Issue 3 - December 2008
Selector/Editor: Peter Jeffery
Poets in this issue:
Kevin Gillam
Jeremy Balius
Annamaria Weldon
Flora Smith
Gary de Piazzi
Annie Otness
Flora Smith
Christine Watt
Laurel Lamperd
Gabrielle Everall
Maureen Sexton
Deb Matthews-Zott
Christine Ambrey
Janet Jackson
Paul Harrison
Josh Tisdell
Jake Dennis
Ron Okely
Tammi Alexander
Tony O’Donnell
Virginia O’Keeffe
Gloria M Daniels
Peter Rondel
Louise Evans
Sally Clarke
Miranda Aitken
David Barnes
Subramanian Shankar
Mick Mezza
Christopher Konrad
Paula Jones
Meryl Manoy
Ali Carter
Emily Schurman
Max Merckenschlager
Brian Langley
Nick di Lello
Rose van Son
paperbark days
you lead me to stillness. you shell
me and in your mantra of
‘stars and mars and moon and dust and
us and stars and mars and’ I am
taut and slack and small as should be
you bracken me with now. you
fold me and in modulations
damp and dry I am
tinder and tendril and
template and plundered and none
you sew the sky through me.
you take my paperbark days and
scuff and bluff and bleed and
breathe and leave them as cirrus
Kevin Gillam
the time of crows
back in the time of
crows, a childhood room, plastic
Spitfire at angle
of battle, dreams beyond fit-
ing parts and sleek black
coats. wings were everything then
Kevin Gillam
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Arisin’
He
The wind’s howlin’, oh boy,
hell’s fallin’ all round us.
Quick ma, grab the babe’n
plant yourself in the tub!
Speech whispers outta dust
screamin’ through door jam cracks.
Wheeze, ach, ach – I’ll save what I built,
can’t lose what I got.
Visited by storm’n tempest steals away
this sacred place, my house.
Jesus knows, I did what I could…
She
Pa, you’re a crooked man,
crooked mile awalkin’.
Hush babe, the wall’s rattlin’
cause it’s a big party!
Hurrah, it’s a party –
(aside) that Janus-faced
man betta return – you’re not
protectin’ your blood!
‘Stead of keepinus
outta harm’s path - holdinonta what’s lost.
Always doin’ something,
tho doin’ nuthin’ what ya should…
It
The cloud of unknowing
is my interbeing.
I’m beside myself – not
too sure of anything
and trying to get from
here to nowhere, someday.
Justly/unjustly I condense
and expand within/
without the lost degrees of unknowing
guiding me over you.
Sigh, I’m just so misunderstood…
Jeremy Balius
Jeremy Balius
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The veranda frames a view, hazed
in dust, rippled waved by heat, to
unsealed roads, noon’s fence-wires where
green shade climbs, the fertile grapevines
defying summer sear, wind’s dry
and tan, sunflares on glaring zinc-
alum town roofs, backdrop dun fade
of Northam paddocks, bare-back hills.
Foreground, pink Heritage roses
loll like flushed neighbours at the gate.
Last, lilac Floribunda skirt
the path, cool as linen blooms on
mum’s Sanderson drapes, delicate
pale petals strewn in burning dirt.
Annamaria Weldon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Death and Flowers
My mother’s death brought flowers.
Roses for formality,
straight and tall in crystal,
spoke of lace napkins, bone china.
Relaxed in the guest room,
blue irises for sun and sky;
for blue wrens in her garden.
One laughing cousin came
arms full of orange marigolds,
all angled stems; bright
parrots wrangling on a branch.
A friend sent pale pink lilies
backed by tiny palm leaves.
Spiked fronds kept their distance,
lilies dainty at centre stage.
Later in my rooms
I saw the flowers,
saw the several women she had been.
Flora Smith
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wake Up
Life is a drip in time.
Grass unloads grief onto passing foot
dew clings as tears to suede.
Specks of wetness, indelibly stained
eternally soiled. Blemishes on
the psyche. Old cobbler
redeemer of souls
weeps.
Clouds cry, unload sorrow.
Cold, hard drops of wetness
pierce flimsy fabric.
Icy spears intended for the heart.
Aspiration stilled
love no longer beats.
River slices soil as a skilled surgeon
neatly carves slivers from earthen bank.
Vain attempt to sever cancerous tumors.
The earth sighs, anesthetic
wears thin.
Drip, drip, drip.
Gary de Piazzi
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To a cactus fruit, Elemental Ode After Pablo Neruda.
Prickly pear
Displayed on leaves
Like ping-pong bats
Nestled, in lethal
Spikes or thorns
Cactus fruit
Harvest at your peril
Armoured in leather gloves
Beware the spikes
Of prickly pears
And place upon
The pale pine table
With the knife
And infinite care
Peel the moist
And tender pear
Unwrapped at last
Luscious and juicy
Labial pink
Studded with a multitude
Of small black hard
Intrusive seeds.
The prickly pear
Gives little pleasure
For a lot of work.
And proves the adage
It is the journey
Not the destination
For prickly pear picking
Is an expedition
Not for the gentle
But for the bold adventurer
The gastronomic warrior
Who chooses the
Echidna
Of the vegetable world
Lusts for sweetness
To be betrayed by thorns.
Annie Otness
HATE SONG; A LIST POEM
I hate noises
That get in the way of hearing
I hate noises in the night,
Creaking floors,
Doors banging,
Dogs barking,
Sirens wailing,
Tires screeching.
All the early warning signs of disasters.
I hate noise in cafes
Crashing chairs,
Clanking cutlery,
Roaring air conditioners,
Warbling muzak that contaminates the ears.
I hate noise that drowns speech,
Crushes songs,
Obliterates the sounds of nature,
Persuading irrational
Rage, frustration,
Flight, escape,
Then finally numbness and despair.
An eternity of inescapable aural torture -
Hell is made up of noise.
Annie Otness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fox in Her Shadow
- Fox played dead on her arm
then cuddled into the nape of her neck.
Two button eyes with far-away look
sought caresses, but she flung his request
down the back of her dress, sending
brushes ablaze. Fastened limp paws
bounced as high heels clicked off into the night.
