WA Poets Inc Creatrix 70 Poetry

The street
Washed clean by night rain
Resounds with the
Clear call
Of an early morning bird.
This street was bush,
Until, one day,
Dark eyes,
Through fringe of leaves,
Saw white interlopers.
But the bush,
Is still there.
Deep in time.
In Alcheringa*.

*An Aranda word usually translated as ‘the Dreaming’ or ‘the eternal.’

Ananda Barton

_________________________

Red Hill

An old red and yellow tractor
a pool of deep, clear water
small wooden bridge arching
across the narrowest point.

The kids raced to the little jetty
caught minnows in their nets
tipped them into jam jars
while Spongo our bitzer ran free.

With the sun on my back
I dangled my legs in the cool water.
A school of tiny fishes darted
to my toes, nibbling and tickling.

Tom lit the oil drum barbecue
delved into the esky for drinks
and buttered bread. Woodsmoke
and sausages seasoned the air.

Afterwards, we climbed up the hill
spotting lizards, birds
and the occasional snake.
Abandoned cars became a playground.

Lumps of clay dug out
with plastic spades, packed
into an empty ice cream carton
to take home for play dough.

Two muddy kids, wet dog stinking
out the old Falcon station wagon
coasting downhill on Toodyay Road
the city an approaching landing strip.

Maria Bonar

_________________________

cycling

carrying far too many suitcases
fall backwards down the up escalator
and pretend that this is dancing
surely we have been this way before
quick, blame the other side
before it all unwinds

running headlong down the steepest hill
fly forwards into the coldest river
and demonstrate the backstroke
knowing that this must be the way
stop, look for the horizon
until it disappears

repeat until everyone dies

Mar Bucknell

_________________________

Lightning

Rain on the tin roof of our farmhouse,
A rumbling in the distance.
With trepidation, I draw the curtains apart.

A lull in the rain and I feel
the weight of a leaden sky.
A flash so bright.
The skeletal fingers of a gnarled hand
jab at the earth between houses
huddled on the horizon.

The sky is alight with an explosion of colour.
Light rays refracting off rain drops
scatter purple to red to blue to green;
Thrown like seeds in the wind.

I am overwhelmed by such mighty power.
A glimpse of nature’s extremes,
her beauty and her terror.

I close the curtains.

Lee Caldwell

_________________________

Match Point

Half an inch of expectations
draw breath across a city.
Echoes honed by sheer concrete
and glass bind a court clasped
by eager fans. The sweep left
to right in praise of a god.

A half-excited cry drums the air
as heads swivel chasing, lunging.
This sport of balls, arena confined,
mesmerises fifteen thousand eyes
as air quality slips to third world.
More funk than fresh amid the roar.

The clash of everyday mouths
banshee words in the coax and
takedown as the neon score
flicks numbered lights up and
up against the clock building
on a crescendo of hope.

The still air of anticipation
on the flight of a swing aimed
at the intersection of nylon and
synthetic rubber follows a whirl
of yells across the net—deafened
by the line call—IN!

An eruption of beating feet
and waving arms quakes the stands—
with praise to the engineers—
as the caterpillar shuffle builds
stretches to the sky.
Game, set …

Gary Colombo De Piazzi

Red or Blue

An autumn morning
above all else
a leaflet escapes.
Fumbles in the wind and lifts
to the sun as if in praise.

It is cold and the smiles
on the vollies brandishing printed arms
hook your eyes as you step sodden feet
towards the polling booth.

Politely wave away the forest of flyers
and focus on the sanctuary of choice.
The white and green slips marked
to names shoved recently familiar.

How it all panders to democracy
with greed and ego between the lines.
The shuffled left, right, green in-between
with a dash of conservative socialism.

Who can divide the red and blue when each
pilfers the other, mimics the words with a bent
to demographics scripted by men with perms
women in suits.

The angled thrust focused on winning
plied with promises and threats to scare.
The five-minute trip to duty adding
one more grain to the pile.

Gary Colombo De Piazzi

_________________________

Between, a flywire door

To talk to the dead crow
he steps from the flywire door
pausing, as the hot breath
of sunstruck miles wafts
Death, Death through
the flywire door.

It creaks on open,
it creaks on close,
two steps from the door
the crow lies dead,
still fresh, as heat blisters
eyes once seeing, now
pale whites of reflective
snow in the heat that blows.

Grabbing the corpse
by the neck,
chucking it into a bush
of thorn and flower,
quick eulogies of flyless
lands that don’t lay
maggots in flesh and death.
To step back, back through
the flywire door, in which
wafts, wafts that Death,
Death through, through
the flywire door.

