Karen Knight........ Dawn Bruce........ David Barnes ........
Jan Price ........ Michael Williams ........trisha kotai-ewers ........
Prasenjit Maiti ........Suzanne Covich ........ Kevin Gillam ........
Michael Haig ........ Maureen Sexton
Mickydebricky ,,,
.......
Through winter sunlight
shadows skew across my path,
dour faces loom down corridors.
I struggle to shrug off
sound and sight of callous hands.
Comfort lies waiting
in fleeting glimpse
of browns, greens and yellows,
their outlines rounded
to encompassing curves,
like a mother enveloping
her disjointed offspring.
I move on, consoled,
angles of the day deflected
by power of pale splendour.
Dawn Bruce
Painting
Light scratches
in cobwebbed lines
through dusty panes
of an old house...
smell of snuffed candle
overpowers scent
risen from yellowed pages
turned slowly...
echo of heavy hours
of the long night
diminish, fade
to soft whispers
of a new day.
I reach out
to touch.
Flat hard paint
repels.
Dawn Bruce
Autumn Night
The night before Winter
infertile air descended,
scoured the colour
from my garden.
That night
began the clog of drains
and snap of bones,
began a mildew lace
on polished legs
of unused chairs and tables,
began the fraud of fire
in hiss and purr of gas.
The odour of mould
and dying things
seeped through the cracks
of walls,
split the night
into iron-grey shadows,
thinned your words
to shards of glass
left me gasping,
drowning in the blood
of the dying Autumn night.
Dawn Bruce
Dawn Bruce, a Sydney poet, has been widely published throughout Australia in literary magazines, journals,anthologies and newspapers. She has won many poetry prizes in Australian-wide competitions and read herwork on Sydney radio. Dawn is co-ordinator for the poetry group Somerset Poets which has recently received a highly commended award for a body of work. 'Outside Looking In ' is the title of their first
anthology published December 2000.
He eased himself out of his bed
where he'd wrestled all week
with whiskey.
Put his favourite brown suit on
the one he used to wear at parades
and walked barefoot into town
with a tin of green paint and a brush.
He painted broken fences
sick trees
old dogs
the dying grass.
He walked to the bridge
with the last of the green paint
and he wrote
DON'T JUMP.
Then he went home
carrying a brown paper bag
that promised he'd never go out again.
(ii) The Final Salute
Four men lift a scarecrow load
into the local hearse
a black shining relic, solid
like the man inside once was.
An hour ago, four men
carried bundles of his clothing
to the opportunity shop.
Some of them seemed almost warm
so the dealer said.
His favourite brown suit
the one he wore at parades
is quickly cleaned and propped up
in the cluttered window
and as the hearse moves past
it raises an empty arm
in final salute.
Karen Knight
Bad Scene
If I didn't treat each day like a festival
if I didn't bang pots around
if I didn't laugh from the bottom of my belly
I might have heard those restless birds.
If I didn't brew up strong expressos
if I didn't vacuum the floors
if I didn't hear noise in so many rumours
I might have heard those restless birds.
If I didn't dance to Julian's African drum
if I didn't clap with the thunder
if I didn't talk to my disturbed friends
I might have heard those restless birds.
If I didn't throw bricks at walls
if I didn't ring bells
if I didn't hammer out such long letters
I might have heard those restless birds.
If I hadn't played games with the ghost of my dog
if I hadn't hung around to tell tales
there wouldn't be this mess of feathers
under the apricot tree.
Karen Knight
Sorrow
The homeless cat shrinks
beneath a man fern.
His coat stares
after the rain.
On the verandah
a girl tries to get high
sniffing the life
from a bell shaped flower.
Her daily rush of blue.
Along the path
snails head towards the workmen
in Blundstone boots.
Away from the pallor
of the nurses
the old magazines that keep
Princess Diana alive,
I wheel my mother into
the last blade of sunshine.
Karen Knight
Karen Knight's poetry continues to be widely published in literary journals and anthologies throughout Australia and overseas.
She is currently working on a collection of poems, with the assistance of an Artist's Development Grant from Arts Tasmania, to be published in early 2003 by Salmon Publishing, Ireland.
