Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Kristen de Kline #102 hungry these poems


these poems are making me     hungry

I want to eat zongzi at the Dragon Boat Festival
jam made from Illawarra plum trees

I want to taste loquat fruits
tangy flesh     orange like Fanta

savoury pork or sweet red bean
I'm stealing the food right out of your mouth


I watch you balance on a floating

free fall in a burning

step away from the little

please don't tell me
the fish

hungry     these poems are making me

Kit Kelen #517 - we must be here to see

we must be here to see

why else?

to guess like this
to get to know

there is a forest
in every word

and each grew
just saying

words will not
perfect the thing

we must be here
to picture
to purpose thanks

must be here
why else?
to see
the finger pointing

a world
that's every way we go

every tongue
is a lick at my face

so unexpected
these puppies jumped up
just me in bed

to guess like this
to get to know

to save the world
to save ourselves
just saying

truth must be
lost in the words
where else?

Kerri Shying R # 251 un-Reconcilable me

un-Reconcilable   me

the thing about these words
these words
this   hyphen
is a hoverboard 
I’m standing on a

puff of air
no ground

this hyphen floats
my race    a face of

build the nation

 my honey

you stand
where I put you
over there

you are
in the air

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Rob Schackne #352 - The Wrong Place

The Wrong Place 

               after Kerri Shying

It’s awful
and how sad
but how long
the wrong place
the wrong time
alas any kid
that curious
would do it
cliff face jesus
down so deep
angel spread
read it in the papers
there is no death

Rob Schackne #351 - "Eat one more zongzi"

Eat one more zongzi
and go completely mad
cartwheels flip the business
it's speaking backwards
throws the body overboard
from legend to history
from history to story
from story to poetry
river ferry back and forth
dragon boat festival
any day now gone forever
full bellies emptied minds

what's a politician
the fish never cared

Kit Kelen #516 - I fell into error

I fell into error

(draft – not rough enough)

I fell into error

that was the most fun
and got the best results too

I grew crooked as any tree

I scribbled in the pictures
before I tore them out
broke toys!

I found myself in Error
it was a lovely place
full of wicked experiwinkles

my confession was littered with...
ah, but I was text misread
couldn't help it
how I was brought up

I saw all sorts of things on the way
like rabbity Alice come after

went as wrong as I could go
then went a little further

anything perfect was fair game for me
I took the bastards down in flames
died the thousand deaths
my pleasure

I was utterly lacking in punctuation

of course it crept back
che peccato!

I broke the crown
came tumbling after
vinegar in the chips

didn't they squeal just at the sight of me
the proper ones, the knowing
hands on heads and hands in laps
I hoped that I might yet learn how not to spell
I came in quick and quiet, you bet

you see
I went with the best intention paving
I could have had straight turf

but the urges
always lead us to error

took down my pants in the really wrong place
thought – better keep going with that
I was a terror
gave demons all the run around
hot on their heels

hell and back and tell the tale
light shone through from another world

there's a good shepherd loves us all for fun

I forgave myself
that was best of all

my greatest love – to get things wrong

do you think of a leopard changing its spots?

shall we step off this little ledge here
won't you fall into error with me?
it's the only place we can ever be free

Rob Schackne #350 - Third World Pearl

Third World Pearl

The distant phases of the moon
the patterns of this speech
the pocket bodies

the general rhythms of the rain
the predicates the notables
the costly freeways

none irregular enough
none solid enough
nothing ever enough
not even close

theories of origin and formation
gallop like horses along a silken road
long distance likes us I suppose

safe to say the old moon
was created when a big thing
bounced off this one and made another

the third thing our pretty pearl
which is what hangs up there
that we see most nights
a game of marbles

this third world
not so perfect at that

Venessa M - #1 - Deconstructed sonnet - after Elliott, Thomas et al

Deconstructed sonnet. After Elliott, Thomas et al...
Image result for mermaids singing each to each

Do not go gentle into that goodnight. But rage, rage against the dying of the light. 
Or you can fade living on in quiet desperation 
Measuring out your life not so much with coffee spoons as the midday show, Wheel of fortune and family fued 
Blaring out alternately from each side of the decorating limbo that is the long, beige corridor. 
Finally the awkward obligatory half hour visit. Where you jovially repeat nonessentials 
and you feel the desperate urge to connect in a real way from the eyes. 
A single tear travels down the cheek reflecting a rosebud of loss and regret.
No do not go gentle.

