December 2022
Selectors: Peter Jeffery AO, Mike Greenacre
Contributors:
Ananda Barton
The Premier Visits the Cultural Centre
Carly Beth
Fish and Robots
Peter Burges
Year’s End
Gary Colombo De Piazzi
Night’s Hollow Silence
Derek Fenton
A Pat On The Head But Not With A Sword
Margaret Ferrell
Difference
David Flynn
stolen generation
Warren Flynn
Watercolours from Noongar Boodja
Sally Gaunt
When I am Seventy-Two
Ann Gilchrist
Bibra Lake
Kevin Gillam
being four
Candy Gordon
Holding On
Are you listening
Mike Greenacre
Beside You
Rhian Healy
Carrying the dead
Jenifer Hetherington
Recycling
Ruari Jack Hughes
Looking
Ross Jackson
Birds in Dogland
Pantha Jaskiewicz
Camp at Lake Monger
peter knight
Flashback-1978
Veronica Lake
Liberty
James Le Bas
Vermillion Red
Geoffrey Lilburne
Bruce Rock Dreaming
Mardi May
Grapevine
Diana Messervy
Turning Point
Jan Napier
Mushrooming
Julian O’Dea
Better
Virginia O’Keeffe
Lviv Farewell
Allan Padgett
In the West a Cloudbank Squirmed
Christopher Palazzolo
To Lorenzo
Saturday Afternoon Orpheus
Glen Phillips
The Rites of Spring
Gregory Piko
We Met in a Valley
Potential Energy
Gail Robinson
The gravity of belief
Barry Sanbrook
The Breaking Point
Norma Schwind
Caring for Bill
Geoff Spencer
White Noise (Holland Track
Kaelin Stemmler
Wall Spiders
Maggie Van Putten
The Elusive Now
Anne Warman
Infinity
Ted Witham
La Gaîté Parisienne
____________________________
The Premier Visits the Cultural Centre
7.35 am, just arrived at work
Fuck!’
A colleague points through the plate glass window,
Mark McGowan himself,
With an entourage of suits
Is strolling through the Cultural Centre,
Ignoring huddled Aboriginals,
Homeless in their own land.
I’ll ask him why he won’t give me a pay rise,
In line with inflation,
As the union is asking.
Unfortunately, by the time I get there
He is gone.
Is the secret of political success?
rising early?
Avoiding embarrassing encounters
With the public?
Ananda Barton
____________________________
Fish and Robots
The food court is a living thing
Every wall, floor and roof has something
On it.
A perfect place to take a child from
With no one noticing
So I survey the scene.
I sit across from a huge fish tank
With big, orange fish
That I can’t remember the name of
I could look it up
But I think some things are better
Left alone
The tall, long tanks are the walls
Of a multi-level playground
And on every corner is a robot sculpture
Over two metres tall
Made from metal scraps
The big wall of fish and robots
Hides the small children
Away and the aesthetic is pleasing.
Behind me, a shop sells those flashing signs
You see out the front of businesses sometimes,
Flashing their parts at me, aggressively shouting
Open! And, Take-away Dim Sum!
I can hear at least four different pieces of music
A pigeon tip-toes past me
Then, as if pleased with my permission,
Flies up to sit on a ceiling beam
The fish to my right are sucking on the glass
It feels mildly violating.
A man walks past me and
It feels mildly violating.
I know my three kids are
Running wild in the hidden multistorey
And I’m relieved a man can’t violate them
If the fish and robots don’t protect them
Their Mum will.
Like mine couldn’t.
Carly Beth
____________________________
Year’s —————- end
hangs now as a door
ajar past where
shadows of months and
days shrink become
increasingly dense as life
is shortened by time’s
compressing wormhole.
And beyond
sensed merely: burlesque
joys, macabre horrors
creak-crack of bones
metallic chink of
scything blade.
Yet before
closing of the door:
wedges of moonlight
shimming the gaps
between fact and hope
glimming of baubles
tinsel twinklings
scent of sapling fir
or eucalypt round
rag-wrapped puddings
jumbled————presents
laughter of kids
whose eyes have not
forgotten how to dream.
