WA Poets Inc Creatrix 31 Poetry

This world hammered
into an afternoon walking
through a replica village
of trams and hand machines
that clank and spit
to the smell of ink and grease.
Brought back to gleam
for another day of man’s ingenuity
away from the mass produced
generic called news.

Back then
the manual setting of type
lent a human quality
to the staid form of words.
Each sheet counted to distribution
by young boys aching for more
than school.

Now the word comes courtesy
of Google and Yahoo
as the world slips into iphones
and androids with touch screen
up to the minute views
where everything fits
the palm of the hand
lacking the association
of ink and gears.

Gary Colombo De Piazzi

Wildfire

This holiday of ordinary things in the shooting gallery
flung side to side evading the mistimed bullets of misfortune
on a day that sears beyond hot with a wind to strip out the last drop
as the grass cracks and ignites to race a raging cackle
and spread a black smudge in its wake.

The orange tease tricks its way up tree trunks
flicks its frenzied laugh through the tree tops
to erupt scrub and leaves bright and loud.

Mercury slugs higher than it should and men and women
in heavy fluoro jab rakes and hoses at the advancing edge
a heeler nipping the heels of a mob shifting, nudging
the mass ever so slight, pulling 12 hour shifts
under the whup whup of water bombers and news choppers.

How easily the treasures of man erupt in red and orange
to a remnant of tangled steel and ash as 57 homes
and one life are chalked on the board,

In a land with fire as its heritage there is an arrogant disrespect
from men who build without regard for the laws of fire
and stare incredulous when the news on television is in their yard.
When the misaimed gun fires in their face
with its burnt black residue.

Gary Colombo De Piazzi

No Mere Cat

Spectators join us on a long par five;
a flock of guinea fowl and a meerkat,
back in the veld and glad to be alive.
Spectators applaud on a long par five
as spirits soar with every drive
lifted by African sounds and smells that
accompany us on the last par five,
all led by the cheerleader, the meerkat!

Derek Fenton

Water Colour

Rain conquers the dry,
pours life: sound returns to lake
to exile silence
with the language of wildlife
while colour blossoms
blues, ochres, pinks, browns, and white.
So many meldings
for eyes to take in at once –
like watercolour
though this transcends a painting
with its shifting hues
as nature conjures the flow
from air, sky, earth and water.

Margaret Ferrell

Love Senses

Your eyes take in my body
Lingering in lust
The blind beauty of love.

With our hands we caress
The sensitive areas
The delicate touch of love.

Our tongues intertwine
Savouring the longing
The sweet taste of love.

Delicate sensuous aromas
Drift through the air
Fragrant smell of love.

Thoughts of unspoken words
Drifting through our minds
The silent language of love.

Rosalind Franklin

Grapefruit

Delores Casales has grapefruit breasts,
Her buttocks those pale lemon fruit.
On her brow sits the vine of industry;
her home is clean and airy.

Like the wife of Proverbs
she rises early and toils for her family
Three daughters, a grandson, husband Juan from Barcelona:
They hold her in high esteem.
She is thrifty but not parsimonious
and gives freely.
In her crown of faith her generosity is a diadem.
She acknowledges all that her new
Home has given her. She tills
its soil and plants trees. The citrus trees are heavy
with grapefruit swelling with the juice of winter rains.
She is not easily fatigued.
She waits without fear for the blush of dawn.