Karen's latest collection Singing in the Grain (Walleah Press) is available for $10, including postage. Contact Karen via email kknight@trump.net.au or by post to 26 Corinda Grove, West Moonah. Tasmania 7009.
The Descent from Ward 4 North ...
I.
A sinister clattering announces
the impending doom of breakfast
I know a call to action
But I've got quite comfortable on this floor
with all the sheets
and blankets
the pillow's had it
puffed out
in a corner
It's a bit damp here
but Nick's quite happy
rocking forward and backward or
... is it backward ,,,,,and forward?
I turn to my son, "Nick"
I reach out / touch his face
his skin pulls tight
against my hand
I force his eyes to meet mine
and it hurts
"Nick I am going
I will be back when lunch comes"
The words are just for my comfort
so I can kid myself
They hang
pegged
in the empty air
by futility
he goes back to his rocking
I with motherly wisdom omit
the hug and kiss
only I ,,,,,am bereft
II.
leaning against the nurse's station
I pause breath hungry
even top Mums are allowed a little support
Congratulations Barb
that exit
was finely timed ,,,,,beat
the tray by about ,,,,,thirty seconds?
What a crash!
one of his best
yes, that's my boy!
My son knows how
to deal with hospital food
I stretch my voice out
to a white back, that's bent
away from me
... not a flicker of response
Barb hold the voice firm and ...
Now that message was clear even to
the dullest, most fin-like set
of shoulder-blades ,,,,So, come on
sneak ,,,,a few more steps ...
But the sounds of shattering has seeped
beneath my skin ,,,,,and my feet
are showing a deplorable lack of decision.
Surely some one is going
to arbitrate
Nick's dispute with breakfast
A good Mum - would go back
scrub Nick
scrape the floor
soothe even Sister Jones
and still arrive at outpatients
prepared with a smile
for a stint ,,,,of patient waiting
No! No! No bloody NO!
This morning my son is all theirs
Lying in wait for me ... is
that boyish whiz with the syringe
Dr Williams
Kathryn Hamann
_______________________________________________________________
This is the first poem in Kathryn Hamann 's verse novel, Pelargoniums. The
book can be ordered from Autism Victoria by contacting Amanda Golding on
(03) 9885 0533 or emailing Autism Victoria: admin@autismvictoria.org.au or
directly from the author, hamann_k@optusnet.com.au. All proceeds will be
donated to Autism Victoria. (SEE Gigsn'ads)
Over the Glads
Yes, he is a handsome lad
and yes that's her
See Liz? - there in the background
He blames me, Frank does
but what did I? ,,,have to do with it
All of you - have a piece
of my sponge light
isn't it?
The money
well there wasn't any of it
wasn't going to stretch to another
so I said I'm not working
not with two of them
after all
there was sure to be a job
somewhere
another cup of tea, Marge?
lots of milk
there just as you like it
Frank said I had to get rid of her
put her out for adoption
and while I was at it - why not the other one?
- it's a laugh really ,,,who'd have them -
But yes, that's what he said
have the pair of them adopted
then ,you could go back to work
they're really missing you
Oh, you like the tarts?
the lemon butter?
oozes a little?
I said no
give me the back of your hand as much as you like
I'm still saying
NO
Barb, the bathroom's just round
the corner ,,,, clean towels left-
hand cupboard
And what did I get after all that
a girl
a great fat lump
though's she's lost a bit since
you know when she was born ....
Oh yes, I'm so glad you all like the shortbread
So Frank's got a job
selling things
refrigeration and all that
He takes them off
turns on the charm
and a liquid lunch
before they know it
they've signed
don't feel a thing
He's a great hit
down at the factory
a dispute breaks out
and next minute
he's got everyone down
at the pub ,,,eating
out ,,,of his hand
You have to agree the least time
they're underfoot
the better
Now Marge ,,,I promised you some tips
on how ,,,to get your plum jam
to set ,,,ah here's an old letter ...