Peter Burges
shim = levelling
____________________________
Night’s Hollow Silence
The weather comes in small whispers
the currency of dreams
scratched against the window.
Its sibilant song seeking the crack
as if the night has expectations
—waiting on company.
Each moment is a long step
in anticipation, words seeking
a blank space, the emptiness
of a new page
The full moon has fallen to rest
and it is dark without echo.
Ears tuned to the night
catch the roll of leaves
a brittle sound that rasps
between breaths
as if the world can concertina
into one existence.
The solitary closeness of one
distant from the scramble of day.
Without the reference point
of man-made noise, the night is foreign
distilled back to the talk of wind
and the closeness of darkness—
nothing beyond this room
the next breath.
Gary Colombo De Piazzi
____________________________
A Pat On The Head But Not With A Sword
My mom swore that she once patted me on the head
on a visit to a place called Khami.
Maybe apocryphal, though now she’s dead,
and I can’t ask if she met me
for, surely, she couldn’t forget that bonce
and would have said something like, “What a swede?
It is far to big to ever ensconce
in a hat an elephant would need;
and what if he ever becomes a knight,
how would I pass the sword over that mound
the poor man would get a terrible fright
thinking he was soon to be heaven bound.
Is this all that I can think of to say
on this dreadful day when she’s passed away?
Derek Fenton
____________________________
Difference
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
T.S. Eliot
She is recognised
by the gathering,
noticed as different now
not only from her apparel
but her whole demeanour.
It is not long before there are
sidelong glances, smiles,
occasional smirks
and turning away. She appears
to be unfazed and continues
to talk loudly, evidently
ignorant of the effect her
presence is provoking
in the onlookers.
Sadly, these onlookers show
intolerance to this person who
has changed identity since last
appearing here.
A shadow of non-empathy
falls across the scene in a
venue where compassion
is assumed to be found.
Humans tend to fear difference,
often display sympathy to the
animal kingdom more readily
than to their fellow humans.
In time to come awareness and
acceptance may weaken the shadow
by the light of understanding.
Margaret Ferrell
____________________________
stolen generation
footprints in the sand
preserved in our ancient arid land
captured by their father
a sheet of corrugated iron propped up by stilts
their fragile shield from the copper sun
it was all he had left
a memory of dust to dust
his children
gone
David Flynn
____________________________
WATERCOLOURS From NOONGAR BOODJA*
i. Waijin (Norring Lake)
the dawning water is a black and white photograph
six kilometres across silver-grey and flat
reflecting black bush on the other side,
jet sound slip-stream from a mountain duck
heading for the mirror’s middle skiing feet slice the grey
i hear the white shlussh!
In front, the algaed waterand close behind, farm fence
constrain the breathing whea
hard worked, the land left nothing to chance except poisons.
By the shore, old men’s faces in the granite remember another time
while the foaming scum licks at their lips like sullied ice.
Gums scratch against a young sun rising fast.
ii. Kwakoorillup (Nornalup River)
our hull slipstreams sliding glass
crisp eyes nose numbed sniffing
last night’s camp in hair and wool
cold karris crackling like fire
the dripping paddle breaks a mirror of limbs,
our wake wobbles foliage, folds it gently to the bank.
it’s called The Monastery
this space where every quiet rock of our craft is kept
reflected
refracted
in shafts of light that move each moment grace full.
iii. Torndirrup (May Day Parade)
No megaflags or goose-stepping robots
No Handmaids’ white bonnets red cloaks protesting Trump’s nastycism
just a silent squadron of silver gulls sweeping with stall turns
snowboarding slaloms snatching flying ants above the emerald curve of swells and
curling crump of shorebreak
advancing
retreating
Seaweed turbans the only buried warriors here
strands of seagrass, lines scrawled in sandskrit.
Far away Phil and Ruby disappear into the saltlight of Mistaken Island.
my body’s long shadow wefts and warps across the shallows
touches toes, shakes hands of those who have known these shores
before jet skis before diesel before steamer and sail
before words perhaps
when dancers’ shadows echoed these shining waves
in firelight on this precious shore.