- Queeny has just supported the ban on fox hunting.
News broadcasted from yesterday’s newspaper
as wife placed rosey coffee pot on the table.
No blood sport left these days.
Husband muttered into black coffee.
Royals. Next they’ll ban fly fishing.
Husband poured more blackness
into the white of his cup.
Poor little things. She cherished the image
Of foxlets conjured up by her mind, suckling their mother.
"Fox in Her Shadow" was commended in ECU 2005 Talus Competition.
Christine Watt
Overripe fruit
There are the fruit trees, pregnant with winter
sit potted across my backyard mandarins, lemons and limes
that pendulum lightly, slapping in the still breeze.
Look here, yesterday's rain
pushed and pulled till a strong wind
drove over ready fruit to thump heavy on the ground.
The bucket is full.
Remember an orchard with apples, with red cheeks, and
a silly artificial gloss. Memory packed into a packing case.
Cherry plums crimson over snow-white flesh, drawing in
the buzzing, last shadow of summer. Listen.
Squish, squelch and squash as children's feet pad across the carpet
of gooey, over- ripe plums. Pungency creeps
further down into the archives of the mind to bring up plum jam
plastered on burnt toast.
A child sits staring out the window watching cherry-plum blossoms
burst into spring. She reaches for apple plum jam taken from the supermarket plastic bag.
Christine Watt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A DOUBLE SELF PORTRAIT
Painting by Howard Taylor
He was a mixed up sort of man
all triangles and squares
set in frames
like walls, fences
as we surround ourselves
There were two of him.
The private man behind the public
looking out on the world
with a square eye.
Laurel Lamperd
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vita's Legs
'When a woman learns to walk she's not dependent anymore a line from her letter May 24'. The Go-Betweens.
They said: 'Some caressing
some bedding . . .'
But London is burning
and Vita has mounted
Virginia
in the Venetian Ambassador's room
with her legs
Legs that run
like Roman pillars
to the breastless armoury
of her body. Taken, uberous
Yet
virgo intacta
a vulgar
but imperial vulva
'legs that don't need to
write'
But 'stride' with'11 Elk hounds'
behind her
through the woods of
her ancestors
while
'England's history
is kept
in coffins
under her
dining room
floor'
Open up
the pearly gates
of your legs
like 'beech trees'
A bunch of grapes
succulent, multiple
loose
peelable
pink hued
held together pearl
after pearl grape
after gape
A blue-bloodied
Sapphic, nymph
gypsy goddess
Vita plays dead
in London's streets
as a wounded soldier
while Virginia searches
for a woman's sentence
camoflaged as a man
writes of
Orlando as a boy
to really mean
Vita.
Gabrielle Everall
'Some bedding, some caressing' is from Virginia Woolf: A Biography by Quentin Bell. New York: Harcourt Brace Janovich 1972. p.119.
Woolf describes Vita's legs as 'slender pillars' that 'stride, with 11 Elk hounds . . . through [her] ancestral woods' in A Change of Perspective: The Letters of Virginia Woolf 1923-1928. Ed.Nigel Nicholson. London:Chatto & Windus, 1981. p,150. Also refers to
the coffins of English ancestory under her dining room floor.
Woolf compares Vita's legs to beech trees in a letter to Clive Bell in Virginia Woolf:A Biography by Quentin Bell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SESTINA
MORE LIKE YOU …
When I look into the mirror
it is not myself I see.
I see only an image
of what I would like
to become, to be like you,
and it is then that my heart
skips a beat. For your heart
is more beautiful than any mirror
can show. And truly I love you
more than you can know or see
just by looking. My love is like
no film, photo or image.
And I wonder what image
you have of me in your heart.
Is your impression of me like
what I see in your mirror?
Is it an incomplete man you see
who longs to be more like you?
But I wonder what is it that you
want. Reality? Or is it an image
of you, you desire to see?
I think you have a good heart
or is it lies I see in your mirror?
Perhaps your heart is not like
I imagine it to be like.
Maybe the real woman you
are, is not the one in the mirror.
Perhaps when I see your image
I am blinded by my good heart
and it is really me I see.
Now I’m beginning to see
that you and I are not alike.
I have the beautiful heart
and now I see that you
are merely a false image
of the woman in the mirror.
I want a mirror where I can see
My real image and nothing like
you. False woman, you broke my heart.
Maureen Sexton
PARADELLE OF SHADOWS
Dark shadows throw patterns on her wall
dark shadows throw patterns on her wall.
The light will show you steps to take
the light will show you steps to take.
Light patterns show the steps on dark walls.
Shadows will take you to throw her.
Throw her down from crumbling windows
throw her down from crumbling windows.
This Jezebel with evil heart and soul
this Jezebel with evil heart and soul.
Throw her heart and soul with evil
down from crumbling windows, this Jezebel.
Dogs wait, in hunger with bared teeth
dogs wait, in hunger with bared teeth.
Yet what is her gruesome murder for
yet what is her gruesome murder for?
With bared teeth, in hunger is her wait.
Yet gruesome dogs murder for what?
Patterns in windows take you,
show dogs with evil heart and soul
to murder her gruesome, from her dark steps.
Yet with bared teeth is hunger crumbling?
Wait, throw her down the walls for what?
Will shadows throw light on this jezebel?
Maureen Sexton
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Night Meditation
…body slides
between crisp sheets
of cool, clean cotton
wears the soft weight
of feathers like a new skin
eyes relax, close
on ceiling shadows
pale light
through parted curtains
I practice falling
into imagined clouds
as day thoughts drift
across mind sky
a breeze rattles the window
a mosquito tunes its violin
my husband breathes
beside me
beyond this familiar score
what symphony
of meditation music
conducts my consciousness
through realms of sleep
and dream?