Oh, don't worry about the noise
nap isn't due to end
for at least another hour
she's nine months now
knows
to stop
Now the rest of you try - the cupcakes
clotted cream
Frank got it from a mate
Kathryn Hamann
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________
Bush fire
It was a big one
even my wheezing father
said he had to go
So we took him that night
drawn by a beacon
The fire was layers of red
the tongues of Pentecost gone feral
speaking what we had no ears to hear
Thick black smoke swirled out enfolding
us in an incense that seared
senses into oblivion
We watched as Dad became a small dot lost
to the absurdity that a single squat line ,, could
halt ,,, the approach of leaping banners of flame
The wind shifted
and suddenly the air was starred
with the fire's spawn, sparks which
as they reached the ground
leapt up fully armed
mum spun the car
flat-footing it for home
Two days later ,,, came a blackened Dad
his chest at a new crescendo
The coughing tore him apart
brought up mucus peppered with ash
When all was cold great-aunt Eleanor
took my hand and walked me
through a muted forest of black
flecked with every shade of grey
Making me shy ,,,,her voice shrilled
too loud Kate dear ,,,,,you must not be
sad ,,,,This ,,,,will swell with life
You see ,,,,heat from the fire cracked
the seeds ,,,,and even now
shoots ,,,, are pushing up and up
determined ,,,,on the sun
but I could not see
beyond ,,,,the vast stretches of death
It has been ,,,, a lifetime
I have still ,,,,to acquire faith
Kathryn Hamann
(previously published in Port Lincoln Gazette January 2001)
Sacrifice
Summer holidays we made our escape
from father ,,, overnight train / morning tunnels,
an eternity of stale car air ,,,then
we were coming through the back
verandah pushing open the kitchen door
Grandma would smile at us from
within a halo of sun-silvered hair
she never left the milk
boiling on the electric stove
she had no belief ,,,in pasteurisation
the welcome cup of Grandma tea
had milk skin
There were two raised gas burners
lit on Fridays ,,,flaming towers
for the sacrifice of a gift of fish
cleaned on the old log
under the vine that never bore
The old stove crouched within the chimney
which never needed to be cleaned
Its yellow front kept polished
the raw black top age-engraved
demoted to a holding place
for tins overflowing with scraps of
bread and porridge for ever hungry chickens
As a child I put my face to its door
felt the cold through my skin
my hands expressing sympathy for one
that never knew warmth
remembering fairy tales of witches
but not even I
could see Grandma as a witch
only that smile of welcome
- an article of belief
yet as my mother said, being
a child of strange fancies
I wondered
if I were
to prise open that oven door
crawl inside
Would the old stove's heart
spring to life
smoking my flesh
a fit dish for
a waiting father
Kathryn Hamann
Thin grey strands drift upward;
heat reminds me of the cigarette,
held, forgotten.
And then,
I looked for my lost reading glasses;
find them; inert on my nose.
That I listened,
to my young son playing softly on his piano
is no excuse; I criticize my forgetfulness.
Why does it trouble me?
Strands of my hair fall,
one by one, with the stroke of a brush;
I have a half-veil over my eyes
not wishing to acknowledge them.
Watching them float away, silent as time.
(c) deBarnes august 2001 -12th
Central station
They say
most of the brain closes down,
under stress ...
Hearing
Beethoven's ninth,
taking back streets in your mind:
and it's arduous
facing reality, hunters nearby,
impassive, at Perth Central station;
listening for the clatter on tracks,
at midnight,
Unnerved ...
Aware
clockwork orange, ticks close at hand,
hovering to strike.
The brain
kicks into survival mode, tense on the platform,
Waiting...
hoping,
the Samaritan on the road to Jerusalem
is around, after midnight ...
(c) deBarnes November 2000 -24th
For Libby
I have known
your touch, through the fissures
in dreams;
know
that I have loved you, from
outside in,
flesh to soul, beginning to end.
When our son
matures an oak, strong in storms,
our time shall be.
(c) deBarnes January 2001 -13
Précis
Shade moves to the rise
and fall of the sun...
it has no profile, no force
shape of its own... no colour, motion;
yet casts a never-ending
array ... of intricate patterns
on shifting landscapes:
and I shall not be in rage
when my shade fades, in
the dying sun;
....who will ever know
I basked in sun... shadow soothed,
at twilight...