When its my time i will walk along the beach. Stand in the shallows with my skirt tucked in my undies.
Let the incoming breakers skittle cheerfully over the sand.
Until a big one gallops up and splashes me full on, so I have sand and salt water everywhere.
Sea foam in my hair.
I hear the mermaids singing each to each
So I will leave the beach and swim out to join them.
My recently dyed purple-red hair will fan out behind me like a unicorn's mane. 

My seahorses and I 
Will the kelp strand ply 
With my own song. 
My hair will tangle with the sirens as we wheel ecstatically down. 
Looking up I see bubbles between me and the moon.
I will grab my memories in my fist and leap defiantly into the mouth of the Kraken.
They will not weep for me. 

I forbid it with all of my fierce heart.

Do not go gentle 

o with a bang. Not a whimper...

James Walton #59 Down sizing

leave behind
all rumour of magnolia
the rapping attraction of grevillea
embossed by seductive paws
and the crazy bingo hydrangea swaying
calling colours by the porch,

gather now
to the small vacancy
traffic through the drive way lounge
a highlighted number on the verge
and this barren displaced anonymity
speaking names no one hears,

students sleep
all buzzy in unease
where roots break up the pavement
searching for grounded rain
above the traveling dreams
their old homes still searching

Monday, May 29, 2017

Kristen de Kline #101 - two bucks in the bank (thanks to Kerri S)

two bucks in the bank     we could be cursed
or blessed     two trees of Illawarra plums to turn

into gelee and jam   Kerri's eyeing off a local loquat
tree     offering to send me the spoils  

two bucks in the bank    it's true money is     over-rated
once    you drank Verve Clique in     swanky suites

in Melbourne hotels   once you looked up at the stars      dancing
through bullet-proof plate glass     no neon lighting on the 13th floor

the Sociology Professor says you fit the stereotype     perfectly
tenuous income separated parent precarious housing     is this meant to be

reassuring     a pay check away from living in the G6E    
teenage boy and talkative cat, howling: where would you park where would you park

where     would     you    


two bucks in the bank
five loaves and two fish
things could be
cursed     blessed

I ask you to catch me a shooting star but you tell me
it isn't a star      at all
it's just a meteor heading for a

two bucks in the bank
are we cursed     or blessed
four days till dole day   not counting
do we lie in the gutter and look up at the     stars  

take a bucket to those Illawarra trees
make a nice gelee and jam
throw me a     plum  


Kit Kelen #515 - tirelessly (for notes on method)


(for notes on method)

work within a clear constraint
to and from and away

for instance this world we're in
is it too narrow for the heart you've brought?

dream another
be bound by those rules

it must all square
run rings around 

work tirelessly
get a good night's rest

let the cool breeze in to wake

no such blank as to begin
but a rules sets the edges
you add to the pile
like a language you have to travel to find

know the limit
so be beyond
know there's no way back

brush teeth or go toothless
such is the jungle in our law

the rules are all you make them
your own

or play by someone else's
how far can you get avoiding that?

one word goes after another
each follows the words that came before
and stroke for stroke
note for note
it's the same
each of them is a choice

constrained by after and now and again
by gravity and levity
and more

every place is pretty special
every one as well

you are to begin
where you happen to be
then you begin to decide

not to mention
the objective conditions

it's this way with word
it's this way with image

these are my memories
run any order
that could be a rule

let brevity be blessed
no heart's as wide as this world

keep the beat
forget the clock
go on in your own time

fall only ever for the questions
work up a clear constraint
go to it

you're the master/mistress of such fate
as falls to to you for you alone
to intuit

so do it
and well
do it

Rob Schackne #349 - "A bun in the oven"

"A bun in the oven"

A bun in the oven
two bucks in the bank
one big slew of poems

a trip to the shop 
for a few essentials
can a baby be a poem
never written it before
more paper more pens
praying everyday
will you ever see me
at church or mosque
at temple or park
writing most slowly
thinking mostly of food
about how this works
notes on method
for once no commas
I'm pretty much alone

Rob Schackne #348 - "Very likely true"

Very likely true
what they all said
he went straight there

because every night
on the walk home
he stroked the white cat
from under the dirty car
he chanted good wishes
a few sensible warnings
and some nonsensical words

sure he'd done some shit
but not really a bad life

his soul was weighed
at the last reckoning

on the sacred bounce
one whisker was on the feather

a short argument blah-blah
then the keys to the kingdom

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Kristen de Kline #100 Friday on my mind

