Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Rob Schackne #680 - "A telephone pole"

             A telephone pole
             stretches the next
             the wire is slack
             everything's calling
             sharper than ever
             what you didn't say
             birds flying south
             the sky gets darker

             birds fly north
             there's no answer

Kerri Shying R # 468 like a too warm coat on a day that turned out sunny ( for Lynn Reeves)

For Lynn Reeves

your boots  sit back against the fence     planted up
with sprays like fireworks   the flowers  of the
footpath    where I walk    my late afternoons  of
thinking  when the cabin fever closes in     views
expand  the world that touches me   on all sides

like a too warm coat  on a day that turned out sunny

shrink-wrapped  against travel      I see what there is
to see     head to toe      root to flower  the corms 
dropped along the roadside     at just this season    tell me
here is that idea again   and I am still moving    too fast
not yet    two feet forever planted   back at home

All fucked up #1

I know a guy
who put a gun
to his head.

He missed
so he tried again
and again he missed.

We'd play Boule
a French game of bowls
along an old walking track

below the house of wonders
where every room
was a fairytale of strange
stories from around the world.

Shiva and Buddha,
Jesus and the white witch
welcomed us in the winter light,
a celebration of madness.

I only won one game in all
the years I knew him.

He was a breathing, eating, shitting,
walking talking Buddha man
with only five percent eyesight,
an ocean of nectar, a universe
of equanimity.

Kit Kelen #902 - the shining

the shining

this is the weather
and wallabies come
they are lifted in mist
and hear the creek run

a few acres do

now charging

swampies splash ponding
they invent the first game
could do it every day

fence through light falls
then everything half rhymes
crooked in its coming still

you'll see the next door cattle
graze up on gum leaves
must be mistaken

then maidenhair
cabbage tree
ferns here to fish

I'm dry
now sight the dust inside

consider a fire for the night

drunk on acres
shrunk in the wash

the shining's in the bark
fresh lick

now charging

with heart leap thrills
of my own round track

and ho to the fruit ripe
last pumpkins still umbilical
but vines won't get away now

it's so many minutes past some hour or other
or could be leaning to

this is the weather
and wallabies come
they are lifted in mist
and hear the creek run

it's stretch forward
and all salute

gold falls over the land

nobody promised this

then a chimney takes up smoke

I'm here and I'd rather be here

Kristen de Kline #209 sometimes (to Kerri S)

she says
it's all the words
you've already
that you
are fighting

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Kristen de Kline #208 Abercrombie St (2)

we love like demons
our kisses, fresh
and  fugitive

at the corner
of Abercrombie and Lawson
we do lines with Nick Cave
croon away to Miss Chatelaine
you end up on the shagpile
searching for dropped ecstasy
two blocks down
full fetal position
I'm reciting station stops
out the front of Redfern station:
McDonaldtown, Newtown, Stanmore, Petersham ...
someone puts a fist
through the stained glass
it's become a mantra:
it wasn't me ...

you say,
I'm sick of cleaning up
your messes:
that girl in the sidewalk,
clouds of qualm
bursts of blue
kisses, high-pitched
like sirens
circling the Block
you say,
you haven't changed

on willow-pattern plates
and pieces of tin foil
I chase the dragon
the wind
and you

just a kiss

Rob Schackne #679 - "Introduced"

not so long ago
she sat down
took my arm
and her smile
opened me up
like the sun

she said
you smell
like strawberries
I laughed

it probably was
the sweetest thing
ever said to me
(let me 
remember this) 
but she was
sadly yes

dark winter
my history
now runs to
28 volumes
and the strawberries
don't look 

like strawberries
and the general opinion
is now 

to control
the damage

Kit Kelen #901 - honour all spirits

on Day 901
honour all spirits
of this kingdom said

trudge and be muddied top of the block
make inventory of every thing dreamt
of all the structures taken to night
never were woken to be

cloud me principalities of light
of hop and skip and

honour the ones who were before
because that's how we're here

track dried in caked out wheel-went

the crown, the staff are laid aside

fresh still with the winter
now finding sun
caught kindling fallen

in a tiny house
for couch
eyes on the greatest tree
neighbour of mine
salute the hundred years or so
of you

not counting

bear breeze among the lain-down skies

honour the still standing
the stood

sun perfect
like tea of an afternoon

mulberry sittings
for the kookaburra tribe
you can still say their name
though it's winter for the fauna
so many near to gone

honour them by name
the wordless
who call to us
but cannot come

bury the book with everything written

and Biscuit pays a visit
the dog come as old as time

the solar chinwag
in failing dim

herbs gather me for dinner then
and light let all where we will
till fire
and hearth along
sung so
to sneeze at

honour the ones
who have fished in the mirror
seen themselves in fire

honour the ones
found word to here

on the table
an abdication

I come to it in time

Monday, June 18, 2018

Rob Schackne #678 - The Fisherman (redux)