Let the glitter of stars and time
fill your eyes...
let the end of all define you, against...
the dying light.
(c) deBarnes December 2000 -6
My Feminine Side
I always thought being a woman
was clear-cut.
Kids put the dishes away in the dishwasher, set it on auto,
and you had time to rest:
read a book, have a coffee, unwind.
I survey the lounge on my way outside:
it looks like World War II...
scattered, one end to the other with paraphernalia.
The lad's onto the computer, the brain's plugged in to the stereo,
earphones rocking on, fingers dancing on the keyboard,
I'm carrying in the washing.
We had an instant blackout,
a spray of verbal bullets pulled the plug.
Catch a teenager's attention and the shrapnel gets cleaned up,
a whistle, signifies you cannot see their bedroom floor,
another pile of washing walks out the of bedroom;
shirts, pants inside out from the previous nights strip show
and/or a fresh change, just for a change:
Sometimes I think I need to revolutionize, accessorize
new dress, hairdo, liven me up, make a new woman of me.
Wearing pants all the time is a drain on my feminine side.
And my masculine side needs a shower.
I juggle the hot pots and pans, dinner for two.
Kids play like they were born hard-of-hearing:
when you ask for something to be done. "What'd you say?"
"Oh! Do I have to? Right now? "But I'm watching Sabrina",
No! My cat doesn't talk; I do,
under my breath;
It must be my male side coming out, I tell myself cool it.
I thought raising a kid was a breeze.
Only,
I get lost in this role-playing; it must be my feminine side,
I've only got undies on.
Hope the neighbours aren't peeking, the perverts-
I always thought being a woman, was clear-cut.
(c) deBarnes January 2001 -08
Parkinson's Workshop
Short stanzas potent in meaning
need no biography, no explanation.
fingers tremble
slowly moving through pages,
yet with certainty the pen moves through
imposed restrictions, shifting language in precision,
words come; go by the way, discarded,
painting the colours of expression.
Seasons flow through him
pass, return; stimulating mind, implants;
hands retrieve the balancing case, colored pills
ingested, a semblance of respite from unwanted burdens.
I have learned much about Parkinson's disease
from hesitant poetic hands.
When I thought
I was empty; he fills the well with his moral fiber,
carries unwanted burdens with no stopover.
I listen to his criticisms
as he lacerates my words, moving black pigment
on crisp white pages.
We didn't ask for this
his disease, my infirmity,
though we know the broken road, word-for-word.
And he would be first to say,
short stanzas potent in meaning
need no biography, no explanation.
Dedicated to: Dennis Greene
(c)revised: deBarnes March 2001 -12th
Entreaties
I don't sleep much
anymore --
unremittingly it's naps
and snacks,
inscribing words at 5 AM.
I have prayed for relief --
there is no answer conversing
with god:
if thought
exceeds the velocity of light,
would he hear
a single muted plea?
My life
is a continually moving flash,
an inside-outside ache,
which offers no thought on how
the days will go --
It's Easter
and the only man
with the solution died
carrying his own
cross.
I carry my own,
Somewhere
between toast and coffee,
the aftertaste lingers, like prayers
waiting for god.
David Barnes
Bio'
David Edward Barnes
Born in Australia - 1943 - Paddington, New South Wales, . He began writing
at 18 years of age when he took up folk guitar, song writing, and performing
at folk centers around mainland Australia, and Tasmania. He worked as a
carpenter in Melbourne, leaving for the bush in the early 60's, finally
settling in Perth in 1972. He worked as a Real Estate Agent for 24 years
until the death of his wife; becoming a fulltime writer poet in 1996. He has
been an active Internet poet and has been published in Australia America and
England. Recently he was published in the Paris/Atlantic, an International
Journal of Creative Work. Spring issue: 2000. He is also the Publisher of
Poetry Downunder an online poetry site in Perth Western Australia. Recently
some of his works were published in an Empowa Issue 1. Anthology released in Perth W.A.