Sally Gaunt

Sea Breeze

The house was built
The children grew up
The breeze blew in
As it had always done

Sally Gaunt

Fiction For Others

cirrus is its own language,
scrawled across blue canvas,
mapped, then remapping –
no true North here

and a shoreline needs no reminders,
tonight with its shush upon shush,
one island dolloped out there

while wind combs at frond and scree,
tugging and selling their stories,
fiction for others

Kevin Gillam

The Groove Of You

on the footpath you’re all ant,
much looking down,
cutting against the groove of you

and yes, you feel better empty,
like a line not working,
an ant, black-roping thought

in the house you grew up in,
propped, defying the gibbous,
cutting against the groove of you

a cloud breathes you in
and out into bark and path,
ant blind, antennae touching

‘let’s do it by room’ you say,
even your torso accepting,
half-cut, in that groove of you

but in this alluvial silence
it’s your walk, not mine,
all ant, blind, searching for sweetness,

cutting through the groove of you

Kevin Gillam

Before The Fall
_____ for Tracy

Talking freely to her
as if words could
climb above
memory’s deep-seated

mountains
that lie between
the spontaneity
of lust and the steady

well-versed
executions of love
I left quickly
slamming the door

tightly on her words
so no light could
unhinge my resolve
before the armour

of conversation
beats me down
below this precipice
where I stand alone.

Mike Greenacre

Flight of Love

The long, low howling
rode the breeze through our
kitchen window, inviting
us as guests to morning
and evening song – doves
perched precariously
as tight-rope walkers on
a wooden verandah beam.

Almost within reach, she is
the expectant mother,
motor purring to the sky’s
vastness, eyeing us off
with disdain from her shallow
weathered nest, proclaiming
rights of tenure – having
staked out her territory first.

Our cats watched, suddenly
becoming frozen cameo
and sleek grey toys,
summing up their chances
as the doves are tuned
to a distant call … one
good leap perhaps, no
pole’s too steep and smooth,
teasing access, a Karma
twist placing them as
audience in desire’s game.

The weeks brought urgent
voices and bustling verve,
stressing sparce surrounds,
as the dutiful mother
becomes hunter, feeder,
protector nurturing
nature’s call, guiding their
spirits with skill and
discipline in preparation
for that one day.

The Saturday sleep-in
wasn’t planned, but on
hearing our children’s
plethora of ideas and games
drum up the hall, we lapsed
into time’s protection
as our cats ravaged the
baby doves’ unsteadiness,
hurling feathers as a
solemn vestige on the lawn.

As our children’s hearts
weep for what this day could
have been, the parents
return, following love’s
scent to their children’s
shallow graves below.

The long, low howling
rode the breeze through our
kitchen window, inviting
us as guests to morning
and evening song.

Mike Greenacre

Sir Galahad of the Broken Heart

He hides his broken heart.
It’s blue, like a gasping child.
It’s cracked and sore like his hands.
The cuts leak, trickling blood.

He put it in a box.
He locked it up.
He squashed it in, hurriedly.
He covered it with leaves.
He surrounded it with sharp sticks
and hid it in a dark, damp swamp.

No-one can hear it beat nor cry.

None can see nor find it.
Sir Galahad clunks around with a hole
where his heart was.

He knows where it lives.
The invisible cord, which he cannot break,
sends the singing of his heart.
Sometimes he hears.

Sometimes now he listens.

Louise House

Here I Am

Too hot and too tired
I left the motel room, left him sleeping
Slipped quietly down the hall
Out into the street
Into the huge night
The more huge night sky
Where stars which died
Millions of years ago
Washed me in their beneficence
Light dripping down
Through the cracks in the dark
Until it was more
The dark demurely retreating
A gentle balance

No one else walked
In the desert that night
None else saw God’s finger
Stretching to touch
One particular speck in the universe
Where a lonely woman wandered
Without special purpose
In a landscape of light and dark
Her thoughts skeining
In fragile filaments
Nets of unformed hopes
Vaguely cast towards the man
I left in the motel room, left sleeping
And dreaming in a different world

Ruari Jack Hughes

Disqualified

I dreamed I was starting
in a running race
There were four 400-metre laps
Everyone else limbered up
When the gun went they took off
sending up divots from their spiked shoes
I stretched myself a bit and looked around
The finish line was only 50 metres from the starting blocks
Just there
Practically in front of me
so I walked forward until my belly touched the tape and said, Well?
But the man with the flag said
You’re disqualified
You didn’t run the four laps
What the hell were you thinking? Get out of here!