Warren Flynn
* Images of Wilman and Menang land, Western Australia.
____________________________
When I Am Seventy-Two
When I am seventy-two
I shall wear red shoes and dance on the roof.
I shall talk to cats
about this and that
light candles in the darkness
even when it is not my birthday.
I shall collect colours to fold neatly into
my soft box of pastels;
walk in an arboretum under spangled stars
swing bottles about the moon
suck sherbet in the afternoon.
When I am seventy-two
I shall not have the TV repaired
and shall watch the gutters crumble
chocolate and honeycomb
I shall watch the bee in the bottle brush
hear the distinctive call of the red wattle bird
I shall walk more and think less
unless it is about the past kindnesses
of old friends.
When I am seventy-two I shall be aware
of my lungs as two healthy sacs drawing in
clean, dry air and exhaling contentedly
I shall make friends with my feet :
both of them,
and listen to the tender counsel of my orthotics.
I shall not be afraid
Sally Gaunt
____________________________
Bibra Lake
magpies audition the dawn
their melodies ripple the lake
and swathes of mist
lick tongues of frog song
ducks shake out their down
tripping on the water’s edge
they launch a feathered fleet
webbing tucked between their toes
black swans honk their crimson horns
bright as bicycle reflectors
paperbarks paddle in the shallows
white corellas quarrel in their branches
yellow bags puffed under their eyes
they will bicker until evening
in the treetops a kookaburra turns over his engine
“kaa kaa kaakaa ko ko “
he stops, his battery is flat
and he settles back to sleep
snowy spoonbills sweep through the reeds
treading reflections like mine detectors
an egret watches in alabaster silence
bottlebrush flowers dress the lake edge
crimson as the colour splashed on the jaunty caps of swamp hens
flashes of purple in their black feathers
they strut with pompous agility
eucalyptus is scented with wild honey
a tree hollow is busy with the buzz of native bees
a honeyeater finds nectar of his own
above the pathways
alchemy is spun in strands of web
a golden orb spider splayed centre stage
strung between the trees
she awaits a mate for breakfast
a frog moans in the swampland
his voice hoarse after an a cappella night
then abrupt silence
as the heron wings in a quenda is late home
her night shift has been spent fossicking
she curls up with her brood
and sleeps the foxes away
dew sparkles at the feet of grass-trees
a blush of fat galahs waddle
stripping silver seed from the grasses
peeps exchanged through nibbling beaks
I jog past and their waddle accelerates
skipping between half-hearted flaps
the lake is fully awake now
pelicans descend like sea planes
their wake bobs a chorus of ducks
and it sounds like laughter
Ann Gilchrist
____________________________
being four
the garden is in a great mess
but I’m intensely present
so I’m being four and giddy in sunshine –
dreams are so obliging
I’m intensely present
and lawn has me in its infinity,
dreams are so obliging
while anaesthetic slices clean
lawn has me in its infinity
and I’ve my crayons scribbling sky,
anaesthetic slices clean –
call it necessary forgetting
I’ve my crayons scribbling sky,
being four and giddy in sunshine,
call it necessary forgetting
that the garden is in a great mess
Kevin Gillam
____________________________
Holding On
the axe has been embedded
in the chopping block
for days now
his boots at the back door
his hat and coat
hang from the same hook
neighbours phone
she can’t speak
the funeral’s tomorrow
she puts his pyjamas on
and crawls into bed
Candy Gordon
Are you listening
we’ve stopped him twice now
whether by design or accident
we don’t know
how do you know when to intervene
is it the sudden jocularity
that puts you on alert
or is it the quietness
that settles around him
pooling
then spreading out
dissipating
fooling you into complacency
not realising in time
that this behaviour
is the alarm bell
that should have sounded
in our psyches
long before its siren
screams in his
Candy Gordon
____________________________
Beside You
for Davo
I arrive at his funeral
wearing a suit and tie
and yet feel like there’s
another version of myself
that can’t get out – to be
like we knew each other,
before the changes of now.
It was the coolness of the room
that stirred my senses, as if we
were already six feet underground,
that sterile beyond touch feeling
that separates your closeness
when someone else is in command.
