“A Sunday full of couch” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

My backside is numb like a drunken teenager, it’s been
Hard pressed against a Sunday full of couch, I’ve pulled
The pin on the promise I made about a day outside in spite
Of the seamless sun drenched skies, and the sound of a
Intermittent bird song delivered to me by a sympathetic
Summer breeze, I decided to remain welded there between
Cheeks and couch, and do bugger all but enjoy the company
Of a good book, a smidgen of Shiraz, and the little wet snout
Of my canine friend nudged resolute beneath my elbow.


Posted by on November 25, 2013 in Uncategorized


“The Kitchen Window” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

I can see a short grey couple
Diagonally two doors over,
From our bathroom,
Invisibly joined at the hip.

Just like my late grandparents
Karl and Marie, washing dishes
Together in the kitchen window,
Their gaze could stop a clock,
And take you back in time.

I last thought of them before
The mirror folded lines in my face,
And before I noticed
The top of my hair missing
In a surveillance camera at Woolies.

I remember the model boats
Karl cut out of wood in his workshop
With several thousandth’s
Of an inch between pointer and thumb,
And my grandmothers slow pots
Percolating with pickled beef, sauerkraut
And hand rolled potato dumplings.

I wonder if they missed my teenage years?
When I dropped them during the seventies
Post the bunny and Santa show,
I wish I could reach out into the rushing rain
And touch the kitchen window.


Posted by on March 31, 2013 in Poetry


“Grinding Stone Into Clay” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

The sound of rain has lost its cozy
I plant my feet in wet boots every day
Picking and digging and turning the soil
In a fantasy of flowers, I paint my Picasso
A lover of words, grinding stone into clay
Wallow in showers of rain every day.


Posted by on March 24, 2013 in Poetry


“In this dream” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

In this dream
I still remember the ribs of light pouring in from above, illuminating the jellyfish through muddy brine, like the silhouette of the dandelion seed.
There is a twisted old wooden jetty standing giraffe deep in a lake
Bleaching to grandparent grey in the sun.
I am six years old and in this dream, my father has just finished tying a granny knot around my waist from the thickest rope he could find
Then swings me like a cast iron crab trap in towards the center
I thought he was showing me some kind of new fishing technique or something
He never was good at explaining himself
And I wasn’t much better at asking questions either.
Besides the shock of cold water, I noticed a severe lack of gravity
And that I was suspended from an umbilical cord made from hemp
And my ears were filled with a plague of crickets
The primordial instinct oscillated my tiny wings like a bird to the surface
My father since told me not long ago that this was no dream
Apparently we were holidaying at relatives
And thought fast tracking my swimming lessons was a good idea at the time.


Posted by on October 14, 2012 in Poetry


“Peace and Productivity” I Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

The dog dribbles her yellow
Bouncing ball near the fridge full of plastic packaging
Destined for the digestive tracts of marine life,
Her naked brain plays like a child
Innocent and void of narcissism, separatism, racism,
Religiosity and a hand full of other human frailties
Its Friday night and we normally let the kitchen relax
And order takeaway anyway.
The kids have evaporated into the dark room
Of virtual civilization and Skype tripe,
And the dinning table continues to push up last week’s chrysanthemums
A reminder to my wife I deserve the last of the chocolate muffins
She baked for the kids.
I might go shoot the television in the living room with the remote
And see what happens,
Maybe its time for the news, maybe they will announce the war is over
Maybe they will tell us bankers have found the money they stole
And we can all just focus on peace and productivity.


Posted by on September 16, 2012 in Poetry


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“The Cornstalk” I Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

I have just rifled through carpenter’s pencils, screws
And surplus washers, for enough shrapnel
To rent three meters or so of Glebe point road
A stone throw from the bread barn
Their coffee dazzles my clay tongue.
Large metal birds turn up their noses above me
Their wings cast shadows like clouds
Over a sequence of diminishing terraced roofs
And soaking in the arrogance of an unsweetened frontage
With just one small faded sign “The cornstalk.”
Drugged by a nostalgic smell of straw
Expounding from pre satellite leather-bound paper
A bookstore with its own microclimate
Of sun and shade wood and plaster
Every flat surface except an over sized goat track
Was pressed pin drop silent against books and boxes
Leading up the back to the blue room where all you can hear
Is the sound of a dog barking softly through a tin can.
I raise my ears into the anonymity of a brown woolen beanie
And perch my steel caps on the run of a small wooden ladder
To get a crow’s nest view of all the poetry.


Posted by on September 1, 2012 in Poetry


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“Fourteen Lines” I Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

My sofa is a book-yard,
A silent crash;
Anorexic pages thickened with irony,
A poet’s graveyard in my living room,
Dulled jackets half open half eaten,
Dog-eared archetypes.
You compliment our 21st century sofa,
Upholstered in rust less syntax,
You close my olive eyes with pictures,
Like memories in a black and white photograph,
My warless life does not prevent me from hearing your voice,
Here I will thaw in winter’s sun, and listen to your stories,
Share a violin concerto, from my polycarbonate collection,
And research your history, your friends and family from my apple mac.


Posted by on August 12, 2012 in Poetry


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