Patrick Eastough

_________________________

Picket Fences

White tail black cockatoo calling rain, in
a nature reserve, another
suburb is being planted, culling
old Eucalyptus trees again, exiling
new generations to forage
in a distant nature reserve. Fly
survivors, fly. Spread

your feathered wings, away
from painted eucalyptus-timber spikes, white
polymer & metal cages, synthetic
green grass, confined
territories, monopoly
miniature named colonies. Fly
birds, fly.

Gita

_________________________

Wrestling With The Dawn

Once in bed, it’s sometimes
like a pub brawl inside my head
with too many loose ends
trying to catch me out

until they find my lips
and sprawl across the pillows
from me to you, to be
stopped in their tracks
by your knowing smile:

“If you can’t sleep, why don’t
you get up and write?”
without the clause ‘instead of
keeping me from my peace.’

Many times from the spark
of inspiration that skips into
now, I would make the trek
from bedroom down hallway
to reside in the backroom study

surrounded by poets who lure
persistence on, from Templeman
to Caddy, Burke to McCauley
to Zwicky a handful of voices

that mouth the unwritten words
until the cock crows and I’m
suddenly wrestling with the dawn,
slipping back beside the one I love,
leaving the other outside the door.

Mike Greenacre

_________________________

Temper

I’m waiting for my bacon and egg sandwich
and a line of water is falling
perfectly
along the middle of the line of cars
in the queue like a benediction –
a purification of all our sins.
I say life is light tempered in love,
as sharp as butter,
as feathered as steel.
We live in the bright second of the universe –
a brief moment of silk and sand
before uncountable years of darkness.
Stars will be born and stars will die,
black holes collapse and worlds fall.
On my drive home there are pink and grey galahs
sitting on the light poles in the rain; bedraggled
sages; sentences in braille; a whole paragraph
of streetlights shouting.
This is the bright second.

Rhian Healy

_________________________

Lovestruck in Maylands

where Love Struck sat on its trailer
a trail of grease
beside next door’s driveway

one sunny Sunday
from our bathroom window,
if one cared to tune in,
Terry and Tina, two fighting fish
flailing on the open deck,
Terry giving Tina—fiftyish
ash blonde ponytail—
another bumpy ride

after a heavy storm Terry bailed out
floated down river,
taking away his tackle
for good and all

on front-verandaed
Summer evenings now
glow of Tina’s lit fag end,
signaling
Steady Ahead, or SOS

Ross Jackson

_________________________

Winter Solstice

The breath of winter stings with malice:
a snake, sliding round the mountain’s shoulder
setting cheeks aflame, lungs aching,
biting the marrow of our bones.
Wheeling stars gaze down with indifference.
A silvered moon hangs shivering overhead.

Tonight is the turning of the year.
Tonight we convene, build circles of power
coiling deep into heart’s secrets.
We raise our voices in unison.
Our chorus resonates,
breath trembling into smoky drifting threads

As we give thanks for what has been,
reflect on actions taken, decisions made,
our fingers touch the earth, feel its chill.
We bow respect to the mountains,
accept the fire of falling starlight
and weep for the folly of mankind.

Tonight, we recognise the winter solstice
dance to the moon and celebrate
the promise of spring.
Cycle must follow cycle.
These long winter nights will shorten
and sunlight will have its say.

Veronica Lake

_________________________

Strain

Blurring the flat horizon
an edge of shimmering mirage.
Underfoot, reality lies
in the drought-cracked earth.
A man treads the ground
towards a vague distance,
thoughts held tight
inside his Akubra,
sweat-stained with heat
and the effort of silence.
Fence strainer, back pocket,
wire coiled on the ute tray,
ammo in the glovebox.

Mardi May

_________________________

The Promise of Containers

Jesus had an earthen bowl when he washed the feet of Judas
Ruth carried a wicker creel when she gleaned Boaz’s barley.
Moses lay in a basket when Jochebed hid him in the reeds
while the dyes of Joseph’s coat were stirred within a pot of clay,
but the children gathered in the rubble of a flattened Gazan city
hold out empty kitchen stainless steel and pitted plastic dishes.
Holding out for hope
holding out for humanity
and one child held out a tin
that once carried paint
drooled red around its rim
barely holding out.

