Sounds of Summer

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

Animated crickets sing away silence;
kookaburras laugh at the day.
Lorikeets whip round in wondrous brilliance
screeching, announcing dusk.
A cool breeze rustles through full-leaved trees
while wind chimes clang tinny tunes.
Hordes hurry home hooning and booming
like an orchestra producing a cacophony.
The storm bird is out coo-eeing again –
geez I wish it would rain.
Hungry mosquitos buzz about
intent on causing pain.
Steaks stop sizzling – just in time.
Dinner’s on the table.

Copyright © December 2012 Norma Martiri

Form: Free Verse



Flickr Image by kirschann

The lorikeets all screech and swoop,
Gregariously they gather.
And into dusk dance in a loop,
The lorikeets all screech and swoop.
Then near red bottle-brush they group,
To form a colourful slather.
The lorikeets all shriek and swoop,
Gregariously they gather.

Copyright © April 2012 Norma Martiri

Form: Triolet

The triolet (triolay) is a classic repeating form that dates back to medieval French minstrels. There are eight lines, usually in iambic tetrameter daDUMdaDUMdaDUMdaDUM, with a rhyme scheme of ABaAabAB. The upper case letters designate repeating lines, so that lines 1, 4 and 7 and lines 2 and 8 repeat.

The Rainbow Lorikeet is unmistakable with its bright red beak and colourful plumage. Both sexes look alike, with a blue (mauve) head and belly, green wings, tail and back, and an orange/yellow breast. They are often seen in loud and fast-moving flocks, or in communal roosts at dusk.
Source: Birds in Backyards


Image by Indy24 from Pixabay

September blooms of purple hues,
adorn the city street.
And in bright splendour praises Spring,
where limbs and feathers meet.

Amid soft purple hues I lay,
to rest my weary head.
In fantasies drifting away,
upon a sprinkled spread.

Copyright © October 2011 Norma Martiri

Spring is a beautiful time of the year in Brisbane with Jacarandas blooming throughout the city. It’s a very colourful display that leave beautiful lavender sprinkles on the ground. This is without a doubt my favourite tree.

Port Arthur

Port Arthur today

I wrote this poem after visiting Port Arthur, Tasmania in 2009 and was staggered by the sheer beauty of the place and its contrasting history.  Port Arthur was one of Australia’s penal colonies where convicts suffered greatly under the rule of George Arthur. I added some links to the poem for those who are interested in history.

Stark beauty and tranquillity belies the history,
Of the twenty thousand convicts damned in wretched misery.
For forty-seven years The Empire ruled with fierce control,
And they conceived a brutal system with an evil soul.
Now long forgotten sorrows seep through ancient sordid cracks,
Their vile abuse apparent on the blood-stained, waning tracks.

George Arthur was relentless for he knew what was at hand,
Oppression for all convicts in Tasman’s Van Diemen’s Land.
His breathless mill ground wretches through a bloody cogged machine,
And it churned out cruel punishment with an infernal mien.
From dawn to dusk they slogged away in beastly servile chains,
They built tall ships and wrought clay bricks with venom in their veins.

Soon the Model Prison formed for evil domination,
Beneath hushed veils caged in ordered cells of separation.
An icy terror flowed where silent numbers feared to speak,
The Sabbath heard strong voices rise as high as they could peak.
And a celestial chorus drifted high above the green,
Then to cold cells they all retreated locked away unseen.

The new Asylum minded souls who quietly endured,
Torrential torment as their anguished minds became obscured.
The callous wounds inflicted on these feeble-minded men,
Made them like frantic animals trapped in a lion’s den.
Humiliation and despair for many years had festered,
So new soothing methods now were duly tried and tested.

Paupers’ home was built to save the shattered from the slum,
They languished there downtrodden as Port Arthur’s filthy scum.
Neglected fiddles sang old melancholic melodies,
Beneath the warming sun they gladly tended shrubberies.
An early welfare system formed for weary gentlemen,
By now their hopes forsaken of meeting with kin again.

The ‘Isle of Dead‘ so aptly lies across a chilling bay,
Where finally on lower ground the perished convicts lay.
Unmarked dirt graves for these outcasts were deemed as so deserved,
High ground allotted to the free and soldiers who well served.
Two fresh dirt graves duly anticipated every day,
Obligingly John Barron gladly dug without delay.

Now weary spirits linger of convicts and others too,
And ghostly cries are heard of the sad young Lady in Blue.
A pallid child greets callers by the parson’s window bay,
An overwhelming presence can be felt on a cold day.
The old church ruins are haunting; her walls eerily stand tall,
Where convict blood had stained, cold ivy fingers would not crawl.

As shadows fall and we recall their suffering and pain,
For long forgotten lives offer hard lessons so we’ll gain
Insight to inhumanity; a message from the past,
Shows future generations a flawed system cannot last.
Where men were senselessly reformed with such severity;
Now we muse in the quiet beauty and tranquillity.

Copyright © 2009 Norma Martiri