November 2000, with further publication of his work in Firefly
MagazineTennessee U.S.A Volume 29 - 2001.
more of his works are to be published in an Empowa Issue No: 2. - 2001 Anthology, due
in Perth Western Australia.
We wear black
coats you and I today
under the heavy yellow-grey
cloud in the crowd-empty park.
You carry the hook of your business
umbrella closed on your arm
like that of a wife's clenched cold hand.
You don't mind
misty silver rain
touching you, caressing you like I used to
running its tickling fingers
through and down your turned up collar
to the warmth of your neck
dotting the memory of your shoulders
with soft after-kisses in a Bed
and Breakfast country hollow.
We walk slowly, fragmenting
remnants of autumn's dying fragrance
into infinite reminiscences.
Our whispered and sighs linger white
ghosts on the frozen afternoon
beneath tattered branches
preparing for a winter.
We stop. Your resolve brakes a little.
You entwine my gloved hands tightly in yours.
Our eyes shiver rivers
You smile faintly
and say it's just the cold
I bathe
the pain in your voice
with a letting-go
goodbye.
Impassioned, half dazed,
you grasp my wrist, turning it
you kiss my racing pulse
unbuttoning my glove
taking the roses
of my perfume away with you
upon your lips.
And all I'll have is...
a page.
(c) Copyright Autumn 1997 - Jan Price
"For goodness sake," he said,
"why do you want to enrol in a poetry class?...
You've been writing what you call poetry for ages,
although I've never been able to understand
why none of it seems to rhyme,
and you don't use capital letters any more
at the beginning of each line;
and, although you've had one or two published
in different places from time to time,
I've never seen a whole bookful of them
actually in print."
"Exactly," I answered him with a smile,
"that's why!"
Michael Williams - 2001
ACQUA PASSATA NON MACINA PIÙ
The past has gone,
leaving pictures,
and sounds too,
if I listen very carefully
to the VCR of my memory.
Strange though,
they've never invented
anything to record smells;
like the perfume you wore,
the corsage I gave you.
Wood fires in winter.
Wild-flowers in spring.
The wheat-field smell of high summer
and that unmistakable smell
of autumn rain on dusty roads.
Powdered babies in clean nappies.
Children's first experiments
with home chemistry sets
and smoking filched cigarettes
in the loo.
Though these are memories of the past,
maybe I should think more of the future,
for it is well known that
water which has flowed past the mill
can no longer turn the mill-wheel
Michael Williams - 2001
Until
Until
on foot,
in tanks, in trucks,
you've fought and killed
the defenders of a place,
that place is not yours.
Until
dug-in,
you've beaten off
inevitable counter-attacks
from land and air,
that place is not yours.
Until
regrouped,
you've then moved forward
leaving others in defence
of the place you've taken,
that place is not yours.
Neither air-superiority
nor artillery bombardment,
nor computerised missiles
will make it yours...until
on foot,
in tanks, in trucks...
Michael Williams - 2001
1
Why is it
that the file
you keep on me
contains only part
of the story?
Why is it
that letters of commendation
and requests from parents
to have me teach
their offspring,
get lost somewhere?
And why is it,
you laugh and joke
when I raise the issue,
making it seem
as if I am making
something of nothing?
When I try to explain,
recalling the process
you've already made clear to me,
words chip my heart
as your back turns,
occupied with the more
important task
of making tea.
2
I have learnt
there are questions
I can ask
and those I cannot,
words I can speak
and those that are cut,
stories I can tell
of classroom antics,
censoring perceptions
of human dynamics -
raised eyebrows
and dead stares:
signs of the times
I've stepped on the line
they've made clear,
I cannot cross.
3
Legal action assured
a ripple effect
this week, after gay
boys and girls were stoned
from behind on the goat track
on the way home from school.
21st CENTURY: AD.
A knife swished
left right left -
together with death threats.
Another gay boy's
beaten up.
Suzanne Covich
You grab me from complacency
,,,,,,,,hurl me into ,,,,,,,, ,the shriek of
tyres
metal concertinaed ,,,,,,,, ,crushed
,,,,,,,,life's form torn
as sound,,,,,,shatters,,,,, into silence.