Virginia O’Keeffe

_________________________

Ducks in a Gum Tree

They had to cut the dead tree down
since it was overlapping the 1950s pipeline
and in the way of further homesites.
There were five or six nesting hollows
that had grown that way from living wood
for maybe a hundred years. It was carefully
sectioned and loaded on a waiting truck,
heading for the depot where the hollows
await being tied to trees by chains. From
then on, but usually taking two or so years,

they would provide hollows for nesting –
red- or white-tailed black cockatoos, red-
capped parrots and galahs. I had earlier said
to the environmental assessor, I’ve seen
wood ducks emerge from hollows such as
these, but not in this ring of trees because I’ve
not lived here long enough. I went down
to the garden an hour or so later. Walking
nearby a deeply distressed female wood duck.
They pair bond for life, but no sign of he.

I then heard that an active wood duck nest
was found, lots of eggs. Somebody said
it’s been so cold they’re probably dead.
I said, nonsense – parents sit on eggs to
keep them warm, that’s the meaning of
parenthood: keep the eggs warm, at blood
temperature. This is incubation, not magic.
I count this as a failure, though not seeking
someone to blame. I will, though, blame the
system. Decisions like this are hard to defend

Allan Padgett

_________________________

The Hour Before Bed

So intense the finished actions
that placed a mop and broom against the wall,
draped towels on the sofas,
and every item’s secret history
of how they are where they are;
the industrious child, the toiling adult –
each absent their traces
on the threshold of door and room
processing in their beds
the livings they shuffled among things,
the tender tired amused and annoyed touches
they nettled in their named minds
so intensely within these walls.

It’s not that I have anything to say
that gives this hour its character,
it’s that when I smooth the page
and point the pen at its surface
I welcome myself back into being,
thinking, present again under the spinning fans
not caring how the universe ends
only that it is.

Chris Palazzolo

_________________________

Arachne

I remember how you shared our history
changed it to suit the audience.
The elaborate scenes you so skilfully crafted
in colours completely different to those I recall.

I watched you deftly weave the shuttle in and out
through warp and weft, through whereas and wherefores.
Forgive me if I barely recognised the patterns.

Textured thread woven into a multi-layered cloth.
Scenes of legendary foes fighting over forgotten causes,
seen in transverse as if viewed in a mirror,
sinner and sinned against swapping places.

Looking on, I stay silent and cast no judgment.
The finished piece is a testament to your creativity.
It is, after all, how you remember things.

Elena Preiato

_________________________

No Way To Say Goodbye
after Dr Michael Mosley

I see him on a beach with family and friends.
Thoughts drift in and out like clouds above
the idyllic Aegean Sea. A summer heatwave,
relentless sun casting the smallest shadow,
a flimsy black umbrella on hot sand, burns my
memory. Chance events. A seagull craps on your
shoulder or flaps its wings a thousand kilometres
away. Left or right through a rugged, barren
landscape. I see him vanish around a corner.

I saw him again today in my lounge room.
An earnest smile, the lightness in his voice,
told me he will not die young, like his father,
from a heart attack. He follows me around
the house, back to the island. I see the craggy
coastline again, the seagull, now closer to
home, hovers over a cliff top by the water,
a line between land and sea,
between this life and the next.

William I Reid

_________________________

Bin Chicken at Kings Park

They call me a joke
a punchline with wings,
but I remember waterlilies.

I was Ibis before I was icon,
graceful as the sway
of paperbark in a morning breeze,
my beak a needle threading
the floodplain’s delicate skin.

Now I pick at yesterday’s regrets
chips salted with stories,
a licked lid of yoghurt
balanced like a prayer
on a council bin.

I used to stand statuesque
beside the brolga and spoonbill.
Now I sidestep thongs
and selfie sticks,
while toddlers squawk louder
than any bird would.

But still –
when the westerly hushes the traffic,
when the kangaroo paws lean toward dusk,
when no one’s watching
but the paperbarks and I –

I am still Ibis.

Feathered remnant,
trash-picker prophet,
wading through the mess you made
like it’s just another billabong.

Laura Rowan

_________________________

After the Rain

the ridge seemed to come alive
trees silhouetted against the black
the intermittent flashes
momentarily exposing their frailty
as the wind picked up
rain and hail burst
upon the ground accompanied
by the deep resonance of thunder
the voice of Wuluwait
the god of rain
singing as he ferried
the souls of the dead
to the after life

the storm abated
dawn bringing
a cleanliness
the purity of a new day
to those of us left behind
our hands reaching
touching the leaves of trees
the grasses on the plains
and the flowers
spread in abundance before us

we stare in wonder at
such delicate subtle creation
the work of another god
whose name is unknown

Barry Sanbrook

_________________________

Undisturbed

The light gradient hovers
in levels from cyanic surface
to pale, wavering sand.
Baitfish royal blue
then translucent
skip beneath the chop,
as the swell rocks
the triggerfish up and down.
Below, a lionfish
feathered in her brutality
wafts innocent,
white spines lifted
with careless violence.
We pull our arms through
the ebb and flow,
angling for the carved channel
of the boat ramp,
where the dead coral
lies, dredged and listless.
On either side, undisturbed,
the liquid salt teems
and the stonefish hides
waiting for her chance.

