Sun spears on dappled water,
The air caressed by fowl’s wings,
A reeking of mud and sorrow,
As the ducks feast.

Long lime avenues, Tunnels of cool,
Willows laughing, how could they weep?
Why should they weep?
As the turtles probe the mud.

A child screams,
Ducklings cry with hunger,
The birds bloated on bread,
So monotonously fed.

Dogs on the prowl,
Creating a stir,
Of whistling wings,
Mr. Plod, Too lazy to walk.

A precise swan sails by,
People out walking their habits,
Korean hats and Italian shoes,
Dragonflies.

A certain bitter haunting,
Pervades the air,
As the skin on the water creeps,
A butterfly pleads for mercy,
From the wind and the wings.

Doves hiding in the branches,
Now a child on the prowl,
While the moorhens are hunting,
Certain grubby things.

A breezy blowing,
As leaves take flight,
And carry it to the ground.

A splash of white,
Traditions held so tight,
For those who need it,
A few quick shots in the park.


Feathers cast off,
Left drowning or caught in the grass,
As warm vagrant winds,
Set the park shimmering.

© Colin Hope 1991.

Arcs and angles,

Lie in a tangle,

Secants stand,

Tangentially.



Cosine and sine,

Measurements truncated,

Bounded by geometry,

Interpolated by least squares.



Residuals and statistics,

The centre circles,

As the circle is centered,

To find statistically,

The location of the point.



Measurements of reality,

The reality of measurement,

Through different atmospheres,

While following Boyle’s law.



Pushing boundaries,

Refracting lasers,

Deflections of beams,

Shimmering beneath the sunlight,

We chase the mean.



Averages and outliers,

Against the background noise,

Chords and tangents,

Points on the planes.



Spatially challenged?

The measurement has begun,

Whoever would have thought?

Something so geeky,

Could be such fun?



© Colin Hope 2015.

If we exist in Brane space,
How often do Big Bangs happen?
If we dream in Brane space,
Why are our thoughts so misbegotten?

As we live in Brane space,
With such a slender vision,
Unable to perceive,
Beyond our squat horizon.

Infinite universes,
Linked by wormholes,
Membranes of reality,
Pierced by physics’ questions?

This is outside of the box,
Where so many questions, go to die,
Our thinking constrained,
Our passion contained,
By dint of past programming.

Feel free to think,
Whatever your need,
Freethinkers are very distinctive,
Adept at planting the seed.

Life is what we perceive,
We make our truth to fit,
Our own unique reality,
What will you do with it?

Question what you believe,
Ask why that is so?
Life is science, science is proof,
If you cannot measure it,
Can it be real?

© Colin Hope 2015.

Living at the edge of the world,

Loving on the cusp,

Of reality.



Sometimes I feel,

That I have to ask,

Is any of it real?



My tears drip for humanity,

You leave me with no choice,

Alone at the matinee,

I have lost you.



The notes are drawn out,

Our hearts only hear,

What we can shout,

Life, too much, too near.



It looks like rain,

At the end of the world,

It’s so cold,

The cold of the dead.



A great dream dies,

Stolen by corrupt ideals,

Ideals of self and wealth,

From the shallow intellectuals.



You can stand,

On Ayn Rand's shoulders,

But to wit, this makes you,

No bolder.



Just another trooper,

Following, following, following,

An original idea,

Corrupted for the following.



© Colin Hope 2017.

Coal, the barons dole.

Compressed dino dung,

Now we are having fun!



Time to change,

Put out the trash.

You cannot bring back,

What has passed.



Corpulent, corporate criminals,

Fat old white boys,

How many lives,

Have you taken for coal?



From Westray to Virginia, Westray Mine link

The executives struck,

Profits are what matter,

Not safety, not imagination,

No luck.



Ignore the alarms,

We have no qualms.

Die motherduckers,

In profits arms.



Frack your profits,

Capitalism too.

You kill so many,

You benefit so few.



Time for the dinosaurs,

To go extinct.

Put the panels up,

The sun is succinct.



Our future lies,

Not in the past.

We must move on,

If we are to last.



Technology is there,

But you have no vision.

You will not change,

You are deranged.



© Colin Hope 2017.

