This Season


THIS SEASON                    


The moon tonight is a marble,

perfect and white.

See it there

above the rows of trees

bare-limbed and angular

lifting hands

as if in prayer

in the valley

that continues forever.


Comes dawn and warmth for

the slumbering bed of seeds

laid in rows like soldiers,

mute, and obedient to the seasons.


Comes a drizzle of rain

and baby fingers unfold,

reach for the yellow hot goodness

of sun.


Comes the gardener

Who tends the struggling army

defends it against the enemy,

the battalions of flying and crawling insects

and the dryness of earth;

She sprays, hoes,

waits for the hostage stems to unfurl,

to stretch, to uncurl.


Comes the leaves,

the unfolding flowers, and then…

ah yes,

the plant ripe with fruit,

the scent of Eden in the air!


© Dianne Bates

Poem of the Day

Anzac Day


How can I ever forget

The old legless soldier

Ribbons on his chest

In his wheelchair

That April morning

In the hospital grounds

When the bugle sounded

Tears streaming down his cheeks

His muffled sobs and

His sweet-faced young nurse

Leaning to offer him comfort –


In that single moment

A snapshot of what

War does to people.


Dianne Bates

Poem of the Day



A grain of sand on its own,

A tiny world

in the palm of your hand.

But still, nothing much…


Add millions of other grains,

Shape them with sea-water

And you’ve got a sand-castle.


Next add trillions and trillions of grains                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Getting there…

And zillions and zillions more —

Now you’re talking!


Dianne Bates


Poem of the Day




Dancing the tune of the breeze

She lifts her coat sleeves –

And freezes as if in prayer

To breed in the shady leaves;

Green confetti in air.


On the rib-case underneath –

A waxy seam of leaf,

Tiny eggs, colour of cream

Are stuck with butterfly paste.

Blue lady lifts as a dream,

Leaving them, to hatch or waste.


Who knows where she goes

Blue butterfly mother?

© Dianne Bates
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #40



Poem of the Day




Wake late

Nothing clean

Wear yesterday’s undies

Crushed uniform

Sister’s socks

She screams at me

Mum screams at me

We scream at one another

We’re running late

Jammed in bumper-to-bumper traffic

Kiss Mum goodbye, no way

Across the empty playground

Running, I drop

The paper Mache dinosaur

That took four hours

Last night

Of hard, hard work

My project

Now it’s crushed, like me

Late for assembly

Everyone stares

Teachers’ eyebrows are raised

And classes haven’t even begun.

© Dianne Bates

(Published in Our Home is Girt by Sea)

  •  Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #26

Poetry Prompt #26

Poem of the Day


The Lost Things


They must be all around me —

the lost things,

My best pencil, my first doll,

a single sock,

the locket Mum gave me

for my seventh birthday,

the one I promised to never lose.


They lurk in dusky corners,

and grooves and places

I can’t begin to think of

Loving their freedom

Camouflaging their grins

Watching me as I search everywhere —


But where they are

Those clever, clever, lost things

Forever playing hide

While I play seek.

Dianne Bates


Poem of the Day


Tonight I Will Not Close My Eyes


We have monsters in our house.


A man came today to spray them away.

I’m sure I heard the monsters laugh.


Right now they are feasting on walls and doors.

They’re gnawing and boring under the floors.


I am ten and in bed and they’re in my head.


Nibbling and wriggling,

ever closer to me.


We won’t ever leave while there’s still more to chew.

We’ll eat all the wood and then eat you!


Dianne Bates

Poetry Prompt 22Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #22.

Dianne says: When I was a child living in the country, our home was demolished around as we continued to live in it. This is because the house was full of white-ants. I used to lie in bed thinking that the ants would eat me during
the night if I went to sleep. I was probably about 12 at the time. This poem
reflects my anxiety back then