Kathy Shortland-Jones

_________________________

In passing

I saw death on a mobility scooter
she had a fag stuck in her face
and a cholesterol bandana around her neck
single gear acceleration over the speed bumps
ciggie leaving a smoke trail like burning rubber
she took up the whole road
living close to the edge
doesn’t mean driving in the bike lane
she had a look that would take out a bus

Soulo

_________________________

Eating Olives

Wan sunshine on leaves
early this morning
reflects my mood.

A year ago
my friend passed quietly
it was her time.

I remember us,

watching the full moon rising
on a headland bench surrounded by a picnic
so busy eating olives we missed the moon

until it rose high above the sea.
Later under another full moon
I celebrated her life

with champagne.

Amanda Spooner

Wheat and Weeds

We sit by the roadside among
yellow and white flowers of wild radish,
among lupins, dumped gazanias, dead wattles.

She makes a daisy chain
invokes long past memories.
Away down the hill, is the old homestead
where she used to run and play.

A lake beckons in the distance
hazed in purple samphire, sand gold,
brown mud flats and a tiny patch of blue water
– reflection of the brilliant sky.

The breeze weaves green wheat into life
It’s a glorious day, here, in the middle of nowhere.
A gust ruffles our hair, we wait.

Eventually, the RAC arrives.

Amanda Spooner

_________________________

Homo Sui Generis*

You’re pale, stale and openly male,
she said to me with a turned-up nose ring.
Well, I could hardly deny it, could I!

I had been working towards it
most of my adult life.
Periods of remission were rare.

Dealing with my whiteness,
exposing myself here and there to UV,
but the here and there became Basal‒stitched up again!

Staleness comes upon you
with symptoms of suburbanitis.
The routine is a cul-de-sac of work and family.

There is only one way in and out‒
it’s a choice to park and read the street directory.
Life drifts on quietly in acceptance.

Maleness is like staleness and paleness, predictable
as hairy ears, a hairy back and an inability
to find things in the supermarket.

If one thing came easily to me in my life,
being male was probably it.
As easy as a Velcro lace-up shoe.
You just put your foot in it, again.

* Homo Sui Generis is a Latin phrase formed by pairing Homo, human, and Sui Generis, of their own kind, in a class by itself, unique.

Michael Stevens

_________________________

ocean breathing guided meditation

i stand on the shore at scarborough casting my eye towards the slick, neoprene surfers, cobra-bellied on their boards and gunning for the sleek, green barrels which rise and fall

by some godly will in rhythmic respirations the bobbing black-wetsuited bodies scull the blue water winking beneath a winter sun free of self-concern

as salt film stings chapped lips eyes fix on the horizon

swelling, rising, now curling into a crystal lip needles recalibrate shoreward as the wall of patina climbs and barrels forwards, tumbles then shatters to white

in the diastole lace swills on the surface as cirrus unspools and i am filled with a longing to dissolve into the breathing blue

Kaitlyn Sun

_________________________

Late Check-in

Pools of light lead from veranda to gate,
bridge into darkness—
what then?

What sleeps beyond the trodden edge
of buffalo and soursop?

Wheel of Fortune spins on a thread
of wind stretched thin through papered walls
to rest on the outskirts of hearing;

a small dog whines,
falls quiet;

cicadas pin the moment to a season; dreams
chase their tales into the great unknown—
out there, in shadowed fields

beyond the gate,
beyond the bridge,

darkness

spins,

falls…

Jill Taylor Neal

_________________________

Churchyard Elegy

Will I too lie in this churchyard
ashes merged with loamy earth
in front of a crumbled headstone?
Unnamed

Maybe the sun will be shining
these daisies and buttercups here again.
More likely the wind will be wheezing
zigzagging between graves.
Probably clouds will be forming.
Weather uncertain.

Some walker passing by may stumble
on a patch of grass shorter than the rest
see the fragmented headstone just ahead
pause momentarily to wonder
who lies buried here

Suzette Thompson

_________________________

Carrying You Home

Ambling towards the river’s edge
I watch the water shimmer –
our place, our quiet ritual.
I lift you into my arms,
your weight softer now
strength in your legs fading like summer light.