Memories flood the speeches
and yet there’s others
that only you and a few would
recall, like hidden parts that
have bound lives together
in a carefree student whirl.
And the music steps into
the Rock pool of adult years
that surround you with mates and
those who would never let go,
as our lives are taken and
placed back beside
the you we know.
Mike Greenacre
____________________________
Carrying the dead
I didn’t really like you,
even though you were blood.
I loved you, of course,
as one loves family –
with that bushfire heat
that destroys as well as nurtures.
I was young and didn’t know
there was a difference between love and like.
When you died
you thought I was my dad,
both my dad and I unseen in your fugue.
Now my house is plagued by ants,
and they remind me of you.
They are in everything,
their boofy heads clamped on
bread crumbs, walnuts, coconut, dried apricots.
They won’t touch potato chips though.
I drown them.
I wipe them away with a damp cloth.
They collect their dead
and carry them back to their hill.
And come again,
in single file, protected from the front,
but susceptible to an enfilade of insect spray.
I love ants –
their industriousness,
their ability to move weight from place to place,
their instinct to survive.
I don’t like them in my house,
but I like them more than I liked you.
Rhian Healy
____________________________
Recycling
wind roars
the streets are wild
mess rampages
broken dreams clatter
in the gutters
hefty junk pummelled
from stacks on verges–
deadly tumble weed.
screeds burst free
from taped boxes,
mind junk flaps skyward
soars with space junk–
danse macabre
lit by lost stars.
Jenifer Hetherington
____________________________
Looking
She looks at him
then looks away,
trying to come at the matter
from a different angle.
Moves back a pace or two
to see around the corner of his ear,
finding a plane sliding sideways,
the nose a sharp line escaping it.
Uncertain still, she turns her head
towards the floor.
Peers upwards at him.
It’s unsatisfactory and she boldly
stands in front to confront fully,
and is startled by the twinness of everything
though all is slightly akimbo, not equal.
It will not do:
another stance is required.
She circles right and swoops down
so that all is topsy-turvy.
Yes, that’s it!
She looks at him.
Stays looking.
Ruari Jack Hughes
____________________________
Birds in Dogland
on a square of parkland, a crop of corellas
from moment to moment
growing larger and larger
as we approach
on seeing
all those beady eyed
small, white parrots
cropping the ground
our working cocker
unrestrained
though all the while
she’s at the end of a leash
only a few of the closest birds
seem bothered
there’s barely a flutter
let alone, a mass flight
as she’s waggling home
might Bonnie be
wondering
if she’s lost her touch?
Ross Jackson
____________________________
Camp at Lake Monger. 1923.
Shy of
one hundred years.
Between two worlds,
tribal infinity and Wetjala ways.
Humpy homes and European clothes
Bibbulmun head and heart
Lake lunch, tuber buffet, aquatic edibles, home and hearth.
Ancient
swallowed by
urban.
Empire expanding,
Bibbulmun unravelling,
Mitchell freeway, but not free.
Ancient constrained by concrete
a story,
an energy
beneath
release.
Pantha Jaskiewicz
____________________________
Flashback – 1978
[caught in your family album]
who am i?
fixed within this photo,
trapped within its borders,
now brought before your eyes.
Pictured in 2 flat dimensions,
laid bare to your scrutiny
in old-time black and white,
I am someone who was not
until developed and exposed.
I’m that stranger,
lurking between the pages,
standing behind your dad and mum,
awkwardly placed within
your family’s photo album.
who am I? you may say,
do I belong to her or him or both?
Ask them, but they will not
acknowledge my ghostly re-appearance.
There will be no warm nod
to old acquaintance,
by chance revived.
does flickering friendship remain?
old flame aroused?
memory smouldering stubbornly
after my unexpected arrival,
a third in your parents’ parlour,
where you expected only two.
