2004-12-05T01:35:00.001+11:00

Land of the Brave

Stranger in the brash new world
slick one-way free-ways
bee-hive airports
wide-god panorama skies
where lonesome cowboys cry
for vanishing railroad ties

served in rustic general stores by generous
wide-hipped smiling girls

enigmatic land
where lonely purple flat-top mountains
are just for Indians and defence installations

in city ghettos, so easy a knife in the gut
a bullet in the head, police siren's scream
siren's scream, and cops are not always
straight and true

Dallas is hard, concrete grey
still echoes with the bullets of JFK

Rogers Arkansas allows a presence
locals are wary, conservative with smiles
strangers are aliens, check-out girls scrutinize
traveller's cheques, American Express
call the manager for petty decisions
at the local thrift store
only six American dollars buys
a genuine coke bottle from Waco Texas

in the amber mountains of Arkansas
a succulent turkey turns
six hours in the smoking
followed by sweet honey-drippin' desert

old-world hospitality's time-warp
from walls, dressers, family photos hang
earnest eyes gaze, guns in holsters
leather spats, sepia tones of wild-west days

a china doll's innocent eyes stare, vacant
dressed in family's antique christening gown

in the corner a chubby, head-scarved
black-mammy doll sweeps stoically
with dust-pan and broom
nearby on a basket of straw and eggs
a fake chicken sits eternally nesting

from every nook and cranny wise proverbs hang
enscribed on china plates, truisms, folksy homilies
to keep your morals from going astray

the open hearts and homes of Austin
surely echo times past, paradox the city streets
empty of walkers, fear stalkers
even in the friendly places

San Francisco still trembles
paranoia between the quakes
induces giant migrane amid the beauty
of architecture, old-world still clung to
down-town crazy streets, hard
with homeless fast-food refuse swirls
unswept, buses circulate incomprehensibly
Haight Ashbury celebrates no yesterdays

Colarado stings with altitude
rocky mountain tourist village
fake German skiing, bourgeois swingers
Indians low-profile, art gallery high-profile
white ostentation middle management
grows fat on non-doing art space

in Taos the ancient mud village is proudly displayed
by courteous money-conscious guides
from a tiny doorway
an old woman catches my eye - beckons to me
surrounded by talismans she chants in the old tongue
beats the elk-skin drum for me

El Paso is primary colour, a naive mural
sunshine floods dry lanscape, stones throw
to third world Mexico, servant-master contracts
still flourish, women trudge across the border to sweep
clean, shop, cook - large homes sparkle for only
20 American dollars a day

everywhere sell, sell, sell modern artifacts
Mexican food, hot chilli, the colour red
disenfrancised migrants cross
the river - daily risk lives
negotiating electric borders

Sky City calls across the plain
the spirits of past battles chill to the bone
the Acoma people proud of their past
the old welcome the brash new -
uneasy alchemy

music pours from every living place
this land feeds on melody, country, rock, soul
jazz, blues, ballad, love song

the air steward's polite, organized, concise
no lost baggage, always on time, 'have a nice day'

in Taos New Mexico
the woman lives alone with her children
from a studio she sculpts, paints, writes, sings
angels on everything, river-stones, canvas
paper, tree-bark, pieces of wire curve
into angel-wing poem and story
she is besotted, obsessed with feathery
hierarchical spiritual orders, angels who can
do no wrong, never own an impure thought
always working for good

she gives me a river-stone
painted in gold with one of her angels
tells me it will be good for me - for going with the flow

by osmosis I get from her, steamy Georgia nights
river-boats, Mississipi blues, languid southern drawl
Tennessee Williams, something intangible
Alabama calls like a velvet night
jewels dotted on the air-borne landscape

Main Street Cincinnati, hostile with crack
disjointed with cold addictions
do not walk on the street alone at night
you will get bashed, whites live amid the stress
daily life pours on, poetry, capuccino
good cafe food, musicians, cameraderie

across the river - not too far -
red-necks live they say - hill-billies
but Kentucky remains a mystery for me
for we are Columbus bound

Pamela Sidney 1995

2004-12-01T13:24:00.007+11:00

Albuquerque

...is probably not a destination for rebocs, rap, baseball caps
for I see a homespun wholesome woman
wearing a cabbage-patch straw-hat
decorated with a blush-pink wild-bush-rose
complimenting a flower-print-dress
flowing down to leather-brown sandals
unpretentious white-ribbed bobby-sox

in transit, another airport lounge
with its' collection of random humanity
mostly never to meet again

there's a peaches'n cream vision pink-suited shining
tailored to perfection smelling of magnolias
a smouldering Tennesee Williams'
southern woman

and a cowboy with a baby face, I think to myself
"must be why they're called bubbas"

over there I'm transfixed by a stern-faced
solemn no-nonsense woman
posture straight as a ram rod
wearing a russet-suede bolero jacket
long fringes elegantly swing from elbow to wrist
low collage, fine silk blouse, & the merest suggestion
of a frill at the beginning of her understated breasts
trousers tailored, contour her slim athletic frame
finished off, with the finest cuban-heeled
knee-high leather boots ever seen -
surely an equestrian.

Pamela Sidney 1995

Connecticut Guy

“hi honey” the voice said

who are you calling ?

my wife”

you have the wrong number

“sorry”

bye

(ring ring)

“hi honey”

you still have the wrong number

“what is your number ?”

I don't know...I don't live here...

it's Thom's place...where are you calling from ?

“Connecticut......you're english !”

weeell.........Australian

“my daughter went there”

I'm sorry you've called the wrong number again...bye

(ring ring)

I let the answering machine take the call

wait for the flashing red light

listen to playback

he sounded a little sad..... sighed into the phone

“aaah, guess I'll get back to you - someday”

Pamela Sidney 2.4.94

Beaver Lake in Spring

The lightening played and danced

over the lake

like a witch casting spells

it threw white light all about

like a snow storm in winter

the rain settled in, soft pervading

covering surfaces like a shining mirror

the trees, silent and still

as if watching

presiding over all this drama

don't speak of omens

they have no need, they know

I wait for sunrise for the golden orb

that sheds a different light

wait for constancy of daylight

after the erratic

white flashing electric night

in the half light before dawn

trees burgeon with white blossoms

become a valley of snow

amid the evergreens

birds have taken over

the hushed silence

they too herald anticipate

suns appearance

light has suddenly come

still no sun

colour is bleeding

into the landscape

green trees cloudy dark sky

and the lake

still grey flat and silent

we all wait

the birds, the trees, and me

for the great gold light

the dawn of day

the lightening now lost its power

no more conductor of the dark night

plays a secondary role

perhaps even a servant

usher to the great one

who needs no name

yet has been put upon by humanity

with a thousand psuedynoms

will she fail to appear

like a prima donna

unsure of herself ?

Pamela Sidney 2.5.94

AMERICA POEMS ONE by MELBOURNE POET PAMELA SIDNEY