Lawless Way, Friday afternoon    a man with hollow bones smelling of white sugar
breath     fries up bacon and eggs on a hot plate rigged by

fire-proof electrical cords   thrown around like a figure 8     steals
power off the grid    like squatting dole-days hockshops   digging

Saturday Heralds cans of lentils baked beans out of metal food skips
every tin past the Use By date     we drink we dance we sing we fight we

run away     from men in uniforms, numbers hidden    regulation batons swinging
boisterously    their high-beam torches strobing in the darkness like sparklers on

Guy Fawke's night    glowing lights chase us down DEAD END lanes   barking
Alsatians charge haphazardly in the wrong direction  

scrape together enough cash for a bullet and a jug of beer at The Zetland
sing along to red, red wine     on the jukebox

tear apart a blue, blue heart:

stay close to me red,
     red wine

my house still smells of teenage boys     their trails of grease meander across
stainless steel and granite surfaces    macaroni cheese re-heated for the third

time    boy's laughter reverberates from one floor to another    wraps me like a soft, mink
blanket that got lost in the move   a vague sense streaks past    one day this will be behind

me     a whiff of possibility     in the eye of the storm      ugly stones out the back yard  
rocks weeds concrete slabs     an ash tray spills out stubbed butts and murky

rain water     we look up at the stars     floundering like little fish, shaking
the boys handpick the Velvets and Nico, that big yellow banana on the cover:
Sunday morning restless feeling wasted years early dawning Sunday morning

I sit with the boys and leaf through books on Dada Surrealism punk art       do I lose time
or does time kill me?     talk about snow shovels   hat-racks   melting clocks   old vinyls

does the sun set
too soon?

somebody scratches an old Jam vinyl with a needle    it bumps stutters cuts
to the bone   a pocket full of pretty green   darkness hangs off

a pitched roof     threatens to jump and end it all     time stretches  
talk about Jerry Rubin the Yippies the Chelsea Hotel chapbooks zines anarchy in the UK the Velvets Sunday morning pale blue eyes

in the distance you can hear time scratching your Velvet vinyl
like a Medieval torture instrument
the sun sets
too     soon

Kit Kelen #514 - each page is a room in the palace

each page is a room in the palace

now that it's summer all night
the only dark is dreaming

words pile
until the poem's lit

words furnish
where the image burns

be shown to a truth
of how it was so you will be

what pomp
to fix it for a wall

like last days
of a life you've known

dizzy with wings
and the world many-cornered

there are more rooms
than days remaining

under every treasure
is love

so many mansioned
if it were written, books wouldn't hold

it's all a tree like Christmas
this home

you've come in
through an open one

is there a window
looks out?

the writing from the other side
appears like this when framed

Kerri Shying R # 251 - Wrong Lover

Wrong Lover

I have no insight I can’t tell
about the small signs the little moments
in the conversation  in the chatter cupping
holding it like water
on a leaf

no sense of understanding of
the social building blocks
I lurch about   arms out
flailing   railing
to be free

of this impediment  I’m told of
 catch a scold for

see before I never saw it
 now can’t hardly let myself
ignore it  now
there’s you

Stuart Rawlinson #44 - Commutations

The morning commute begins on the hour
As nighttime and daylight adjoin in friction.
Buses interrupt as I squint for my number;
Balanced and hovering on the kerb’s edge
In front of staring commuters like a set
Of unglazed statuettes, wide-eyed and empty.

The bus pulls up and as always not empty:
Bursting at both ends like an overfilled hour-
Glass. Doors open and close, passengers set
To go, but eyeing each other with palpable friction.
With each turn and jerk the people edge
Back to equilibrium. Without name, without number,

In this cattle train – turn down, be number,
Desensitise, pour hope out empty;
Ignore the jostles or be pushed over the edge.
On the 113, seconds like minutes, minutes like hours,
More bodies like atoms increase the friction
And the bus starts to sweat – windows are set

With droplets of water. The bus’ course set
For the pale white offices, where number-
Less hordes sit in cubicles constricted,
For work that is meaningless and empty.
Punch-in and wait frustrated for the punch-out hour:
No wonder so many end up on the ledge.

There’s nothing else to do as the bus starts to edge
Forward but observe the young workers who sit
Without moving for old standers, who for hours,
Incalculable hours, have accepted they’re no longer number
One in this city of self, of missing deeds and empty
Words – an entire people in a constant state of friction.

