GAS Featured Poet: Doug Jacquier

 Doug Jacquier writes from the Fleurieu Peninsula in South Australia. His works of fiction, nonfiction and poetry have been published in the US, UK, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and India. He blogs at https://sixcrookedhighways.com/ and is the editor of the humour site, Witcraft, as well as the short story site Who Let The Stories Out?.

This day, it begins to rain

 

Our harvesters are rusting in sagging sheds, 

unable to reap our imagined crops

when we try force the utmost 

from nothing.

 

But this day, it begins to rain. 

The rain comes in sideways, 

driven by the same scouring winds 

that delivered new dust to us 

and sent our own on a journey 

elsewhere.

 

Rain enough to drown our despair 

at fly-blown carcasses in the paddocks 

and ancient trees falling 

like matchsticks. 

 

This day, that it begins to rain,

brings shock,

a burning stimulus,

in motion, 

along our nervous systems.

 

It brings healing,

finding that fluttering life muscle

behind our dead eyes,

and palpates gently

until hope’s heartbeat returns.

 

In excelsis

 

Patti, the Horses-faced harbinger of rock,

who was a girl named Johnny

who said let's dream it, we'll dream it for free, Free Money

who kept Mapplethorpe and Shepard a-muse-d

who birthed children and watched men die too young.

who wrote with Springsteen ‘Because the Night’ said so, 

who lost the plot to ‘Hard Rain’ singing Bob at the Nobels.

Jesus died for somebody's sins but not hers
People say "beware!" but I don't care 

the words are just rules and regulations to me

and her name is, and her name is, and her name is

G-L-O-R-I-I-I-I-A

in excelsis day-o.

 

Moving Memories

 

Memories,

carefully dusted off and swathed,

packed in the boxes

along with the more trivial possessions.

Like the apocryphal cat

they can’t be left behind.

Some you will unpack immediately upon arrival

as handy conversation pieces when old friends call.

Some will remain encased

with only an occasional furtive private inspection

to check for silverfish and mildew.

And some will be ‘forgotten’,

but will only feign death

and, like ancient terracotta soldiers,

will wait in infinite patience

ready to ambush the present.

 

GAS Featured Poet: Doug Jacquier

 

 Doug Jacquier has lived in many places across Australia, including regional and remote communities, and has travelled extensively overseas. His poems and stories have been published in Australia, the US, the UK and Canada. He blogs at Six Crooked Highways. For readers prepared to come along for the ride, he likes to make them laugh or cry or groan and, occasionally, shake their electronic fists at him. 

Carried on the wind

 

Sounds carry on the wind,

carry in the wind,

sometimes are the wind,

deafening the soul.

 

Sand carries on the wind,

in the wind

and sometimes is the wind,

stripping the paint.

 

Tears carry on the wind,

in the wind

and sometimes are the wind,

spreading desert rain.

 

Hope carries on the wind,

in the wind,

and sometimes is the wind

of whispered prayers.

 

Tomorrow carries on the wind,

in the wind

and sometimes is the wind

of soaring birds.

 

Writing carries on the wind,

in the wind

and sometimes is the wind

of Heaven.

Reflections

 

For you and for me,

all things seem possible when we look across blue water

from the solid shore.

Peering towards the horizon,

we conspire towards a thousand buoyant courses.

 

Imagining a receding shore and a rising tide,

we do not weigh our stamina against the undertow

nor the wind strength against our craft;

we have enough gods

to warrant speculation.

 

But there are those who stand upon the solid shore

who are already at the end of this world

(and the next)

and our imagined journeys

are their fated drownings.

 

For them,

as they squint anxiously across the water

imagining a receding shore and a rising tide,

sailing into the blue

seems a truly godless journey.

 

So they sit watching us,

like hermit crabs,

waiting for us to set out,

assuming we are unlikely to return,

and picturing life inside our empty shells.