You drag me to gaze on death
,,,,,,,, I am trapped in ,,,,,,,,transience
soaked ,,,,, ,,in someone else's
,,,,,,,, ,, sorrow.
trisha kotai-ewers
The Walker
Cars hurl round corners
people wearing tin skins ,,encapsulated
blind to others ,,buried in a worldof instruments and speed.
And you too are enclosed
but in what world?
You pass ,,unseeing
your eyes fix on space ,,too far for sight.
Head ,,body ,,lean
impel you forward;
hand cupped in front
as if you nurse a treasure;
or hold before you the no-thingness
in your eyes.
Yesterday you walked the same path.
Today you walk.
And tomorrow?
Each day your unseeing of me
blurs the edges of my being
and I become
unseeable.
trisha kotai-ewers
Sometime, should you be
lonely as you are
walking along winter roads
that are like
different indecisions, Someday
should I be alone
reclining like pillars of shadows,
Should I repeat so
many blunders, Should I recall
evenings together that
are like nothingness, Should I
laugh and stroke my
merry celibacy, Should
you care like your
lips in bloom
like drawing blood on the rocks
like our darkening nights
having it away with you,
Should we grow
apart like trees Should
we slur over our confidences Should
we, but years
Should we, but memories
Prasenjit Maiti
Summer Bees
She used to make love like quite a
different woman and the night
air was always cool and fragrant the
moment we started teasing
one another She knew the names of all
those heady flowers, and
she called our Qutb names like a defeated,
weakkneed warrior!
We never used to chat during our
lovemaking, only she did moan
and I darkly mumbled between our skins,
lying ever so under the
naked, awesome skies and all the broken,
bearded gods were like
grey men twitching and wasting
themselves in envy, helplessly
staring as we lost our celibacy for ever
and for ever
the breeze caressed us sprawled out
as we were spent like money
in our recklessly groomed lovemaking
She was like a woman in
love in all her bites and swollen lips
that are still bloody and
lovely in my forever dreams
Prasenjit Maiti
Remembering
It so happened that that evening was
like your full lips in bloom, I have
written about your lips elsewhere and
yet cannot recall them anymore or
even the evening when those lips were
so, there is now only your nothingness
that likes to hang around with me
and so we would walk cozily together
in easy camaraderie into an
evening that is
so very mindless of all those
holidays spent
with you like prayers in rains
and lovemaking,
we can now only look back,
your lips and I, in
rage and rage that that are but
grey eyeless
men twitching in envy while
the skies and the
seasons may well recall your
pouting lips that
were so nearly once
or twice in bloom
Prasenjit Maiti
Serenade
What about a woman
without trappings, what about
walking along walks that
are no more, what about my
writing that is not published
anymore, anywhere ?
What about a woman without
trappings whom I can take
along walks that are no
more like distant
heartbreaks ? What about my
writings that cannot
express themselves ?
What about my women
whom I do not meet
anymore ? What about my
woman whose name
I do not know and
whose lips haunt me in
my nearby heartbreaks?
Prasenjit Maiti
watermarks
I held your page to the light
spoke through me
Kevin Gillam
bluer
Horizons matter, but
I need the stoppingness of
testosterone drives a non-drinking man to
too much bustle and
everything is
don't leave anything for
last night at the therapist's, back
I have serious need to
seabreeze whipping the
me? hungry, plotting a
throbbing in the
suddenly I remember and
the poems can
took a leaf to hear the
naked at
the river not flowing, just
now I feel the length of
now, at the window of
a cleansing and
in the house nestled between fig and crabgrass and
dryer rattles, hums in the
nothing mattersbut
he writes better in third person, more
sky blue than
Kevin Gillam
serendipity
sweet feed,
slippery
as meniscus,
one
two hits into
vein
moment's blessing
Kevin Gillam
On the footpath squirmed
the insistence of the worm,
moistly makiing for the cool earth
but finding the hardness of a path
blanched in the bright day.
My shod foot stepped past
the nude rudeness of the worm,
flesh translucent
like the inward on the outward,
the dank dark earth its real body complete.