My photographic testimony does not lie,
look into your parents’ concerned eyes,
not mine,
for an account of adultery
which may connect
the one who knows,
[the other may suspect,]
and i.
peter knight
____________________________
Liberty
i’m thistledown light
floating on wind
a fine tipped feather
soaring on wing
a leaf plucked loose
fluttering in flight
a petal descending
coasting through air
my shackles are broken
cage door left open
confines dissolved
i’ve become liquid flowing
i’m out and about
seeing new worlds
wandering fresh roads
feet dancing wayward
exploring strange paths
destinations exotic
restrictions all gone
i’m wind tossed and free
independence is mine
i have found liberty
Veronica Lake
____________________________
Vermilion Red
blue hands
blue heart, blue as Nile
arctic sun drowning in a cerulean sea
fathoms away my heart freezes over
// till the flush of spring rain
html#volta
Provincial poppies, vermilion red
sun nourished crop
in the flourish of mercurial time
banksia spills its waterload and
insouciant, narnic gate inclines.
dusk hands, marine heart
dissolve in a dog’s bark.
I will defy this destiny
James Le Bas
____________________________
Bruce Rock Dreaming
As a process…the muting of a large part of humanity by European colonisers cannot be separated from the simultaneous muting of “Nature”. (Amitav Ghosh, “The Nutmeg’s Curse”, p. 190.)
Mile upon mile of open crop lands,
wheat, canola and barley still green
beyond human scale. Giant machines
pass over it at seed time and harvest–
otherwise it is seldom visited let alone inhabited.
depopulated without song or story,
passed over in pursuit of profit,
The generations who once roamed
and danced these places
have been erased, without memorial.
In bustling Bruce Rock we found no
mention of the generations who once
occupied these spaces,
silence to cover an ancient theft?
The muting of the land is apparent
in these vast swathes of industrial landscape
Is Australian agriculture the latest expression
of the colonial enterprise and impulse?
Or are we settlers, yet to learn
what this place truly is?
Geoffrey Lilburne
____________________________
Grapevine
Cellared deep in the genetic
memory of ancient wood
the program of
a working vine,
the knowing of seasons
their leaving, unleaving,
when to release that
first green leaf-burst
tendrilling into sunlight;
to set grapes budding,
how to plump and ripen
to tight-skinned maturity.
After the burden of fruiting
the etiolation and leaf fall
as they release their grip
on the succouring wood;
when a vine should call
on the patience of sap,
keep faith with
genetic inheritance
as wine mellows in oak
and honours the vine.
Mardi May
____________________________
Turning Point
Surgeon writes
hands me the paperwork
Letter for GP
Pain medication
Referral to services
Incontinence nurse
Home modification
How did it happen?
Shows me the MRI
Spinal Epidural Haematoma
T7 Paraplegia
Cauda Equina Syndrome
He looks up eyes stop shortof the negative outcomein front of him Early decompression
Cautiously optimistic
What are the odds?
He sighspalms togetherfingers pressedto pursed lips Rare complication
No available figures
Measurable improvement in function
Expected in time
How long?
Taps pen Slow
Nerves repair 1 millimetre per day
At least 6 months perhaps a year more
Meets my gaze
Some permanent impairment cannot be ruled out
On leaving
his hand on my shoulder
briefly
Can’t predict I’m afraid
It’s a waiting game
Wheel myself out
impotent resigned
Till gall kindles resolve
powers the struggle
first steps.
Diana Messervy
____________________________
Mushrooming
Hungry, we wrangle fence wires, outbreaths clouding
like smoke, hurry towards the overnight surprise
of mushrooms, huddled like spot lit criminals by a shed.
Checking that gills are brown, we bucket upturned caps,
wander long grasses, eyes down. Cows mooching toothless,
raise motherly heads, flick ears at tummy rumbles other
than their own. Pail glutted, the pair of us ooh, and wow
at giants sprouting in dung. Toy with the idea. Yeah, nah.
Toadstools! Violet bells on slender stems. Hocus pocus
left over from days when belief said pixies lived within.
We repeat our teachings: toxic to stock, lob them like
bomblets, onto the track. Squash softness into dirt.
Wet jeans, socks, sneakers heaped on laundry floor.
Hair slicked, fingers unblueing, we wait. Dad says Grace.
Mum ladles scoops of sizzle straight from pan to plates.
Scoffing our bounty golden and fragrant on hot toast.
