Kristen de Kline #65 - all hell breaks loose

while you     were away
all hell breaks loose
bodies are wrenched out of dirt
harmonicas     bones
pulled out of dirty red bandanas
playin' soft     bones crying
windshield wipers     slappin'
time     planets turning
the sky grew dead

the day     we heard
soft bones     cried
I sat out the back
smoking again     burning
holes     the size of gold coins
in the fabric     reclining
under stars
that kept     falling, shooting

random words spilt out of the 7 o'clock news
across the fence, the elderly Dutch neighbours
have the volume     maxed up:

soil samples taken from a shovel

so where did you bury the body mate?

bushwalkers      stumbling

he said she left to clear her head
a rotting kangaroo     that's what it smelt like 

the day     we heard
I sat out the back
smoking again      burning
holes     in the sky   growing dark
darker     all of a sudden
watching planets     turn
top up the tumblers     no name Merlot
don't even think of the liver
listen to the dogs, howl
sing     the blues, moody
planets turn     soft bones wail
pull them out of a dirty red bandana:  
harmonicas     bones
scribble an obituary on the back of a napkin
where do I start what do I say

Kit Kelen #420 - where is understanding?

420

where is understanding?

you get beneath a certain tree

or flick a switch

eureka

they nail you up

you hit your forehead meaningly

take off your clothes peer through a gap

you make that long long journey

to lightbulb

what I don't know

will always be with me

nobody sees the clouds I carry

no one can sweep them away

Rob Schackne #257 - This Bounty

This Bounty


Strange that 

the word offing
is used for both
the sea that’s seen
and the future
that isn’t yet
quite in sight
as a sea shanty
near the beach
is both a song
and seaweed houses
in banged up rows
such reflections
in the offing
something's there
it comes and it goes 
someone is there now

Rob Schackne #256 - “Several moments of intensity” (1)

Several moments of intensity
anytime in the next 7 years
before squirrels lose their paws
and the Milky Way waltzes away
like before a canvas or a page
we'll come and go together
this masterpiece of love
picture a harmonious display
an astronomers' party with stars
a helium balloon to lift us up
you'll be on time for once
and I'll be racing to catch you
when we leave this planet laughing

Kit Kelen #419 - a death ahead

419

a death ahead

and planet turning

I've brought my bones with me

I must be some kind of cloud covered peak

I have an eye for up

as well

watch for the rumoured blue

the image in me

and was

you see

the demon of analogy

was last laid to rest

where is the candle daylight leftover?

is there saying goodbye

when I'm really a part

really here

?

can't even remember

who it is that's gone

I'll be the loose end tied

so that the weave is firm

James Walton #40 Beggar's Gift

I like to hold the dawn

gripping on to the canvas

awash in astonishment

as the first arrival

from each new world

a fresh minted token

dropping from an unearthly locket

slots into in my heart

where a soaring dolphin

is calling heads or tails

Rob Schackne #255 - How The People Spoke

How The People Spoke


Listening to King Gizzard
the wondrous night
she declared her love

some great harmonica
on Nonagon Infinity
at least it sounded like harp

someone pulled it out
of a dirty red bandana
and rubbed it off

nine sides looking for a tenth
or keeping one out
never to be a wheel

how I listened hard
to the organ and guitar
a blue plum plucked from a tree

hear it again too fast
and so easy to lose
like a word or two

I'll mention it someday
when the world's pretty
and the road is smooth

Kit Kelen #418 - here we are

418

here we are

here for poetry

here to live

here to outrun the day

heretofore

here for the here-and-now

now here for a purpose undisclosed

perhaps for a little lie in

and for breakfast, for lunch and tea

just a cuppa

elevenses and afternoon golden

for a whole day off

why not?

perhaps to chew the fat

chew off your ear

for a wee dram

here just to have my say

come dusk

strum at the strings

and song bodies forth

no one has to remember

then where are your immortals now?

dusty in the archive

I'd rather be jamming

here with the now

here for a good time

not for long

here for poetry

here to live

here to outrun the day

Rob Schackne #254 - "Said it before mix"

“Said it before mix”

                        for C.K.

Said it before mix
every poem’s a film
staring at the camera
a million miles away
same one's a sun
I'll say it again
there are two planets
seasons are the same
a better tighter angle
one little Buddha
the cells of memory
a hive that flew off
the things they did
marvels that they wrote
hey say it mix again
how the people spoke
kinder closer lighter
get more film
this will be good

Other Places # 79 Claine Keily

In the car warm
she spoke to him
of dunes

She hoped it would be
a sign
that she feared
the ordinariness
of the other cars
that passed by her
to have him know
that she saw them
as a symbol even
but he did not notice
and did not switch lanes

Somewhere between
university
and seaside trips
she began to fear
nursing homes
and saw the lozenges
he ate now
as signs
of their sudden arrival

She did not want
to be a wife
she preferred
to be driven
or to drive herself
to other places
anything so as to
have him not complain
about how tedious it
was to visit her
dying mother