I saw its tiny toment in the sun,
its gyrating, its arching winding,
its coiled protest knocking on earth's floor
to dig down deep into softness,
to dive down quickly in the crisp dark.
And yet my heart was hard
like the pale grey mockery of the path.
I walked on in sunlight, unmoved,
questioning whether to have been moved
were to have been suddenly less than human.
Michael Haig
Derelict
Head pillowed on confrete
I sought my only refuge, sleep.
Lights that never stop burning,
winds that never stop howling.
I dream of a morning,
empty of people,
filled with the sun, filled with the street,
but empty of people.
a lone bird will wander close by--
despised Indian myna, brown-suited,
black-balaclavaed, yellow claws marching.
Its yellow burnished eyes will look into my eyes,
head cocked and quizzical:
one look, that is all.
Earthbound these birds,
but their eyes know gliding,
windcurrents, high sky riding,
weather-beaten leanness,
the mighty globe's buffets.
But that is all a dream,
stealing through the rain-affected streets
to my head pillowed here,
to my shoulder under
the blanket unpurloined,
never believing the unforgiving concrete,
still waiting for its firmness to flow.
At 6am I move on
through the river of twilight,
leaving the dawn discarded,
scrunched on the footpath;
knowing so well the shoes of the city,
my way not with theirs; falling away,
high or low instead for a dream
Michael Haig
An early morning
crow calls
cracking the silence,
a memory
of holidays in the country.
Bird calls
fade
traffic hum
builds:
civilisation's intrusion.
Birds slip away
with the memory.
I close my ears
to the traffic,
return to my world.
Maureen Sexton
This poem was previously published in The Western Review, July 1997.
,,,,,,,,,,,, Supermodel
,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,, Clinging
,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,to her bones
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,couture
,,,,,,,,,,,, on the catwalk
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, coathanger
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,on stilts.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, What cure
,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,, for this
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,forty five kilo
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,corpse
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,in her
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,chic
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,shackle-stitched
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,death-shaped
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,small-sized
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,shroud?
Maureen Sexton
This poem was previously published in woodwork hot 97, and untilted 1998 Poets Union Anthology.
Free Thought
A thought came to me.
I questioned it -
it answered me in riddles.
I held it tight
just out of my reach.
Thinking I had it
I opened my mouth.
It flew away!
Maureen Sexton
Fixed Souls
Chic to chic, waif-like dolls
are sticking needles in their soles.
With pin-pricks, wounds that can't be seen
they're shot and fixed in their deathly dream.
Android creatures cruise the nights
on catwalks dimmed with glittered lights.
Chic to chic, waif-like dolls
are sticking needles in their soles.
Their bellies filled with a lettuce leaf
watered down with quick relief.
So skinny they no longer bleed
claiming, fame is all they need.
Chic to chic, waif-like dolls
are sticking needles in their soles.
Those who one loved rounded hips
now drool over protruding ribs.
Feeding the hunger of wealthy passion
starving women are all the fashion.
Chic to chic, waif-like dolls
are sticking needles in their soles.
Maureen Sexton
(Written after reading about supermodels who inject heroin into the soles of their feet.)
This poem has been previously published in Fertile Ground, An anthology of South Australian creative writing, From Within Stories and Poems by the Henley Scribblers 2000, and Poetry Down Under October 2001.
SOME BUSH POETRY
Page 1
Down by the Peel there's this inventor, unreal!
A bloke who don't give up on nothing,
His zest for invention beyond all convention,
Would boggle the minds of the best.
Now the Tractor he knew, was useful to few,
When the rain belted down in the paddock,
The crops withered there, it was grossly unfair,
For the farmer was robbed of his profit.
In the mists of the morn when the bugle-calls warn,
Came a Dream that could waken the Dead,
For it came to his head in the inventors' bed,
That A Spider could tackle the job !
It'd walk on the water, cross deserts and slaughter,
With Rockets and Gun Turrets blued,
Some cogs and a spanner, I can conquer all manner,
Take Windsor and Buckingham too !