Jackson

City Beach Observed

There’s a motorcyclist in the quiet car park arms folded, visor shut
working machines their snaking joints
and bucket hands
recalibrate the beach below into what will one day be
a restaurant zone

near the groyne which shatters side on waves
a senior bellies up wades into the grey
and flops
in that border strip of caul fat and egg whites
ten metres from the shore

either side of Rottnest          ships nose to tail
_______________ my eyes sail away
to the horizon with three large birds          until
the motorcyclist        taking her time
descends the path     in her towel sarong

Ross Jackson

A Stranger In Queens Gardens

An unmoving afternoon.
Pond water holds lawn’s greenness
in a film across its eye.

A palm branch floats in the reeds.
Coots and ducks come for a share
of my little lunch.

An unbroken afternoon.
This is my Sunday park bench-
will the world ever reach so far?

Ross Jackson

Blank Page

When no one else will listen
you are always there
a blank canvas
on which to scrawl.

In seven or eight millimetre
ruled varieties
you never judge or criticise
my passionate expulsions.

Whether inferno, earthquake, or downpour
you offer freeing revelations
disentangling me
from the desert’s thorny weeds.

When emotional understanding
eludes me
you inspire characters
who express it for me.

While you always listen
you never respond
a silent companion
reflecting my soul.

A.R. Levett

Enthral

Desires trampled
the heart enlists imagination
stitching
_______ glances
______________ smiles
_____________________ coincidences
into gratifying melodramas.

Nostalgia
_______ bleeds into obsession,
______________ leeching lifeblood,
_____________________ animating
____________________________ Frankenstein’s monster.

A.R. Levett.

Fascinated By The Bruise

I was fascinated by the bruise.
Indigo pure melting into azure haze
like a sky and freedom.

I was fascinated by the bruise.
Started to fall and lose myself
into the deep and darkening hue.

Had to shake myself awake
to go get help for you.

I.H.M Lowe

Illusion

Topmost branches fired
by long fingers of the setting sun
its hand’s muted colours
gently caress the hushed bush
lulled by the faint cries of homing birds.
______________ Extended shadows steal across the understorey
merging green and grey
peace descends at close of day.

Only the constant drone of traffic
dispels our illusion.
We are in the heart of suburbia
this bushland its lungs –
breathe deeply.

Meryl Manoy

Open Our Eyes

Open our eyes and let us see
phenomena of this Gaia planet:
each petal of the sculpture rose
a lifecycle metaphor of all that breathes –

uniquely created by pollinated seed
to bud, to grow, to fully bloom
to flush in shades of inherent colour
perfume mirroring incense of being

slowly then to mortify
Expose our sensitivities that we may hear
the harmony of the universe
myriads of musicians on ground–– in flight:
explicit caution, but more enchant.

And then …

acknowledge ambience
the fresh sea air to stroke facade
the scallywag of the dawning dew
the touch of a devotee’s embrace

But then …

to savour, see the working bee
As water into wine transformed
nectar an allegory for sustenance
provided for earth’s living beings

Then, too …

pervading fragrance s portray
the unadulterated to consume
and warn of vulnerability
from environmental quixotic state.

Then, now …

How can a poet’s daunting task
paint word pictures on a page that’s blank
to appreciate the miracles of being
inhabitants on this unique earth?

Glad McGough

Sunday

Bishops dropsical with seasons thump pulpits,
thunder a martyr’s words, (these, stone and grey
and sacred as chill walls of churches spiked
with crucifix and icon, narrow windows
stained with agonies of saints), warn heretics
that He watches over all.

Already branded sinners, congregations
sit, lead soldiers, barely dare to shuffle feet,
find the Lord may only be adored by souls
open to the golden trinity of collection,
tithe, and confession.

Discover salvation will only be offered|
to knees purple with ache, shy throats
that swallow an eternity of hellfire along
with stale wafers and raw wine, and those
whose stomachs do not rumble for roast lamb
throughout Sunday service.