Deb Matthews-Zott
Road Poem
To write a poem about a road
Must you walk the length of it
Until you feel the burn
Of hot bitumen under your skin
Must you travel it in sun and rain and wind
Feel the sweat of it streaming from armpits
The thirst it inspires in you
Move awkwardly along it
Like a swimmer who has jumped in fully clothed
Longing to peel its tight wetness
From your weighted body
Breathing in its outward breath
Until the road unwinds in you
Must you dream of what's at the end
Like a rainbow you can never reach
Or a flimsy stash of hope
Are your thoughts cars that speed along it
Seeking the right exit
Do they sometimes see red
So that ideas no longer flow
Are they forced to wait
For a green metaphor
Or, to write a poem about a road
Do you simply lay it down in your mind
Letting the bitumen seep into your brain
Close your eyes to the open road
And follow the white line of language.
Deb Matthews-Zott
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deep in greenery
underneath spreading fern trees,
rhino beetles clash.....
Moss covered branches
make soft carpeted highway
for quick green tree snake....
Christine Ambrey
MOMENTARY SHOCK.
The sun turned the water gold,
I plunged my hands into the glittering substance,
But the golden water slipped through my fingers,
Turning to icy diamonds at my feet,
As a cloud pased over head.....
Christine Ambrey
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
offset
They tried to regrow the forest.
Met on alternate Saturdays
with baby trees in tubes,
buckets, plastic tree-guards.
The rows of holes, sheltered
seedlings, rations of water
their day-off task.
Some seedlings died. Some grew,
became ungovernable trees.
But it wasn't a forest. Even
after seven years, twelve, fifty,
the wipe remained, the clean,
the lines of plan, plantation.
No old-growth, deepstruck, ringed and ringed,
no dryad song, no gnarl.
They tried to regrow the forest
and learned that you can't. Not
on alternate Saturdays. You have to
work at it
every day.
Or toss a few seeds
after fire
and rain
and wait.
Janet Jackson
Annamaria Weldon at Poets Corner
Stand still / in your black-
layer drapes / and black-
drape hair / glossed
and glossed / shoes / jewels / vowels
Stand still / do not move
your feet / to step / or trunk
to sway / Stand still
move only / your mouth
your face / your voice / and with care
your hands
Black-lashed Maltese widow
Of woman born, of world
Petite, but towering
when measured
in phrases
Stand still / at the mike / a rock
a tree / a seabird / a small
stone shrine / Stand firm
in your stream
of language.
Janet Jackson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
trick or treat
it was the night before All Hallows Eve
that time when the quick and the dead
are no longer separated; Samhain in Ireland
when the division between the living
and the otherworld blurs
when restless souls
ask to be remembered
and need to be appeased
when leaves fall from trees
and living breath steams the air
like gun smoke or cigarettes
the season when darkness descends
and the harvest is in
a time to take stock
as frost and sprites materialize
in the thinner days, and longer nights
a time when the Church celebrates
her holy saints and martyrs
when bonfires are lit
and thuribles swung
to warm and purify
the joyful leaping heart
when children bob for apples
and wheedle sweets
like mendicants in days gone by
when fireworks light the darkening sky
and where, in Greysteele, Derry
a Halloween party at the Rising Sun
was craicing on
as three hooded fiends burst in
not Fenians or Taigs
but evil, restless men
unsure if they were living
unsure if they were dead
who thought that they were freedom fighters-
what a fucking joke
shouting trick or treat
with scarcely living hearts
poisoned in hatred
for the Shankill Road
a tit for tat massacre
when the guns were real and eight lay dead
Catholic and Protestant, young and old
innocent all; a senseless reap of souls
as the sun failed to rise
and Death stalked the townlands
when hatred could not be appeased
when Christ's mercy for all who suffer
and all who trick or treat was gone
and where today we pray
that their sacrifice might become a path
through centuries of bigotry
and the end of evil men
with hate writ large
across their hearts
and gabled walls and curbs,
in the dead end ghettos
of a danse macabre
round the bloody corpse,
of Green and Orange
Paul Harrison
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
solace suffering an benzos
the desolate sunday morning .
the cafe filled with lonely single men,
who have come here to escape their punishing thoughts.
drinking coffee or eating breakfast solo,
no one to hold their cold hand no one to render their souls.
on the eve of my twenty fifth i am a member of their club.
i am heading to the end at a rapid pace .
there is peace on their face as they take their last bites,
before their fickled thoughts become rampid and the deep comfort of pain filters through their blood .
we walk alone in this dull city blind .
toutured and fearing the pitiful smiles .
our only solace is in the bottles of perscription medicine .
our only thread of hope are in the eyes of our photos .
the very fabric of our lives is torn to the seem.
while our faces grow old and ware like leather and the little boys we once were cry out for their mothers.
the eery sounds of the city passing,
our minds taunting us like cruel children
and our spines chill as the wind whispers...
this is it...
josh tisdell
THE PERFORMANCE
he thrills none
trusting, he believes
the smoke hasn't cleared
his headache beats harder
collapse....
nobody shows
alone in the circus
his chest tight
gasping for air
he waits...
buzzards fly around the dome
they too wait
nails splintered through his wrists
he bleeds...
with his ribs showing
and dry crimson
his anger consumes
he cries...
strangled by rage
never loved
understood by none
he dies....
josh tisdell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Guitar
A Christian corpse,
its throat a wooden channel.
Stale air wells from the mouth agape
that will not vomit or moan.
Only the casket rots, groans.
Clavicle, sternum, sacrum, remain
beneath the changing skin. Despite
the sightless stare, nails lengthen
sans reason. Rearmost molars removed,
docile and taupe, this cadaver bears
the courage of acceptance, her hands clasp a Rosary.
For seven days the leaden sky breaks
with desultory mercurial indifference.
For some, the sudden slant or shock of light:
nebulous fingers lift and pluck. Invisible
wings are drawn
from scapula, tombstones echo. Contact!
Neither woman nor child, but man,
the father. This is transcendence. Despite
the mud, despite the heft of one grave-goer
wandering toward some Other,
there is flight—
And far off, in Myanmar,
a woman’s body.
Bare ebony,
bold golden earrings,
and eighteen brass coils around her neck.
She lets him taste the paprika on her fingers.
He lets her pull him toward heaven.
His warm fingers press her,
grip her. Chocolate flesh
erupts with cardamom sweat.