Jan Napier
____________________________
Better
too many fine birds
in your head
cage of ivory, cage of bone
let one out to be a poem
to utter, flutter
off the tether
to feather on when you
are gone
to see the dawn alone
beats, beats
pump out poetry
from deepest veins
better to write
one fluttering poem
than one hundred poems
of death in life
to litter the future
Julian O’Dea
____________________________
Lviv Farewell
The beanie pulls round his ears, face lined and wrinkled from farm labour.
In his hand he twists a toy, pressed on him as the train pulled away
carrying his little son.
Outside the city ground shakes with incoming mortar dull thudding.
He hasn’t used a gun since his last hunting of boar and stag in the forest
and wonders what it will be like
killing a man.
In his heart he knows love is rattling away on tracks towards the west
threading veins of life on rails of metal, away, away to safety in a foreign land
and here he is, breathing hard air in gulps and trying so much not to cry.
Around him grown men wipe eyes with wet sleeves, they don’t speak.
He stares with perplexity at the toy.
His son has given him a white ambulance, his treasure.
Stuffing it carefully in his parka pocket Oleksiy hopes it won’t come to that.
Tears on her face are not pretty, screwed eyes squirting bitter salt,
she has two kids, one on her hip, the girl in a stroller,
last week they were playing on swings below the flats.
Crammed with fear and hope, their train goes swaying on narrow rails.
Her heart is spooling away, from him, from home, from death.
She is unwinding, veins stretching, translucent skin tearing,
dying of a shattered heart is slower than a well aimed bomb.
Kalnya hushes their children, thumbs his rosary, lets her tears come.
Virginia O’Keeffe
____________________________
In the West a Cloudbank Squirmed
Was at the doctor place, paying to flee its medicinal claws,
got stabbed in upper left arm by a piercing prick. Triple ouch,
why does a Gardasil vaccination hurt so much. It’s in the loaded
intention, perhaps the shape of the prong, the viscosity of the dejected
juicy stuff, murmured a generous nurse. Thanks, I cried, as a tear
or two besmirched my blinking eyes. Was at the counter, having a post –
consultation experience, said to the helpful deckhand: Hey, my dog
doesn’t bark at me, do you know why. Raising an eyebrow I heard
a close to fricative response: No, why. Because, I said, he’s dead.
O, she said, smiling, that’s a bit dark. I said, sorry, it was,
but it was funny! Maybe, she said, as she led me to the exit.
There were clients on the verandah but not even one was frowning.
In the west a cloudbank squirmed, inside my heart, a flutter. Being
on the doctoral footpath I went back in, asked for a cardiogram,
said I think I’m about to die like those famous people keep on doing.
He said: Well, you clearly have nothing to worry about if that’s your measure.
Got home with my brand new hose, it’s out the front, in the sun, awaiting
unfurlment, engorgement, distension. Squirting, flexing. So am I, but different.
Allan Padgett
____________________________
To Lorenzo
I do remember but I never took it as far
as you have – for me it was the smell
of spiked turf and the rush of sweat
and racing heart and scrape of boot
and bone. But I was so young
when I lost confidence, seeing you now,
your strut upon that pitch, and your long
teenage legs, so gauche and big footed
when stretched across your bed, moving
like a dancer upon that wet ball; watching
your gliding victory plane in the humid
floodlights so supremely boy
in your boastful show of skill makes me
wonder, naturally, is a recessive trait
in me now dominant in you? So contrary
in every way, if I’d pursued it as my glory,
had my dreamed-about trophies
and club photos adorn your infant walls,
you would’ve chosen a different
obsession. So perhaps I threw it all off
decades ago for you to run
with what I once lay awake for; to riff
off a curving cross a top foot volley past
the goalkeeper’s lunging glove-tips.
Christopher Palazzollo
Saturday Afternoon Orpheus
Despondency came up behind me
and covered my face
with its black gloved hand –
‘failure’ it hissed into my ear.
My wife had no time for it,
didn’t want to hear it,
‘We do our thing,’ she said
and shouldered off my hug.
The sleep that followed – was it
like a death? Dreamless, insensible,
and when I woke and looked
at the clock an hour had gone.
