“Yesterday” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

Crosshatched fingers, carved from slabs of winters dirt
Scratch the hidden clearing beneath my woolen beanie.
Cannibalized perennials surround me, licked to the bone by rude city winds
This garden has procrastinated into a coffin of sticks and dry mud.
And the long drooling stare of the dumb dog fixes his snipers nose to my tuna.
To get a coffee these days is an excuse to visit 2nd hand bookstores and rescue old poets from decomposition, and surround myself with training wheels of wisdom.
Things I once owned as a kid look antique to me now I’m fifty.
The young are buying up old vinyl records, like it’s the end of the financial year
Shiny crow black discs in heavy metal jackets.
Rewind the smoky side streets and alleyways of yesterday
Now plumb straight up and clad in glass dress.
The sun makes me squint like a smoker
The same sun I wore scratching my feet on the front lawn at seven
Rolling around like a starfish on Sundays feeling like heaven.


Posted by on July 22, 2012 in Poetry


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“Lamb’s of War” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

Autumn honour’s our lambs of war
clean-shaven pearls
unstained as stainless.

Cursed at dawn beneath the yellow sphinx
the shores a swamp, with tempered bayonets
unpicked and severed by chunks of lead.

North beach was thick with bone
their shadows vanished fast
from right to left their bodies dropped like stone.

Dig or die they shouted, defend the shallow grave
where murdered nature tilled the soil
and fields of poppies wave.

As sick as dogs they drowned in flies
and unused trenches wallpapered black with swollen dead
a screen of stretcher bearers fill the skies.

A failed coup at Anzac cove, just lambs to the slaughter
their memories lay side by side, and will was strong and free
we leave behind the dead to sleep, those Aussie mates of mortar.


Posted by on June 17, 2012 in Poetry


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“Southern Highlands” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

In the southern highlands of New South Wales,
an hour beyond the city’s construct,
there sleeps a heritage of sunken stone cottages in Berrima.
Weekends draw tourists along its Georgian catwalks
parading their keepsakes and trinkets.
Historic iron roofs abruptly tilt corrugated lips dipping their rusty hats.
Architectural hedges sweep the granite drives.
Out of town on a parched pastel paddock stands a sun soaked bull,
courting his gallery cleaved by the barbed wire fence,
his guttural luring cry, carries jurisdiction across the open acre property.
Yellow slabs of sunlight slide like mirrors beneath the canopies of
eucalypts, scribbly bark and pine.
The smell of gloating grapes, a palette of cabernet, chardonnay and merlot,
crowd the trellised pastures.
Flanked by forest, in a cedar clad cottage masquerading as a rare book store,
we drink coffee reading Lowell, Hughes and Frost.
Until the night sky opened, peppered with stars and clean as a digital image.


Posted by on April 22, 2012 in Poetry


“Proletariat inheritance” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

My body is rusting from a proletariat existence,
and my bones have molded into hand tools,
the knuckles in my fingers are looking much like my father’s,
with a leather hand lineage, each day they lift a ton,
with little sympathy for the back that cranes.

When I get home from work, I foolishly assume my passion for
reading or writing, but simply sleep instead on the couch,
then wake up, only to put my glasses down then stagger off to bed.
My dreams of academia have slowly emulsified through years of perspiration,
for my art, is made of stone.


Posted by on April 13, 2012 in Poetry


“Dead Poets” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

Anthologies of dead poets,
yellow with dust beneath the page,
still cast their shadows tall.
From candle light to megabyte,
forever love them all.


Posted by on April 12, 2012 in Poetry


“Hieroglyph” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

Posting love letters from satellites
with your glowing glass telephone.
Your fingertips pitter and patter
like a sun shower of molten text
falling from the sky.
My archaic hands
clod and plod their way around
like mud skippers
in a clay pan.

But you nurture delicately
spun hieroglyphs,
with aphrodisiac typefaces.
You are the thief of my black and blues,
You are my screen-saving cupid
You are my romantic smoking gun.


Posted by on April 11, 2012 in Poetry


“A life drawing in a moonlit boudoir” | Sydney Poet David Landgrebe

A life drawing in a moonlit boudoir,
bohemian shadows shroud
her soft skin swollen in chiaroscuro,
poised swanlike,
with velveteen tone,
and vanishing curves,
eclipsed by the artists easel.


Posted by on April 10, 2012 in Poetry