They rest with his hand on her belly.
Jake Dennis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HEDLAND HERO
Lizard like skin
Burnt black by the Pilbara sun
Shoeless
Penniless
Slept on bags
And dreaming dreaming dreaming
Of Clancy and Dooley and ’48
Fierce fighter for the dispossessed
Could call Nugget Coombs his friend
Couldn’t list all his enemies
The squatters
The drunks
The Warden’s Court
The establishment
The whole bloody multi-national mining
Industry
Camped at the nine mile (droving reserve)
“Too much noise – disturb the sheep”
and the HOT RODS
He said
“One day every man will sit
Under his own vine
And his own fig tree”
BUT NOT IN YOUR DAY OLD MAN
NOT IN YOUR DAY
Ron Okely
How Can I Tell You?
How can I tell you?
I’m a barefoot boy from Bassendean
Who lived on the river until nineteen.
How can I tell you?
With plenty of mates
But no mate.
With plenty of longings
But none took the bait.
How can I tell you?
That the lilt in your voice
And the laughter in your eyes
Sent more than my heart a flutter.
* * * * *
Come live with me and be my love.
And we will all it’s pleasures prove.
No rocks
No roses
No fragrant posies
No kirtle of myrtle
No buckles of gold.
Just me
Christopher Marlowe is dead
Long live Christopher Marlowe
Ron Okely
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ballad of the night jogger
I go running through the forest on the darkened nights
Jogging till I can no longer see those damn city lights
People warn me of the dangers of being alone in there
But that free feeling of isolation makes me not care
They say there are demons and creatures of the dark
Murderers and rapists lurking in my beloved park
I laugh it all off, tell them it all has to be a joke
As my running feet free me from society's yoke
The cold nips sharply, chilling my exposed skin
As the smell of heady pine air makes my head spin
The darkness smothers me, a deathly deep bath
So omnipresent and heavy I can barely see my path
Tonight the forest is different, menacing by design
I shake my head to clear these thoughts from my mind
Paranoid, I think, with just a sombre little giggle
But so nervously, as those thoughts still niggle
My eyes dart throught the leaning trees behind me
As I imagine all the horrors that may find me
Imagination can be so vivid, when it is so pure
I run a little faster, stretching out, just to be sure
A crack behind me, a foot fall I have no doubt
I sprint now, panting as all my bravery gives out
Branches whip at my arms and face, finding blood
As panic rises in my throat and my fear is a flood
Another loud crack, a foot fall, yes a foot fall
Fear biting at my heels, I sprint, with nary a stall
My blood runs cold as my heart turns to ice
Panic blinds me, adrenalin will have to suffice
A protruding root catches my foot, I never did see
But a half buried sharpened branch rises up at me
A single trip on that damned root was all it took
The cost of blindly running, panicking, with out a look
I cry out as the stake pierces right through my heart
As my scattered thoughts are blown right apart
Impaled, crying, with death right before my eyes
I turn back to see the harbinger of my demise
A murderer, a rapist or something more sinister
A witch, a ghost, or a ghoulish satanic minister
As the dregs of my life bleed out I find it funny
The cause of my death was a simple wood bunny
Tammi Alexander
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
INFRA DIG!
They'll find us
in the sedimentary rocks
and wonder
at the way we lived;
the mess we made,
the waste,
the haste,
the hurry to become
a thin dark layer
in strata.
Tony O’Donnell
MABO
Song of the Land!
The name we should not speak ....
has put to an end the unspeakable.
Where was I? Where was I before?
Where was I before I became?
Where was I before I became what I am?
Why - in the land of course! Where else?
What am I? These bones, this flesh, this .... thinking!
What else?
The Land! The Land! The Land!
Where are you -
whose names we should not .... mention?
I see you! You stand before me, endlessly, silently!
You, who cannot speak, smile at me warmly, encouraging me!
You are so .... many peoples!
Nations, tribes, families and .... fellas!
You are …. but one!
The Land! The Land! The Land!
I see you! You stretch before me, eternally, maternally!
You, who cannot move, beckon to me calmly, invitingly!
You have so many .... colours!
Red and gold and black and brown. And white!
The Land! The Land! The Land!
I hear you! You echo around me, noisily, hauntingly!
You, who cannot see, watch over me safely, lovingly!
You have so many .... noises -
Wind and rain and rock and flow! And fire!
The Land! The Land! The Land!
I feel you! You wrap about me, snugly, protectively!
You, who cannot hear, listen to me wisely, attentively!
You have so many .... textures -
Grit and chalk and wet and cold. And hot!
The Land! The Land! The Land!
I taste you! You suckle into me, milkily, nourishingly!
You, who cannot feel, caress me lightly, tenderly!
You have so many .... flavours -
Sweet and tart and spice and herb. And fresh!
The Land! The Land! The Land!
Where will I be? Where will I be after?
Where will I be after I go?
Where will I be after I go from here?
Why - in the land of course! Where else?
What am I? These bones, this flesh, this .... knowing!
What else?
The Land! The Land! The Land!
Where are you whose name -
Mabo! Mabo! Mabo! - lives on?
The name we will always respect ....
has returned us to the inevitable –
THE LAND! THE LAND! THE LAND!
Tony O’Donnell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ritual
The woman surveyed the wood heap,
splintered and wet and red.
The woman stared at the sky,
sullen and drawn in lead.
She drank in the rain overlain
with orange blossom sweetness
and the heady jasmines on the fence.
Clutching the teapot tightly
in the pre dawn gleam,
she flung its leaves, an offering,
into her domain;
turned in her slippers
and marched back to the house again.
Virginia O’Keeffe
Towong January
Car lights in the night leading to White’s blockhouse farm.
Above the sky, black slate slit along the mountain crest
lets in the moonlight creamy night after rain.
Three shades of black make up the mountain, hills and river:
no water now, just stones where once an island rose.
Cockatoos have long since ceased their raucous cries;
the magpies carolled one bell. Down, above the campers’ tents,
lit by soft diffusing gas, kookaburras laughed, then fell silent.