I set you down in the shallows,
feel the tremor in your body ease
as the water cradles you.
You paddle with your front legs
still eager, still brave
but the deep comes too soon.

I scoop you up again
your heart beating against mine –
and bring you back
to the gentleness of shore.
We stand together
letting silence speak all it needs to say.

Ten years we have been each other’s shadow
ever since my boy left for the Army.
You were his once
but you became my constant.

You come to me now
pressing your head into my hands
as if to tell me you know.I stroke your silvered muzzle,
memorising the curve of your smile,
the way your eyes carry whole worlds of trust.

The river holds our reflection
and I wonder –
when you leave
will I still see you here
waiting for me in the light on the water?

We walk back into the noise of life,
but I carry with me
the grace of this moment,
the forever innocent smile
that has been my anchor
and will be my undoing.

Mimma Tornatora

_________________________

A Toast for Tomorrow
[Echoes of a Georgian/ Ukrainian Toast heard at a Community Meal at Victoria Park Community Centre.]

May we plant trees for our children-
that grow deep roots to keep them steady in the earth.
May we give them wings that lift
them to branches high.
May they be better than
folks who have gone before-
kinder, fairer, freer, more loving.
More forgiving.
May they hear the hum of the Universe, have their curiosity
ignited and imagine new possibilities-

where there were none.

Jill Turner

_________________________

Hitchhiking, West Coast, NZ

Standing at the side of the road I
wondered, can a life be pressed
into a backpack and tent, yes – my
home for the next year as I face
the traffic, pack leaning against
a giant fern…I’m ready to go, the
road is wet and slick as glass,
I’m in traveller chic, shorts, and
boots comfortable as I watch
the twisting rainforest road, the
deep green patched with white
snowmelt spreading gravel lines
there’s no lifts, point in rushing
could be tomorrow or years past

Maggie Van Putten

_________________________

Rain Moths

Red Moort, May 2024

The lights stayed on at night – so the Rain Moths flew straight in.

Disorientated as a film was being screened – they knocked
their heads against the ceiling – hung their bodies
from the arms of sofas – or dropped down to the floor
and turned quiescent – males the burnt grey of Banksia spikes –
long wings marked with metal leaf – females the hues
of iron-bearing stone – spraying eggs out in distress
at the clump of heedless boots – unwanted prodding fingers.

So while the rest were getting breakfast – two of us
scooped them up in open palms – and they clung
to woollen jumpers – climbed toward our ears –
strung themselves from beanies and lapels
and we walked out with them slung to wrists and elbows –
coaxed them onto branches – where they swayed
in wind like silvered decorations – clinging
with tiny hooks on spindly legs
hardly stout enough to hold their swollen fatness –

and soon the whole bush stood festooned
with clumps of sleeping moths dangling in the breeze
invoking rain – which came that afternoon
as we were driving away – Rain Moths living up
to their hallowed – perfect names –

and may evermore this country
be blessed by Rain Moths and by rainclouds and by rain –
and may there always be some time to save them
when the lights are on and lure them in again.

Giles Watson

Slow Down

You cannot skim-read a landscape. The stories it tells
must unfold at a pace dictated by itself
and your role is not to hurry but to wait
on its patient graceful bidding.

It matters that the markings on the dragon lizard
and the trundling spider are coloured like the stubble
of a rainless summer. It matters also
that the bees have hung their home in long pale lobes
under lichen-covered stones. The direction
a beetle turns about upon a grass-stem
has its own significance – if you’re literate
to the language of this country – but most of us have lost
the meanings in our haste – and no longer know a haven
from a waste. The high eagle turning under clouds –
the moon-cooled loops of the tiger-snake curling on the ground –
both of them are telling us:
slow down.

Giles Watson

_________________________

She Breathes

warm air flutters the smell
of vine and leaf
a drop of dew
a small lake
in a curled leaf
ripples silver
a pink and grey galah
picking grain stops
long enough to look
with beady eyes as
she breathes barefoot
dances a passing breeze
it carves her heels
feels the loss of quickness
she misses the pleasures
of drum and guitar
wants once more to sound
heartbeat soles on a wooden floor
but she has someplace to be flying

Remembering spreads around her
spills sideways
peels her in layers

Gail Willems

Isolation

Some mornings I wake
to a crackle of conversation
crow steps along branches in the olive tree
today the northwest wind unwinds
against the window
drowns out my noisy friend

I’ve been alone too long
people come and go
a slick and shiny wetness
over faces

I stand on my balcony lean on elbows bent low
as dogs and people randomly come and go
and slow-ly disperse like smoke through the trees
alone I travel with them

Gail Willems

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