Yes, I admit
I do not know
but the truth is
I never wanted to know-

my mind might say
go
but my heart
would say no-

let me just be
a little flower to grow
at the right season
I'll know when to blow-

life is but a-drifting
be it sunshine or snow
the ripening comes when it must
what's the need to know?

The self
the  worst culprit
enemy of the world
with its callous wit

Dawn peeps through my bedroom window

   from a strange dream I've just awoken

   my heart is heavy with a deep sorrow

  no words could be spoken-



  she sent me a letter:

  I don't love you-- farewell

   I've found someone who's better

  no further words I need tell

What's the shape of time?
what's its colour?
what's its favourite hour?
does it know its rhythm and rhyme?

How could we read its mood?
How do we court it as a friend?
To our worries does it sympathetic ears lend?
Is its duty to do good?

To what does it owe its origin?
Is it but a myth or legend?
Does it prefer to sit or stand?
What is its next of kin?

Poor Einstein his head he did wildly scratch
And this was what he unhappily said:
These questions would set back my E=MC squared
Alas!  I never ever dreamt you would me out-match!

First light of morning

shedding its warmth over trees

nature's silent kiss

Poem re-read ten times
why I would not put away:
she wrote: I love you.

Simply--whatever their name
a poet should aim
not to be clever
but sincere

Abundance at some stage tends
   to lead to excess, and joy
   diminishes-- only two hands
   we have.  The child tires with too many a toy--

  paucity and poverty* does enrich
  if our lives are by love liberally endowed
  for such the wealthy might eagerly itch
  only to regret and sigh for being left out.

Much of love is sorrow-ridden
the young in time will learn this painful lesson

Where poverty
is savoury
where little
is more than plenty.

To me, knowing what life is not
is infinitely more important than
knowing what it is.

This has placed me in a state of preparedness
apart from strengthening me.

Philosophy I deem to be less important
than discovering things on my own.

Without*
  within
  hardly in consonance
  never twin

boats anchored on shore
rows of seagulls chatter there
are they short of food?

Much of life
is erratum
pain, angst, regret,
remorse, boredom

Mel Dare
​

Mel Dare is an Australian visual artist and educator based in Perth, Western Australia. Her work explores the construction of personal narrative specifically in regards to it's relationship with how meaning is created.  This has led her to investigate different but interrelated subjects such as subjectivity, psychology, neurology, biology, identity, time and perspective.
​
During the last 16 years the artist has produced 9 solos, 3 duos and her work has been selected for numerous group exhibitions including Steal (2016), Scene (2016), Pure Contemplation Without Knowledge (2015, 2016), Dot on the Run (2015, 2016), Bankwest Art Prize (2015), Painting as an Artform (2015), Albany Art Prize (2014), Midwest Art Prize (2014), Waterhouse Natural Science Art Prize (2014) and Florid (2014, Turner Galleries and 45 Downstairs). It has been acquired by City of Joondalup, St John of God, Princess Margaret Hospital, Old Swan Brewery and many other national and international collections.

Dare lectures in drawing at Central Tafe and has taught art at Curtin University of Technology, Bandyup and Nyandi Prisons, Applecross Gifted & Talented Program, Nascha Inc (disabilities services) and various other private and public organisations. In addition she has undertaken various curatorial projects including Darlington Open Art Awards 2016, 12 Days and Gotham Returns (with Andrew Nicholls). Dare has been a resident artist at Gotham Studios since 2008.

My so-called
    best friend
    how I wish
   to have a boat
   to ship him
   to earth's furthest end!

I am what others are not
they are not what I am--

there shall never be any convergence
between me and them.

No one got
the correct answer
to this question
posed in a competition-quiz

' What has the most number of curves?'

Correct answer is
'life'

Life's first lesson:
           understand
           the message of the heart
           in every season

Where hilltop winds blow

gently against ancient trees

history unfolds

Tender starlight upon stream and fountain
           strains of the flute drift in the cold night-air
           love and longing waits for no season
           under the willow-tree I weep, not knowing you are where

I placed my heart
in the wrong place
can't disentangle--stuck
reality hits me ******* the face-

this is an entry with no exit
I could die for dearth of psychological space
those around me are all out calling loud
to pin me down in the alley of disgrace.

I will join you

in laughter

the sky is blue

beautiful is the weather-



lend me your hand

we will walk together

through life's smiling land

in love, joy and wonder

West:  Exert

Zen:   Relax

On the farther side
of time I stand
much of old age
is memory bent
towards scenes
that defie ravage
and demand
to be remembered
and resurrected --

I am held powerless.

Life is now
falling foliage
the leaves have
dark-brown turned
days and nights
are serene and sober
enough of love
past love had yearned
pain and sorrow re-echo
in tearful refrain
over and over again --

at this dying hour
regret is but all in vain
night is a disdainful mocker
there's nothing left
either for loss or gain.

Living is not a test  
but an unfair trial. You stand at the dock
and sentence is passed
you have no defence and can't talk.

Sleep
sweet surrender
a clean sweep-
away of the day's disorder-

I'll keep
in dreamland slumber
love that's true and deep
to forget that bliss never.