But a lone plover, wings slicing up the night,
creaks its call across the flats and willows.
The cars turns and makes for town, its lamp beams silhouettes
the elms before the river banks and mint beds.
Suddenly the bridge planks flap angrily.
Two rattles beyond the bend the car disappears.
“I think I’m ok now,” says
my mother; octogenarian.
who has crossed four states
in thirty six hours and was
mightily confused in the
hubbub of Kingsford Smith
runways, stairs, travelators,
steel trolleys, fast food joints.
“I’m home now.”
Virginia O’Keeffe
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As The Little Child
Invisible children voiceless to speak
Opinions seldom heard powerless to change.
Where do they live who is their advocate?
No one protecting them children in pain
Little children have rights to survive
Express their views freely hold their heads high.
Wearing many faces spectrum of emotions
But as little children they dare not cry
One in six around the world denied a childhood to survive
Working in mines working to time
Hazardous conditions no contracts signed
Equal Opportunity non-existent, silent voices echo “it’s just not fair”
Domestic servants in the home behind the walls hidden from view
Girls exploited and abused, repetitive jobs shining shoes
Illegal businesses employing children making leather and jewellery too
Confined to beatings, reduced to slavery, children disabled can this be true?
Child soldiers in armed conflict used as spies or human shields
Bonded child labour, generational debt
Prone to Tuberculosis deprived of any help
Mental scars and nightmares, totally entrapped
Children working too many hours,
Too many days with little to no pay
Disabled, deprived stunted in growth,
Confined to smoke fumes every day
No advocacy in sight exposed to physical pain
Nothing to gain often left maimed
Lack of dignity no human decency
Two hundred million our universal shame
Rise up and mobilize for this worthy cause
The voices that we have unlike the little child
Their right to survive and be respected on our globe
The right to develop as the little child
Education a reality full time schooling their right,
May learning be a part of the little child
Learn about the issue support the worthy cause
Go raise the awareness of the little child
Children are our future children are our jewels
Society must be built to accept and house the little child
Gloria M Daniels
Where have all the Frogs Gone?
These long tailless amphibians with bulging eyes
Long back legs thin moist skin
Travelled the planet for millions of years
Multiply in numbers during the spring
Sit there pondering, puzzled and perplexed
At what human kind have done to their home
Polluting the water, replacing their habitat,
Building towns and cities so no more can they roam
We travel here, we travel there,
We use to travel everywhere
With croaking voices, attract our lovers
Together we huddle in underground cover
Our hairless body, our seven seven sight
Helps us to capture a tender bite
Dwell in trees, we are urged to breed
But what about our environmental plight
A frogless earth no tadpoles to breed
Humans have conquered in their endless greed
Cold-blooded creatures all looking for homes
“The toad has advanced” they all chant and bemoan
There are green frogs, brown frogs, red and blue
Poison glands stick together like glue
Rapid sticky tongue helps capture their prey
Fun loving creatures just love to play
When I was young there were frogs galore
All seeking attention right outside my door
I pet them, cuddle them and hug them so tight
They sat there and looked - never once did they bite
Into the garden I carried my wee friends
Camouflaged in the undergrowth they sit and pretend
Way passed the cow shed and down to the trough
To view their wee babies in their jelly –like cot
Now adult am I garden in full bloom
So I should be jumping over the moon
But sadness befalls me as I look around,
No croaks no ponds no frogs to be found
Where once were gum trees, wrapped in endless bark
And other native trees wavering in the park
Lifetime of species with food chain in wild
Frogs now shattered by suburban miles
These little creatures once in backyard
Replaced by statues three foot tall
Silent unmoving with painted expressions
My frog friends beside me are afraid they may fall
Pests in our garden no frogs to contain
Get out the poison we’ll spray to maintain
I search and I listen where once there were ponds
But where oh where have all the frogs gone?
Gloria M Daniels
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dust and debt
He views his world from below the brim of his hat,
a boiling landscape where distant trees live
in animated frustration.
The familiar smell of rotting carcasses
no longer stirs his revulsion as he sails through clouds
of flies – black snowflakes from a tropical sky.
An alien movement choreographed by a mirage.
A hide-clad skeleton tries to rise - then lies
exhausted in the dust.
The crack of the round is God-like
in that silent world and in an instant
the suffering has ended
Like a beggar’s bowl the hollow holds only dust
where months before the ducks swam
and the cattle drank.
The windmill sits defiantly waiting
for a breeze that doesn’t come.
When the rains return it will have forgotten what to do.
The man with the money will turn his page.
The man in the hat will shake his head
and mend his fences.
Peter Rondel
(Highly commended in the Talus Prize 2008, Edith Cowan University)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Moonlit Nit
The pub was really crowded and my friends were in fine form;
we drank ourselves quite senseless (as was usually the norm),
and since I wasn't driving and the night was fine and still
I left them all still drinking and set off up the hill.
And as I passed the graveyard with its leaning, ancient stones
I found my steps were falt'ring as I pondered all those bones...
I must admit the drink had rather gone straight to my head
and I fell into a hole just dug for persons freshly dead.
It was equitably comfy, so I fell into a sleep,
and dreamed of spectral shepherds herding flocks of ghostly sheep,
but somewhere in the wee small hours I woke up with a start
with a thrumming in my ears and a pounding in my heart.
I saw a slit above me filled with moonlight pearly white,
but closely silhouetted was a terrifying sight!
Two creatures stood above me, both half-rotted and quite foul,
with eyeballs widely staring like a gruesome midnight owl!
I blinked in frightened horror through my boozy, addled haze ~
completely unaware that they mirrored the same gaze.
... I started to apologise for taking up their space
and realised with chagrin I must look quite a disgrace.
The first leaned down to help me, but its hand came off in mine,
and the other laughed so heartily its head fell off its spine.
I scrambled and I scrabbled, and clawed up to the rim,
then offered my condolences, my dirty face quite grim.
Now, the moral of this story, as you've probably surmised,
is: don't fall into holes not yours ~ it's really ill-advised.
When people throw their hands in or maybe lose their heads,
it says to us that all good folk should be safely in their beds!