What a blast this would be, to set the world free,
(why they'd flock to my palace in droves)
Kings, Queens and Princes and wandering minstrels,
Pay homage, The Pharaoh, You See ?
With these dreams firmly set, first some parts I will get,
From the place called "Yackanabuybetta",
Two bob for a cog, an axle, a sprocket, a wheel and the same for a chain !
So be-loaded, the workshop he goaded, the tools to The Spider Machine.
Chromed Handlebar Legs, Upturned Seats for the Feet,
Like a bullock through mud it will plod,
It's time for a motor, to walk her and float her,
That Chainsaw there should do the job !
Some Aeroplane Parts, Spent Rockets, Go-Karts,
All from the Re-Cycling Centre,
It was ready at last, SureÖ. the test it would pass,
Micks' Spider, "Yackanabuybetta".
So he ventured one day, somewhere far from harms' way,
To Test her and Check her all out,
A clear space of ground with no gawkers around,
Just the creek, the trees and the bog.
Now if it crawls slow, no doubt it will go,
Wherever intended its' meant,
But if things go awry and she revs out too high,
The Lot might be Heavenly Sent !
The Spider "Yackanabuybetta."
Page 2
But I can get more from the Re-Cycling Store,
Where the man at the gate checks the balance,
Though he knows not what Fame, Re-Cycling can Gain,
To One of Incredible Talent!
The Cord now was pulled, with the Throttle on Full,
And it R-o-a-r-e-d into Life with a Spark !
But the Spider was gone !
( Like a Bullockies Bull, in the Smoke, the Dust and the Dark.)
When next he could see, where the Spider might be,
A Furrow there marked its' Descent,
Tunnelled under the creek it came out at full-peak,
And was Chargin' an' Prancin' an' Hoppin'.
From there it went thence, through a Charged 'Lectric Fence,
Where it Crackled, and Sparkled and Glowed,
All Control Now Was Lost, as it Fizzled and Tossed,
It Took-On a Strange-New Demeanor !
Its' Sound System Zapped, by this little Mishap,
Like a Wolf of The Steppes it Could Growl !
It grimaced and spat, at the Fence it was at,
Then Chopped it to Pieces, and Howled !
One Strand of the Wire that emerged from this Mire,
To the Spider attached by the Throat,
The other end free, whipped 'round forcibly,
Now a Harvesters' hooked up in Tote !
With Unknown Intent, to the Creek forthwith Went,
The Tynes Ripping deep in the Goo,
Much Gurglin' an' Hissin', (Three Legs Now were Missing),
It was makin' its' own Yabby Stew !
The Spider unyoked, when the Fence-Wire Broke,
Now spotted a field of Ripe Corn,
And Hurling one Leg, at Galahs as they Fled,
Boomerang'd Half the Flock from the Sky !
Such Malevolent Intent; this Quadruplet Bent,
Now Circled a Bull in its' Prime,
Much Stompin' an' Huffin', Buntin' an' Puffin',
"T-Bones" and Ox-Tail Pie !
This Monstrous Affray with the Bull-Of-The-Day,
Had Cost yet another Chromed Leg,
This Tri-Pedric Blot, now hobbled a lot,
With a curious kind of a Sway.
The Spider "Yackanabuybetta."
Page 3
Undaunted it's clear, by the loss, showed No Fear,
'Cause it Tackled a Train in its' Path,
As this Bi-Pedic Sot, was Sufferin' an' Hot,
Joined the Boys in the Pub for a Laugh.
The Bar-Tender knew of a Favourite Brew,
When the Boys in the Bar weren't too well,
Pure Alcohol Stank as they filled up its' Tank,
Yet another Chromed Leg went to Hell !
With a One-Digit Drink of its Favourite Stink,
It Revved-Out, it Cackled, it Howled!
Then rolled on its' back, and spun round just like that,
And Flew up to Where Knows Who ?
Lightning and Thunder, Blew it All Asunder,
(I'm Sure You're Wanting To Know)
Was Told in a Letter, "Yackanabuybetta",
The Spider's at Re-Cycle Hill !
Mickydebricky 29/8/2001.
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