Do not confuse
your impatience
with eagerness:
it's not worthy
of note-- too wide
is the difference!

No wonder so many people
you did so often antagonise
you boasted wherever you went
that you were smart and wise.

They don't articulate
    they vociferate!

Give me the poor
the lonely, sad and neglected
I'll open my door
no one, nor any stranger, shall be rejected

The doctor knows his medicine

but the heart he can't heal

life is hardly about reason

infinitely more about how to feel.

The philosopher is yet to be wise
why else does he need to philosophise?

Some would regard life
as an abberation or error
the poet looks beyond the strife
chooses the right metaphor

No more, no more
             of society's eye-sore!

The answer lies not

  in the sunshine hours of daylight

  its true dwelling is in  the silent sacredness

of the heart's deepest night

This is the human problem-
over-doing
over-stretching
over-struggling
over-speaking­
over-desiring
over-claiming
over-demanding
over-thinking
over-pursuing
over-in­quiring
over-expecting
over-acquiring
over-self-glorifying

people can't stay still:
the joy of living
they are missing
too late comes
the self-realising
by then
they are on
their bed dying
sobbing
and regretting

The day is sweating work
the night is restless worry
mortgage is oppressive
the kids are hungry-

taken on a second job
though the pay is paltry
borrow from loan-sharks
they charge 50% interest annually--

my wife is a washerwoman
from a very poor family
she labours without complaint
she's My Fair Lady-

when I'm sad and lonely
I learn to write poetry
my friends say I write badly
and I reply: But it makes me happy!

Life is such
you can't always smile
some people annoy you
be nasty---once a while!

But there are too many places
I've no desire to go. It's the mind's fancy. I'll stay my ground as there's already too much going on here.

What green pastures? Who said so? Had they been there? Do they really know?

It's the personal angst and chagrin that does at the heart gnaw. The pent-up self-disappointment and frustration that seeks release for here all is barren ground where no flowers or plants ever grow.

Blame life, blame someone, blame society, blame the environment that lets you down. You've been a failure but let no one know.

I've only started and I'll test myself here. There are too many places I've no desire to go. If here I were to fail, let it be so. A seed takes time before it becomes a flower--overnight it's too early to grow.

I should be less
  not more than any other
  nothing have I to impress
  but my values I don't surrender

It's the emptying
that invites the filling

Having no useful word to say
quietly and unnoticed I walked away

The last week was miserable, both in school and at home. I'm here again. So soon it's autumn. The trees are red, some pink and brown. Their dried leaves have fallen on the sod and the atmosphere seems solemn. The air is lazy and induces a drowsy mood in me. I look at the sky between the tall trees and it's grey. The clouds seem motionless. But the water is limpid and still inviting in contrast to the general languor.

I've chosen a comfortable shade to sit under and taken a deep breath.
The scenes of last week are dawning on me. The HM called me to his office and said rather abrasively. You want to be a poet and writer. You are really stupid. This is the age of science and medicine, of engineering, technology and architecture...You won't be able to get a job even with an A in English and why bother to study Latin? You'll regret. The world has enough failed writers....

What if he were right?

That evening after dinner I overheard dad saying to mum. We can't afford a uni education for Ming. He must be able to get a scholarship but I worry as he's poor in math and science. Writes too much poetry. This won't do him much good and he would be behind his peers....

I worried for the next two days and slept badly waking up with nightmares.

( to c' nue)

Life is not a dance-hall

The day
do we notice?
(sometimes we look away).

The day
listen, oh listen to
what it has to say.

The day
how does it compare
with yesterday?

The day
would you want it
to longer stay?

The day
to love and adore
is to pray.

The day
are we missing
the splendour on the way?

The day
it invites
come, dance and play.

The day
while the sun shines
make hay.

The day
work well
not just for the pay.

The day
bring in the sunshine
if the sky is grey.

The day
is for edifying
not for fray.

The day
hold yourself high
let showers of hope freely spray.

The day
open your heart's window
it's no time for dismay.

The day
the meadow is beckoning
don't delay.

The day
look, look
the darling buds of May.*

The day
nature her proudest gowns
gladly does display.

The day
let its message of hope
to everyone convey.

The day
its opportunities
let's survey.

The day
dusk is not yet
don't say 'Nay'.

The day
it's mine
how could I walk away?

Alien to grammar
was my grandma
(which was more important?)
grandma won, never grammar!

Time doesn't exist
if we don't heed it

But that long ago
seems like yesterday
engraved
in the most vulnerable
part of the mind
etched
at the depth
of the most sensitive heart-
the past
is more than
the sum-total
of the present
it tears all else apart--

search if you must
dig into the hidden wells
of the long-distant past
murky under-currents
still spill into the now
in rage they often gush-

I was not careless
I never stepped
on the wrong side
of love but trapped
by her beauty capricious
how I struggled and tried
despite the pain to persuade
all my tears dropped into dust-

that long ago
now unmasked
even at my wintry years
I couldn't let go
drowned
in self-pitying tears.

Just as you feel pain in silence,
so should you celebrate joy--
they are both not intended to impinge upon any outsider.