Louise Evans
The Poet Floreate
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Romance On Stilts
Midland Gate Shopping Mall
Figures between puppet and life,
wading-through-water movements
confined to waltz time,
the stilt-walker, a black Svengali,
conducts his partner’s every move.
She, red-turbanned on one metal leg,
diaphonous skirt swirling,
slender stocking arms around his neck,
painted eyes gazing adoration,
compliant, clinging, twisting, turning
at his skilful command.
European dance hall music
echoes a bygone age
invading today’s shopping mall,
women who dismiss dependence
carrying flowers, scented candles,
planning intimate dinners,
holding on to romance.
Sally Clarke
I Could Write Poetry
Soaring with condors
on Andean currents
Black-veiled on a camel
sailing the Sahara
Climbing the Himalayas
without oxygen
Herding wild elephants
on an African veldt
Endlessly sliding down
green-white glaciers
Watching Canada geese
strand autumn
Awesomely insignificant
at the Grand Canyon
Trekking Tibet
towards reincarnation
In suburbia there are
other opportunities
Sally Clarke
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bare at the beach
In crystalline minerals people sit to pay homage
to earth and sea. There are days here when paradise
is laid at your feet, free, a gift of sea colours
made luminescent in southern sun. Reef laid bare like ribs,
full cast ocean tide asunder and then
the sea she gives to me that come hither look,
and I am all bare flesh and sex on hot afternoons,
the sand the salt the sweat the rhythms rising.
Miranda Aitken
Hippies in the river
Hippies in the river
are there to wash smooth skin
Loose tendrils of pubic hair adorn
the black bark of a fallen forest giant
bare bums turn tea-coloured
as washing and rinsing turns to play
and we kick off across the river’s deep,
her depths unknown, her hidden creatures
a mystery. Back on the log
flesh, bark,
water, tree and light
fuse
as sun dries skin washed river clean
Miranda Aitken
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Picasso and time
Picassos hang on museum walls
he had his time his time
a time of multi-coloured madness
his tormented short-lived mind so alive
paintings unrivalled over time.
scholarly academics
publish copious papers and books
as if they were Sigmund Freud
trying to dissect him -
he strolled though the countryside of his friend
stopped to paint lilies in the field.
His old Parisian world
of stained ceilings tarnished windowpanes
lipstick smears on dead-end butts
ashtrays spilling over
blood-red wine stains and leftover
bread crumbs on tables.
A clock ticks and ticks telling time
the night’s discussions and revellers depart
the door closes for another night
another time in time.
outside they walk past the drunk
sprawled in the sidewalk gutter
paper bottle still held in his hand
water spilling round past him down the drain
is it his time-time is irrelevant
there is no time at this point in time
Picasso hangs ageless
like this World.
David Barnes
tragic beauty
in the wilds
a cry filters through bare branches
brittle from winters tryst.
an eagle dies in iciness
bones scatter in the spring
reflections cry across wilderness
pictures on waterscapes
circle - glide
David Barnes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Physickal
Waves in my ventricles keep on buoying
Boats that want to capsize
Race tracks on my forehead are toying
With the idea of entering my eyes.
Wrists centrifugate with perpendicular intensity
Whirlpools the navel with umbilical force
Arching of the toes welcomes the propensity
To trace each bead of sweat to its source.
Sidelocks fade in maternal moisture
To resurrect and live as protein in nails
Elbows find that every posture
To make things less funny fails.
The amphi-theatre in the ear conducts
Shows every night under starlit skies
As scraping lips reluctantly induct
Pungent, onion-like layers of odours energised.
The architecture of my nose is founded
On designs thieved in the rush of creation.
The fabric of my back is pounded
With spiked follicles for sharp penetration.
Eyebrows are itching to come together
To form knots and rounds and shapes
Seeing which none can make out whether
His mouth is surprised when it gapes.
Subramanian Shankar
TEDIUM
Getting packed in the matchbox
That moves and jerks and is connected
With so many more, moving
Toward the end which is the start
Of another stage in our moving
Toward our occupational hazards.
We begin another day
In the empty security of our routine.
Scribbling, scratching, snapping, shirking,
The day is divided into so many pieces
Which are glued together with caffeine,
Tobacco, and other feelgoods.
Grabbing our grub we poke fun at each
Other's idiotics and foolishms and the
Blandest of dough tastes so much
Better than it was intended to.
We get down to look at feminine endowments
And have the nerves to ogle and pop our eyes
Which bulge in proportion to the rounds
And curves they lecherously behold.
Back at the desks we are greeted by an
Unforgiving aria of phones which is orchestrated
By our own confusions, gaps, shortisms
And we all but despondently respond.
Out of the inner inertia emerge special moments
Of joy and genius which are modified and
Even played down to multiple opinions and
After some pull and plough emerges a communication something.
Now that it's happened, we get back to dullery
And bide our time with consciences which
Are numb to their own pricking and we exhibit
The freaks in us and laugh and laugh till we cough.
Then the hands of deliverance herald the close
Of this claustrophobic experience and I get
Into the jerky match box and alight to light
My own matchbox as I drag on suburban ground.
Subramanian Shankar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Praises & Singing
In the pursuit of excellence, some get left behind
Shape up and ship out, criticised behind their back
For those chasing the elusive goal, frustrate their mind
challenge themselves to become better and attack
the competition with confidence.
