Ken Trimble

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by Ian on October 8, 2010

Ken Trimble is an Australian born poet who has lived and worked the world over. His first book of poetry, Clouds On Hanover Street was released last year by Little Fox Press. It is about hard times in rooming houses, drinking, country life and spirituality. Ken’s poetry has also been featured at:
fitzroydreaming.blogspot.com
catfishgringoriver.blogspot.com
collectedworks-poetryideas.blogspot.com

***

The Stone-Cutter

Your face a windswept and wild vision of God’s song
Open with lines of
Time that had set upon you, now washed away
By the morning thunder-storm
Leaving a clear pearl untainted by life’s rock, and the wounds
Came from a truth of weary desert songs, and lonely nights by the Pecos River
With strange visions from the cactus, of light
And night moons of mescaline apparitions
You took me to Tor House
To Jeffers’s home by Carmel’s shores
To the poets’ circle of stone
And just then a shadow flew overhead
A hawk winging on the wind of memories
To the stone-cutters dream.

The Ballad Of Charles Loughery

On the streets of the Tenderloin
walks a sad and lonely man,
lost in America’s Babylon,
living with the junkie killers.
Once a King who strode the
Moscow nights, vodka and Pushkin,
Dostoevsky and darkness, teacher
of language, simian man with waddle,
fell on Russian ice, fell through
time, felled by arrogance.
Charles Loughery whimsical traveller came
home to Whitman’s dream, only to
find all the trees, naked of leaves,
and the big man weeps.

This House Condemned

Falling down house and washing machines
Fridges and stoves stand in jungle garden
Beaten up couches, cigarette stains and beer can smiles.
I crawl through the junk
Past the fly blown door
To this house condemned.
It’s a long way from the ‘Flying Duck Hotel’
And tanked up ad-men
It’s a long way from Murray Street
Hospital stories, rooming-houses
And dangerous men.
I collapse on to the bed
Of my stained mattress of dreams
And wander into the shopping complex
All dazzling light with nice people
With their nice empty faces
Looking for a deal
Looking for a bargain
My mouth holds the cigarette
My eyes glued to the paper
A phone dial fumbled
A woman’s voice I hear
“$140 per week mate, rent on time
Or you’re out on your arse”.
Bye bye falling house
Hello Anita, big tits swinging in the breeze
Sleepwalker lady enters my room
It’s a long way from home.

Tony

Tony, that was his name,
Big with youth
Big with despair
Lived in the room next to mine
He lived incognito
A dealer
A student
A misfit of life
A soldier of destruction.
Then he left with rent unpaid
His room full of a defecating world
Shit piles in the corner
And piss stains on the walls.
A million unread newspapers
A room full of spoons and needles.
Big youth all gone
Big anger all gone
Nothing is left, and all is empty.

All is Sunyata.

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