The fan spun as before –
the cicadas sprayed as before –
My wife slept beside me.
I said: ‘I mug you
with my gloom and you share
a complete excision of time with me.’
And she said: ‘You must know
love will reflect on my face
the spite you smother your own face.’
Later, we left the kids to their devices
and climbed the bluff above town.
Our shades slept the lost hour below.
Christopher Palazzollo
____________________________
The Rites Of Spring
fifty-fifth birthday poem
Weeds turn quickly from green tinge to tangles
as the sun becomes assertive, rising
earlier day by day until our young
lives tint tawny at the edges. White strands
insert themselves among the gold. Life spans
are a sundial anyway, where the shadow
imperceptibly creeps each year
to another segment on the dial. Like
that old song sung again. Glasses half full
at least, when candles are lit one more time
but briefly. The truth is the sudden breath
of love flows out willingly, even in
rituals, confirming that we live again.
Glen Phillips
____________________________
We Met in a Valley
We met in a valley
where the grass was green
ripe fruit fell to the ground
and conversation came
easily, like clear water
chattering in a brook.
She followed me wide-eyed
along the stream until it slowed
and grew quiet, in a place
where the soil was tended
by families working in the warmth
of a harvest sun.
We made our way out
onto the plain, past machines
that groaned like rusty dragons
carving crater after crater
to fill the bloated belly
of the ever-burning furnace.
Together, we stepped
heedlessly over rivers
of blood belonging
to those who saw fit to fight
for a pock-marked landscape parked
under a bleak chocolate sunset.
She followed as we picked
our way along blistering
ribbons of bitumen
to a haven with glass walls
set high above the anarchy
where food was packaged
and decontaminated
air was pumped in
24/7.
Then, as we looked out upon
the storms that raged as red as rubies
across the sea, and the gauge
on our habitat scan
fell silently
to a darker shade of amber
she walked to the door
took down two dusty masks
and holding one out, said
it’s time for you
to follow me.
Gregory Piko
Potential Energy
after “The Oil Drums” by Jeffrey Smart
If a shrill note from a trumpet
were to unsettle
those casually stacked drums,
if they were to tumble and rumble
apart, the way hollow barrels of thunder
roll, unchecked, around an oily sky
what a waste that would be.
Their potency, lost in one brief cacophony
of movement and disarray.
But until that note is played, the potential
energy of this fickle world remains
unexpended.
Gregory Piko
____________________________
The gravity of belief
You tried to tell me that science is not God that even scientists
have closed minds
so I closed my mind to your idea that gravity is not absolute that
the speed of light is jittery
I get the jitters thinking that invisible cars don’t make an impact and
speed is relative
isn’t that what Einstein said? Comparing time
with hand on hotplate to
time holding a lover
I love Einstein he knew so I didn’t have to
Such a peaceful place Lewis Carroll a rippling pool
all things that God gave us you say
cleaving Darwin in two
two of us outsourcing certainty to those that matter is energy after all
the observable universe as seen on daytime tv
the oracle in the corner of the room
where dust mites and cockroaches reproduce a circle pi
spliced atoms molecules from the beginning
of time scientists say
will outlast us you say
we will last forever
I guess we all need
something
to believe in
Gail Robinson
____________________________
The Breaking Point
I watched her bend
almost to breaking point
her brittleness tested
ready to snap
like a dry twig underfoot
giving away her position
exposing her
but she isn’t a twig
just a girl who leans on me
her head on my chest
sobbing
in time to my heartbeat
her sense of purpose drained
washed away with tears
She cries for him
my friend
our love
I hold her tightly
thinking
now he may be mine
next morning he called me
I want her back
he said
my sobs
could not keep time
with my heart
Barry Sanbrook
____________________________
Caring for Bill
the police reckoned he’d been
dead a month or more when
they found him on a cold, wet
tuesday morning
a morning crouched under
dark billowing clouds. icy gusts
of wind skittered rubbish,
turned umbrellas, teased collars
bill’s block of homeswest flats
skeined by circumstance, home
to a disparate group of people
living on the fringe
neighbours never noticed he
wasn’t around, until the day
his pot dealer wondered why the
doorknock went unanswered
silence, save the sound of flies
buzzing within and a strong
strange smell. he waited a day
or so, then called the cops.