Disappointment after another then struggle to jump a fence
Climb a ladder of popularity to prosperity
If there is any money in the venture, never a salary
Prize’s won in their undertaking enlightens self fulfilment
While others scowl at the winner enviously
When it should be praises and singing for their achievement
Such is the awful spirit of humankind
When applause should be grand, rather there’s a lack
of it. I’m amazed at this when I remind
myself that winners are celebrated, the losers that
never win always take the chance
Never give up take the stance
Though their craft be not academically
pursued, they plough on proud and happily
Persevere not to be brilliant
They love their art and lack vocabulary
When it should be praises and singing for their achievement
Should they then be excluded? Should we remind
them there is no place for them? Should we not reflect
at our beginning as we learned to refine
the craft and evolved as a silverback
Protecting its integrity and dispense
with those that do not meet the challenge. The defence
is not the pursuit for the intellectual but for everyone
to participate and enjoy, sadly
to say there are those whom think their omnipotent
Pass judgement with objective subjectivity
When it should be praises and singing for their achievement
Should craft be measure on a yard stick? The necessity
for opinion is human nature’s brutality
Where self expression is paramount
A pursuit to find your voice is finality
When it should be praise and singing at their achievement
Mick Mezza
We will remember them
In the courtyard the night was framed
Scorpio and the Southern Cross moved into the picture
Charged cups, toasted to fallen stars
Lament on the cold autumn breeze
The black buds of May once visited upon us
A permanent stain sketched into memory
Can’t wash away these obscure reminders
No news, we drink and persevere happily
We talked of modern poets, their now distant passed
Reflecting on friendship, entwined by art
The thread that spins a tapestry that fruits at our heart
The black buds of May that tears us up.
Mick Mezza
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Beginning
Begin
as all must have a beginning
Somewhere
someone
This is inevitable
Even if you do not bring this about yourself for
the universe does not sleep but flows
If you find yourself sitting anywhere
hold true to earth wind fire mountain where
change is the only truth we can count on and
in that find peace
False peace is an idol we seek but which is easily shattered
we are left with shards and scatteredness
Stand on mountain instead
warm by the fire
feel the breeze
stability on earth even as the wind howls
Christopher Konrad
Strength
The eye of the vernacular
Lingua franca
Call it what you will
It’s the breeze through your hair
The Romeo and Juliet
Fall of the messenger’s footsteps as
We stroll in the dark
The sway of the tide
Christopher Konrad
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After Donne’s Flea
Come on baby
Give it up
I’m just a flea
I’d like a suck
Of your sweet blood
You can’t deny
I know you want me
Caught my eye
So if this flea
Sucked me then you
Well, baby that’s kinda
What I'm asking, too
Stop shaking your head
And open your mind
Open your legs
See what we’ll find
Ah, damn it, girl
You killed it, see
The drop of blood
From that small flea
Upon this, my bed
That I left unmade
Incase you relented
And I got laid
The flea had you
Untasted by me
Your sweet, cross-legged
Virginity
Paula Jones
Albany Through a Window
At the window I am doing my hair
At the window I am watching for whales
At the window I am blowing at fog
At the window a thin thread of smoke rises
At the window a town opens a sleepy eye
At the window the jetty crooks an elbow
At the window the turbines turn on the hill
At the window a house leaves a light on
At the window the finches pinch at peppermints
At the window the bay is a pearlesque portrait
At the window I frame a leaning landscape
At the window my breath becomes air
At the window I could be something wonderful
At the window you are miles from me
And yet the moon is the same tossed coin
At the window moths bring in the dark
With their ghostlike, chalky wings
At the window the bay holds breath til morning
Paula Jones
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I AM COLOURED
I am COLOURED – what do you see
When furtively you look at me?
Fuzzy hair and dark skinned face,
A creature of a different race. ?
I’m placed in a category
Separating you from me.
I am COLOURED – what do you feel?
What prejudice do you reveal ?
Am I a person you can trust
Or am I full of hate and lust?
Could you accept me as your child
Or a stranger to be reviled?
I am COLOURED – what do you say
When you pass me on your way?
Do I get a welcome smile
Or are your words curt and vile?
Like “Go back home where you belong!”
Or sweeter words like a bird song.
I am COLOURED - what do you think
When you know my craft could sink
Coming unwanted to your shore?
Do you worry how many more
Wretched tortured souls might come
Seeking a place under the sun?
I am COLOURED – what do you do
For a human being just like you?
Escaping war and violation
Hoping for peace in this free nation,
Can you act right from the heart
And help us make a brand new start?
I am COLOURED and do declare
This land is rich enough to share
It’s wealth with many folks like me –
Not “them” and “us” but all are “we”
Contributing to this great land
Working together hand in hand.
Meryl Manoy
TO MY BELOVED
(OVER 50 YEARS MARRIED)
i LOVE YOUR GENTLENESS AND CONSIDERATION
i LOVE YOUR SENSE OF FUN.
i LOVE THE WAY YOU SHOW APPRECIATION
fOR LITTLE THINGS i’VE DONE.
i LOVETHE WAY WE SHARE TOGETHER
iNTERESTS LARGE AND SMALL
tHE WAY WE GO INTO FITS OF LAUGHTER
oVER NOTHING MUCH AT ALL.
i LOVE THE WAY YOU OFFER HELP
wITH THINGS i HAVE TO DO –
tO SUM IT UP, i LOVE YOU MOST
jUST BECAUSE YOU’RE you.
Meryl Manoy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lifes Great Light - My Friend
The beauty,the value in my life
I realise are the stars.
And those stars, my friends
theres nothing brighter,or more sure
on which I can depend.
This is what I know
to be the greatest truth
If I lose somehow those stars in my sky
I lose myself,as I lose you.
Reflecting back to me
the shine, the mystery,
the dark backdrop of a black black night
I could gaze into that for all eternity;
a tunnel of black is that,
through the maze of my mind,
an endless puzzle
up,around,and back to black is all I find.
So here you are,my shining star
within this stickiness, sorrow and fear
Please keep your light bright in the night
and I will always keep you near.
Ali Carter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lowering of the Sun
The day bestows its dawn upon us
mist is clearing, the clouds are almost no more
the leaves go to n fro with a gentle gust
as if sumone has opened up the door.