      The Fisherman

    Fish for bait, or the other
    the eyes tell it deep or shallow
    knowledge, such as it is, hard-won
    the day begins with diesel smell
    and rags, I read luck with hope
    sixty years and never read a book
    writing a thousand poems in my head
    it’s early morning on the river, very still
    I put on a clean shirt and start the motor.

     Photo: Ray Devlin (2008)

We don't need no stinking white knight

The power of luggage

We are the strong and the vunerable. 
We trust we get betrayed we get hurt. 

We are the brave and the fearful. 
We stick our necks out we get whammed. 

Much as we fear the pain we will do it again as the loss of self in hiding is more than we are willing to suffer. 

We have baggage sometimes its heavier than others. 

We seek not the white knight who will charge up, slash away our baggage (along with probably some skin) swing us up on the back of their white horse and gallop off into the sunset. 
Because the sun will rise on another day and you cannot ride on forever. 

We don't want a damn porter to follow behind and carry our baggage. 
We will leave you behind blithely encumbrance free having learnt nothing.

We want someone to walk with us, own baggage exposed. 
Someone to cheer us on. Hold our hands when our fingers get numb from picking at the knots. 
To hold us gently and wipe away the tears when the pain is too much. 
And be there to help us up when the weight of it brings us to our knees, steady us, and start us forward again. 

Then my darling let us do the same for you. 
One may travel faster when you travel alone. 
But those that travel together will travel further. 

Kit Kelen #900 - in a wilderness corner

in a wilderness corner

keeps like a question
where no self is said

where the moon was set
where fell some sleeping star

winter is
no hand by it

all muted for a first sun webbed

and paws under
was once a world
now an edge



pink of
like a rising or set
it's never everyone sleeping

here are the ones you haven't met

some settled, lie in wait
and you could prime yourself
set to

it all works up to a silence
never lasts for long


some little wings
come out of it

you listen for the gods are in

far as I am
all accidents too

every other planet's like that
how otherwise?
but breathless bare

there isn't a picture I can show
best thing about the place is


in a wilderness corner

hear trickle towards
the claws that catch
no moral to

gods are listening in
they flew
that's where we won't know

no tune
though we imagine past

even in my own last acre
that's an age before

some star fell sleeping over us

when I am ash
I am not


the cenotaph lives
you won't find yourself

it's here the unknown
about their business
sacred this far

now then to light

turn to stone
torn apart

it's all you can do to imagine


and some fell sleeping here
ill starred
but that's the way

no graph chart could predict

you won't know the creatures there
isn't a market at all

some fell star slept through
all exploding
does nothing here but burn


in a wilderness corner
won't find me

creep sun

secret to itself unworded
where did this go that?

like a draft
for instance moss much
instance rain

I have one of these in mind
and out of it at times

in the body also
likewise there's between
this unshorn idea

wrestle for it
tickle too

we won for ourselves
for our flag

a wilderness of wishes

none of this requires belief
or presence, absence, definition
but just because you're picturing


we won't be understood

amorphous stream, inchoate

are you with me?
let's not be seen

in conversation
such a place
and taken the wrong way

rain's let
and no machine shouts

in a poem could be prose

often I've come close to it

best thing about it all though is


and they will be as smoke through the trees
the neighbours -- feats of engineering

breath yet
that we know of

steam rises from

vanish at that point your closest

(plus ultra white pirate
whore me a world)

look up
and if you look away
you can see more clearly

this is my business here

still roaring of the not-got-away truck

and here's the pipe and tail
all followed in a train
of mists and lovely in tress vestige
gossamer cling
diaphanous to be

and someone is singing
someone is dancing
it isn't me
and it isn't you
it isn't us
in there