a harmless loner, bill spent most
days watching telly. had a love
of fishing, often walked from
balga to the beach, ever hopeful.
bill’s sister kept in touch from
time to time, washed his clothes
gave him a feed and a doggie
bag to go
communication went awry when
covid came, the family lost touch,
then the police came knocking
on her door.
a life so small, left little behind
Norma Schwind
____________________________
white noise {Holland Track}
woven
as a carpet carries dreams
eats into a core of decay
fallen from an alphabet
of branches
mud of the earth
splattered across the
window of travel
reflects
through the prism
of a wide lens
capturing the colours of my
soul
light drawn out
from darkness
fractured
as a billion stars
splinter
collapse
into a blackness of time
a warped canvas
swallowed by gravity
then
rebirth
Jackson Pollock
resurrected
Geoff Spencer
____________________________
Wall Spiders
Dead spider
Adorns my wall
I fear I betrayed him
With my room’s inadequate haul
Like the child
Who finally leaves home
You curse them while they’re here
But miss them when they’re gone
Dangling now
From a single thread
Wall spider
I wish you weren’t dead
Kaelin Stemmler
____________________________
The Elusive Now
- They mean well, these therapists,
with their clever aids for daily living,
but it’s terribly hard to be grateful
when each one means a battle lost.
2.–Early evening walking alone by the river
—past the tents, boats drawn up, anchored.
—Feeling at peace in the wood smoked air,
—I wait for the first star to wish on.
3.–There’s a new white cross on the roadside
—decked with bright pinwheels and flowers.
—He was eighteen, friends and family sob.
—Their happy baby is now grown, and gone.
4.–In my garden mom’s scarlet geraniums
—with their ragged, neglected greenery
—are blooming again. Their spicy fragrance
—is an unexpected homesick perfume.
5.–Outside the conversation grows louder,
—with undertones of annoyance. Doors open,
—finally. Spotlights glare in the empty theatre –
—backstage my only thought: I hope they like me.
Maggie Van Putten
____________________________
Infinity
Formless entities
Joined by infinity
Energies shared
Beyond flesh and time
Cycles passed
Waxing and waning
That which is temporary
Soon falls away
One constant remains
At the heart of all things
What once was
Shall be again
Endlessly repeating
In continuum
Wholly realised
Indistinguishable
From individual parts
Balance maintained
From moment to moment
World without end
Anne Warman
____________________________
La Gaîté Parisienne 1980 – a Rhymed Sestina
We travelled by train, teuf-teuf, through France,
Arriving in Paris at the Gare du Nord,
We found a little hotel to stay in,
Our lofty room, five storeys up,
A cramped stairway to carry our case,
A tiny bed, just room for two.
I wanted the Comédie-française, and view
(As we were in Paris and had the chance)
French classic theatre in place –
But our host dissented. ‘Madame will adore
Not Molière or Racine, theatre for the cultured-up,
But Offenbach. It’s on at the Bouffe-Parisien.’
Up five floors we climbed again.
A panoramic distant view,
But close enough to see the set-up:
A giant train, teuf-teuf, advance
Across the stage to a charming score.
Violins, sax and double bass.
The story moved with mesmerising pace:
Act Two began, music up, the curtain
Down. The curtain rose then on cue:
On stage, seating stalls, then more:
Another curtain’s blue expanse,
Can-can girls revealed at curtain up.
Luscious in their jaunty line-up
They can-canned with lively grace
In frocks, frou-frou, for their dance.
My love and I cheered those thespians.
They danced on; others threw
Flowers onto the stage. ‘Encore!’
Brimful with these joys galore,
We left this drama pick-me-up,
Back in our hotel to review
That astonishing showcase,
The marvels Gaîté did contain,
Beguiled by Offenbach’s romance.
Envoi
Into the tiny room we flew,
And the tidy bed again,
Teuf-teuf we can-canned our way through France.
Ted Witham
____________________________