I hear the cars whirl by, the birds they sing
the footsteps of others as they approach
friends and foe alike to share in the gathering
yet so into my silence they do encroach
For this day is unlike any other
and into the darkness I dare not to slip
as in any other place else I would rather
then to be here on the verge of losing my grip
I do fear the darkness, even as it arrives
its meaning is full of loss and despair
a struggle where one so rarely survives
as it comes to take my loved one there
My inner strength is drained as I let go
of the past the present, and the future no more
my heart so filled with confusion, pain and woe
as all at once it is time to shut the door
The porthole between us closing, like a final test
with only our memories to keep us as one
as into the earth they lay you lovingly to rest
your spirit soaring with the lowerin of the sun
Emily Schurman
(Dedication – SARC)
Haven
She loses herself in the rocking
Of the corner where she sways
All bundled in this haven
Safely forgetting away the days
To shut away all that is
The life the love the pain
For sometimes it is all too much
And the wish is for life to wane
Just vanish from existence
Even if only for a while
To not go on pretending
Or hiding behind that smile
As every now and then
What just is must be sown
Taking stock of all around
The good the bad the grown
For in this world of plenty
There is no time for such
So to the corner I must flee
The corner which sees so much
Emily Schurman
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHANNELLED ENERGY
Jump in back, you kids
up in back o’ ute, under tarp.
Quiet now, like little
tadpoles – no, not wrigglers!
Police might catch us.
Too many tadpoles
no seat belts.
OK, all out!
Here – take them strings and bait.
Watch us catch them
yabbies in channel
Wall Flat channel.
Now you kids!
Jimmy, you got some?
Yeahs, three. But need thirteen.
Promised thirteen
old ladies. Yabbies been ordered.
Saving biggest but
for my grandmother!
You kids done all right
today. Better than
makin’ trouble in town, ana?
Trouble is, gove’nment filling
them channels soon.
No yabbies then, eh kids?
Max Merckenschlager
PASSING SWANS
Three drifting notes
on a liquid sheet
score music for my soul.
Max Merckenschlager
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Old Hector
He’d be sitting on the footpath as I walked by each day.
His skin that once was shiny black, it seemed a mottled grey.
Beneath the Poinciana tree, the sunlight’s dappled shade,
Hid disfigurations that the sun and time had made.
A pair of faded, once black shorts, was all Old Hector wore;
With reading glasses on his head, though I don’t know what for.
I never saw him read a book, I’m told he knew not how,
But he knew well, the book of life; On that I’d take a vow.
For I’d been told that in his day, he’d been a man of worth,
Known for his special skills, from Wyndham down to Perth.
For he could read the signs he saw, like footprints in the sand;
He could always find fresh water in this dusty arid land.
He’d track the flight of finches: He’d watch the eagles soar.
He’d see the trees along the creek from fifteen miles or more:
And food, he’d find, enough for all, when there was none to see.
A kangaroo, deep in the shade, beneath a stunted tree.
The old explorers knew him well, his skills they’d often use.
A young man then, his name unsung, he didn’t make the news;
For he was black, and if at all, his presence got a note;
“Accompanied by a black tracker” was all the papers wrote.
But had he not been with them, The chances are today
The history that we learned at school, would read a different way.
For the names that fill the journals, of travels far and wide
Would be, like Burke and Wills are known. Just known for how they died.
The tribal scars that on his chest, he’d once displayed with pride
Some people now, within the town, insisted that he hide.
But Hector took no notice; he owned no shirt and tie,
He sat bare-chested on the path, as people walked on by.
Some turn away as they walk past, as if he wasn’t there.
A few cross to the other side, and some, they stop and stare.
But one or two, including me, we’d nod and say G’day.
He’d raise a hand, (he rarely spoke), and we’d go on our way.
And he would sit with tired eyes, beneath his silver hair,
A swarm of flies around his face, he didn’t seem to care.
He’d gaze up at the mountain-side, a smile upon his lips.
Perhaps he was remembering, those past exploring trips.
I don’t know much about him, there’s very few that do.
I’m told he had a family once, but they died from the flu.
I’d heard he used to help police, to find folks who were lost;
That he could ride a wild horse, and rarely he’d get tossed.
But who can know what is the truth, it’s all too long ago.
He’s sat upon the footpath here, for twenty years or so.
How old is he? I’ve no idea, perhaps he’s eighty five.
The folks who knew him in his youth, there’s few of them alive.
The district nurse looks after him, makes sure that he is fed.
He’s got a room around the back, It’s where he has his bed.
There’s some who say, he shouldn’t be, allowed to sit and stare,
The footpath is no place for him, that he should be in care.
But I believe that where he sits, is where he wants to be;
In the dappled shade beneath the Poinciana tree.
I know, one day, he wont be there. His life will pass away.
But I’ll still see Old Hector there, and I’ll still say, G’day.
Brian Langley
The Forest
Can you see the soft leaves falling?
Do you hear the songbirds calling?
In the lush green forest tree tops
That shades the sunlight’s glare.
Do you see the orchids showing?
By the maidenhair fern growing.
In the misty gentle raindrops,
And there’s beauty everywhere.
Can you hear the axe blows ringing?
Do you hear the saw blade singing?
Do you hear the crash of thunder?
As the forest giants fall.
Can you see the forest dwindling?
As it’s all reduced to kindling.
Do you ever stop to wonder?
At the reason for it all.
Can you see the forest dying?
Do you hear the sound of crying?
In the valleys where the river
Has become a salty creek.
No more orchids shyly flowering,
‘Neath the forest giants towering.
And the whole world seems to shiver.
And the tears run down your cheek.
No more the soft leaves falling.
No more the song birds calling.
As they flutter through the tree tops,
For there are no tree tops there.
And there’s almost nothing growing,
For the desert wind is blowing.
And there isn’t any raindrops.
And there’s few who seem to care.
Brian Langley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BY THE SEASHORE
The reckless waves
Crash on the innocent shore,
Child-fortresses, dispersed dreams,
No more.
The ubiquitous seagulls
Haggle in shrill voices,
Suspended above the wrinkled sea,
From whence they dive upon their meal below.
The young sculptors
Resume their futile tasks,
Caressing the patient sand
Into fantastic designs,
While the mothers watch with pride
Their artists by the sea.
Nick di Lello
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wasp
Pergola over vine leaves shade
mother's life
Wasps
pick
leftovers from cracks
in rocks
leave behind
the day still
as yesterday
Under the pergola they sit
checked napkins with cups
plates coloured
speckled plum
figs in grandmother's pocket
hide dessert
Her shoulders list between blades
Rose van Son
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