The People's Slumber (Revised)


And they came with a passion,
In their teeming multitudes,
Uninvited and arrogant,
Thinking that they knew best.


The pressures of "civilization",
From a decadent and tamed Europa,
But AH!, the glories of conquest.


Gold and blood,
With silent allies harbored within,
Everything for the taking,
So proud,
In the killing of the nations.


Invaders, bent on wealth and glory,
Persuaders, with beads and religion,
Enslavers, body and soul.


All the things that lie unknown,
Must be claimed,
In the name of our god,
That is why we came.


For Pope or Monarchy,
In the end it means the same,
What was yours,
Is now ours,
And we are never to be blamed.


We must never stop,
No need to wonder why,
We will go on forever,
Trust us, for why would we ever lie?


To feed our consuming masses,
And our own delusions,
To show all,
The virtues of the west.


Our western culture.
Based upon war, unconstrained growth, greed and the need,
To be god's chosen.


With no knowledge and no care,
For what came before,
After all, it is our right,
To write our own rules.


For we have belief,
Our wonderful tool,
Belief, the little death,
With every step,
We bring ourselves closer,
To our final rest.


As we split hairs,
About coffee cups,
Until hundreds die in ancient cities,
And you still refuse to wake.


It makes one wonder,
As I think on this,
What will it take,
To wake, the people's slumber?


Sweet Dreams.


© Colin Hope 2015

Softly, softly,

Comes the snow,

Draping the world,

In a lambent glow.



Slowly, slowly,

Falls the snow,

Delicate frozen water,

Winters bright tableau.



Gently, gently,

Drifts the snow,

As the wind blows,

Across the fields laying fallow.



Erratically, erratically,

Zips the snow,

It's not falling,

With a steady tempo.



Dumping, dumping,

Heaps the snow,

Growing battlements, rear up gleaming,

The snow comes teeming.



Deeply, deeply,

Occurs the snow,

Drifts evolve creeping,

Weeping and seeping.



Digging, Digging,

Fling the snow,

The shovels eat,

As with the flakes,

They compete.



© Colin Hope 2017

William James Nancarrow,
That may be Blue to you.
That's Bluey to me,
Nono was also a favourite,
Amongst the family.

On a bike or at the wicket,
Blue really was the ticket.
He so loved the outback,
Having spent years,
Living down those lonely tracks.

On a horse or behind a horse,
Bluey was the one who kept em on course.
With siblings galore,
Mucking about in Mucka.
Out playing football,
Or working for his tucker.

Wokalup, Narrogin and Spencer's Brook,
Where ever Bluey went, he had what it took.
From Mullewa to Cue,
A mixed goods train to dry blowing,
Sand, dust, heat and flies, but no gold flowing.

With Jimmy Boy at Nancarrows Outcamp,
Riding fences, checking windmills,
Droving cattle and sheep to earn his keep,
Better that, than squatting in a creek!

For Big Bell he shone,
A footy player so keen,
If it wasn't for that,
No Isobel, in the canteen.

War comes unwanted, tearing the world,
Blue is called up, to the RAAF he is whirled.
The japs come calling, with the Canberra and the Chicago,
They want to be brawling.

The Hudsons take flight, into the dark night,
While the jap submarines, get through the screens.
The machines of death, come to steal,
Men's breath.

Midget subs, sank and scuttled.
The Hudsons gave, the best rebuttal.
Sydney awoke, the war, no longer, just a northern hope.

Adelaide, Geraldton and back to Pearce,
Lesley was born,
Yelling, proud and fierce.
Demobbed in December of 45,
Back to Big Bell,
Richard was born, yelling as well.

Hudson Street was bought in 54,
The days of Big Bell, lost to yore.
Off to the Snowy, money for shit
Bluey never was a git.

Hardrock mining,
Record breaking,
All that money, for the taking.

The family comes in 56,
Isobel, Lesley and Richard,
Join Bluey in the sticks.

Living in Cooma, home every fortnight,
Then back to Perth to drop off the family.
A crushed foot brought all to Tumut,
The single man life took a plummet.

We will finish his poem,
As down the road he goes,
Serpentine lines sculpted,
Across the land he chose.




© Colin Hope 2018.