relief,
it's shadow thrown through blood
and bone, it's pattern ridged
with grief. Cold echo from the past,
still drawing shadows real,
to grip my heel and dog my steps;
dark memories unfurled.

This pattern locking time
and holding visions stark,
to throw lost image cross my mind;
slow cut around my heart.
will soul still hold this print of pain,
desire's design long-shaped,
to show again the place where love
first learned the feel of hate.

Roslyn Ross profile

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Hiraeth

Source of soul and senses,
place of mind and heart,
so the land dispenses,
no matter if apart.

Smell of acrid eucalypt,
smoke of burning bush,
liquid crystal carolling,
magpies on the roof.

Cerulean the shining sky,
light bursts in a drench,
sunshine screams intensely;
so the day is spread.

Creep of morning calmness,
drift of evening sighs,
so the earth stays breathing;
ancient, worn and wise.
​

House on the Headland

Headland huddled holding staggered ground,
  house held fragile against the misted sea,
  in distant gazing, silenced windows;
  nothing but the sigh of breathing waves is found.
 
As if dropped at once into final, steady place,
  with each rock gathered from the falling cliff,
  and pressed tightly into possibility and hope;
  so does this small refuge sit with grace.
 
High above the suck and shrug of salty ocean,
  tossing songs of crusting, ancient words,
  cossetted by golden, keening bush and leaf;
  trailing dusty hands with eloquent emotion.
 
Horizon hurls itself into its brutal destiny,
  far away from what is here and now,
  calling softly on the scuds of foaming light;
  so my home sits quiet, ever waiting.
​

Beware the Art of Love

Will bone beware the art of love,
in filaments of charge, which call
in sticky pearls of dream;
as air knocks light as art?
When skin and heart are tantalised,
the body gathers mind,
and crawls into the lover’s cell;
where life is re-defined.

Simplicity

The scythe simplicity does cull
Complexity at root,
Cuts with sharpened focus,
Illusion’s bounteous fruits.

Bowl

From turn of trunk
to tabled form,
the tree has taken
shape, and now resides
in shining arms
to hold with ready
grace. This bowl
has been in rooted
earth, and born
through steady hands,
as time and patience
bring to birth, a new
form—life returned.

Sweet Tea

They gave me sweet tea when I was mad,
stirred slowly, steaming hot, handed over
with a clink of spoon on the edge of the
cup, as if to signal, the time had come,

when comfort would be offered, and a 
moment of liquid grace, could be taken
down, into the depths of frozen self, as
if that heat could melt the hardened ice

of fear, so long built up, layer upon layer,
over the years; a crevasse of such great
immensity, that a light dropped, would
disappear from sight, in an instant, long

before it ever reached the bottom, if 
indeed, there was a point where it all
ended, and from where an echo would
resound, up, up, up through weeping

cliffs, to signify that there was an end,
and, that sometime, it would all dissolve
into itself, disappearing, deliquescing,
because now the demons had been

consumed and I could once more,
drink deep of tea and of sweetness.
​

Derelict House

In corrugated clarion call
the metal shows its face,
revealing time’s persuasion;
surrendering with grace.

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