At home, good Christians unbutton, and ignore
gardens ample with the humility of beans,
the scarlet crunch of radish, eye next door’s
melons, say down with drink, as ring tops clink,
tune to the racing channel and give thanks
to God for earthly pleasures.

Jan Napier

Telescoping

Stars through glass
_______ a jump
sudden the moon
_______ so close
no space between.

Observe
her surface, ranges blunted
to nubs, craters and grey dust seas,
Mare Nectaris, Mare Imbrium,
irony of romance in latin tags
strange as boot prints marring
tranquillity.

Step back reset perspective.
Track an ambit that gives the lie
to distance, rhythmic attraction
ensuring that even when blue,
this mystery in pale

makes nothing
of the spinning dark.

Jan Napier

“I Know the Place”

I’ve been there before – I know the place
Yet I had no eyes no ears no face
Infinity Eternity
A man made fantasy
“That’s heaven,” – I’m standing in it!
Now – I can hear
Now – I can think
Now – I can see
Now – I wake – from a sleep
And time – is strapped to my wrist
______________ I’ve been there before – I know the place
______________ No time no eyes no ears no face
_______ Eliminate sound
_______ Eliminate sight
_______ Eliminate Time
_______ I won’t know day or night

* * *

_______ The ending of my days draw near – I have no fear
_______ To loosing flesh of bones – hair in flames
_______ Not with the sun shining on it – but flames burning, it crackles snaps.

* * *

I like my hair, I fuss over it, roll wash colour curl
I was a girl – now I’m an aged lady
_______ I’ve been there before I know the place
_______ No time no eyes no ears no face
I won’t be sitting in a golden sun set, Laced, with a brocade of Pink clouds.
In a Man Made – “Happy, Hear After”

* * *

No waves, will find – my ashes
No wind, will call my name
I go back, in peace, from where I came.
______________ I’ve been there before – I know the place
______________ No time no eyes no ears no face

* * *

Kitty Niemann

Summer Returns

“Remember me?”
asks Summer,
letting down her hair
from her
golden bonnet.

“How could you forget
how you sweated
in my scented
embrace?”

“Forget Winter!
That cold bitch never
loved you.”

Julian O’Dea

Under His Own Fig Tree

Summer time
Figs are in season
My tree is loaded
Best pick them
They don’t last long on the tree
Leave the birds to get the high ones
Messy things figs
But oh so delicious

I hear a call
My beloved
from the bathroom

__ I’m in the shower
__ I’d like my fig
__ Could you bring it to me
__ It’s on the bench

There she is
Shower cap on head
Bare foot up to her neck
Shower streaming

A fig in the shower !

__ It ‘s O.K.
__ It’ll wash all the sticky off my face
__ I just felt like it right now

I shut the door – slowly

__ She emerges some time later
__ Well that’s the nicest fig
__ I’ve eaten this year

____ And the time will come the prophet said
____________ when every man will sit under
________ his own vine and his own fig tree

But not just yet old man
Not just yet

Ron Okely

Sunset Mindil Beach

Here on this heat-soaked beach
you are one of many faces looking
forward sky bloodied red
as if the end would not come
soon enough

the ocean bares its feet
feeds its soul measures steps
waits sand-swept wind
giving sun all the space it needs
to splinter cloud from sky

giving children          time
to run the beach
the volley ballers       time
to flush their game
to firm sand               below their feet

the ball flies high
nets its way to the other side

the sun unperturbed
gentle in its run
knows what side it’s on

drops a goal
behind the dying sky.

Rose van Son

Water

a shield to throw off light
a void to absorb light
a passive nothingness
it bends magnifies
distorts tricks the eye

reflected in the convex surface of a drop
a face bulges at the brow

a pool dark blankfaced
scum skimming a bowl a puddle
or an inkiness of a hundred feet

Gail Willems

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