Kit Kelen #417 - scratch

417

scratch

an open letter to all institutions

you've knocked me up a little coffin

haven't you?

think I'll stay in there?

all velvet and cush

what a fine polish the outside shows

though no one's looking for long

what I've to do in there's well versed

you've tossed the script in with me

you've smoothed the pillow for my scone

it is tempting to have a little lie in

my hair looks right at last

tie straight

(when did he ever wear a tie?)

there's a kind of a mildew-y stink about

and other things get up your nose

reach a certain vintage and you're bound to feel embalmed

you bastards have really nailed it, haven't you?

each snug in your own

and mustn't grumble

it's a nice little earner

this box-for-each business

you'd liked me to raise my right hand

and sing some dreadful hymn

show the right signs of appreciation

and now you're lowering me into the ground

and what a lovely view of the lid

couldn't you have at least painted a sky?

no, six feet of planet between me and asphodel

there's little talk of resurrection these days

I've got my penny handy

you think you've got me all nailed down?

you think I'm going to stick in the box?

not this little zombie

no way

Rob Schackne #253 - Explain Me That

Explain Me That

                    for R.V.

OK then 
this shudder
of a poem even
back against
the future
a few listening
I think at least
we've got it better
than the comics
four dogs sitting on a mat
the joke falls flat
as something must
why did we go on
that's a silence
we bother writing
and what came next

Regret # 78 Claine Keily

She wondered
if he had been able to
appear on television
earlier on
how far their marriage would
have progressed
beyond its early stages

She saw him now
in miniature form
though to himself it seemed
he had grown far larger
so she found herself a book
and dreamed of rivers
regretting she had
hidden herself
from the glances of others
who appeared at least
to have concerns of a grave nature

Now she was unable
to comprehend
that he was still alert
but immovable
giving directions
he still believed
would be followed

Kit Kelen #416 - towards cessation

416

towards cessation

one likes to imagine

it won't be pain

or old dis-ease

dis-may, dis-satisfaction

that nothing might mar

picture rather the puzzle pieces

a knowledge

every step was taken

to ground because the ground is best

or be of the air that's blessed

to swim the sea of suffering

because there's no other shore

James Walton #39 Noice in Nice

I bought the Russian girls breakfast

so poor they were from work,

and coming down the hill pretended

a little English for the couple seeking

Matisse and Chagall. Later, the crepe maker

told me I’d been churlish in keeping secrets,

but then no taste of banana enveloped me

at the olive oil distillery as it was supposed to.

(Apparently the Canadians pick it every time.)

I’d sat on a rickety pew before the stained glass

and piano. And surrounded by suspended lovers,

the magic of goats, colours that strained,

to hold their surging fancy, could think only

of the elongated eucalyptus leaf. How perfect

the Art Deco reverse teardrop, the teasing

smelling salts of home in the curling fingertips,

of the eavesdrop waiting in background.

(Aromatics in patina of a silver smithing caesia.)

Adding to the exhibit in The Modern Art

jumpers and scarves mixed to the clothes pile,

the ebony beauty of traveller students turning back

from the bad boy fifties sepia photographs

smiled to wonder at the growing of number 23.

A grimacing attendant handed over my blue cable,

the slightly shredding goretex, the beanie of many hues,

destined too soon for the cat’s  warm bed.

(The listener had finally joined the conversation.)

Brides # 76 Claine Keily

Here no scent of
camellias hangs over
a nuptial bed

No path protected
in her life

Why has she spent
so much time
listing the labels
when now all is out-priced?

Brides and mothers
heavy with care
pass by her
while she sits
and stares
at the stars

They lay down at her feet
tales countless
of privation
complain that they can
no longer afford
to have their eyebrows threaded
every second week
at the local parlour

Kit Kelen #415 - become your own hobby

415

become your own hobby

who was it I hoped to be?

pottering these late last years

mourning time lost

to serious affairs

then the river I stepped in

ran off

ran dry

ran toxic blooms

when did this begin to worry me?

the truth makes yet another attempt

as a matter of fact it's with us right now

sit still

for beginner's mind

then it's like

hearing your own voice

after your death

strange rasping

but sweet

and then you won't know it

see how relentless you were

all your days

like a cheer rung

till here you are –

the echo

James Walton #38 Penny Opera Impromptu on the Count's Journeys

As white as Poland in winter

a man on Main Ridge

checking out the memorial obelisk

mutters that Pawel passed again

within eight kilometres of this place

a bare frown line circumnavigates 

the knobby places beneath his knees

latitudes mapped by gumboots

edged from distant plantations

slapped to conversion in a crucible

fired by oaths of the dispossessed

each atlas ring a determined step

of his many overt sightings

following the marked out trail

where seven bronzed plaques meditate

a verdigris of tarnished seasons

brought naked into the sweet note

of bisecting currawongs summoning markers

opens his arms as he begins to sing

in a voice as wide as Kosciusko’s plains