No-one speaks on board, just project a silent friction.
Nearing my stop, I balance on the step’s edge –
The bus shudders stop; compressed air empties;
Alighters and boarders – on your marks, get set…
Suddenly the doors open and the number
Mix violently – this space is mine, mine, not ‘ours’.

Every day, every hour, numberless people set
In a position of permanent friction.
Edging forwards in their empty lives.

Rob Schackne #347 - The Windowless

The Windowless

The windowless
is the idea behind 
we say never mind
when we most mind
being left behind

Sweeney at the podium
no eye contact
no warmth
no laughter
they get up and leave

The wind blows through
the skull's eye-socket
whistling a song
singing for a beauty
long since passed

Saturday, May 27, 2017

Contribution #107 Claine Keily

"No contribution needed"
she said
but already her face
had turned green
because of all the visits
from all the ones
who arrived
to set things right

It reminded her of
the year her father
decided she was free
to roam about
and she Tie-Dyed her pillowcases
and could breathe
until she found at
the bottom of the staircase
all the wrappers from
the miniature candies
she had eaten
and a bill written in
her mother's hand

Kit Kelen #513 - ephemera


let mind into the vanishing

limbs of the climb
are to ash

follow this trail of light

fish for a shimmer
where the tide goes out
and the sun lies spent

here's thin air
the words are lit
we bodies bear

the lost live
in the pages turned

only the moment

work that's finished
is already gone

have absence for a heart
there's light

consult with the ephemera

end of the trail
a notable absence

we are to this
rise again

the show's all paper
set to burn

great to be gone this way

I am
all are

Stuart Rawlinson #43 - Undated

Flint fragments
Knapped undated
Granite worn away
To form steps
Up the cliff side
Sheep trails snake
Towards the pass
Sheep ribs hover
in the thick grass
Aborted axes confused
In the scree slope
The artisans slipped
Away one unnumbered
Night, into the new
Villages and gene pools
Taking up new trades
Letting the old ones
Fade away

Kerri Shying R # 250 - Three more days alone

Three more days alone

I’m floating again             drifting
room to room             a balloon of solitude
yet intimately            connected
each minute            another droplet
in the news             feed


I am eaten up            un-nourished
waiting for             the dusk here
fire and darkness            sear me whole

Kerri Shying R #249 - Small boy child

Small boy child

you just made it to nine
before you made a rope choice
in the garage  it was your mother
with the washing wet
in her basket 
saw you first
like you saw her facebook posts
what rotten kids you were

I heard you were out running
in the streets
with a bad crowd
at nine  and people said
come and talk if you need to
as if you were an adult

and so you were
tall enough at least to reach
a rafter

tip and gone

Jeff Skewes 52#16 Floored

stars above
laid out
only prayers
will rescue



the falling
reach in
the calling's
the name

our story
told over
it's just me
looking up

image: Unspoken silence  -  acrylic & enamel paint, ash on stretched canvas 40x40cm / jskewes

Rob Schackne #346 - "In Norway"

In Norway
off the North Pole
the seed bank
keeps life alive
the permafrost
is melting

idle thought
will you still
need me
will you
still feed me
when I'm 64

Friday, May 26, 2017

Kit Kelen #512 - only a treaty OR how to have a home

only a treaty
how to have a home
(notes towards a villanelle)

only a treaty begins to redress

the silence we were
we have been till now

only a treaty begins to redress
the voicelessness
the lie

the fact of my having this address

the colours in the skin
and the colours on the map
surely that's a conversation
we have to begin?

darkness we've done to be us
and to them

only a treaty begins to redress

my dreaming and yours
and where do we meet?

every animal's in this

the past is the pile of us

acknowledge the wreck
file the collision report
then the party aggrieved
can begin to collect

wouldn't that be
what law's for?

only a treaty begins to redress
sins fathers and mothers
could never confess

if you want to live the country
you'll have to be every animal of it

only a treaty begins to redress
the damage of those who couldn't care less

listen up sisters and brothers
there's no one else to do the job
know – we are the energy for this!

the damage of shoes in a wilderness
the shame we've hidden from the world
from ourselves
the worlds we've hidden as well
the dreaming

only treaty can tell
the truth before pants
truth that is after

truth we make now
is judgement upon us

only a treaty begins to redress
the risk of going on
just as we've come

digging a deeper hole

there isn't a re-set button
but we need a new Year Dot

only a treaty begins to redress
the voicelessness
the lie

fact of my having an address

it's always been the time to speak
so the time is now

every clock strikes
at our failure

we have to be able
to begin to bless
our country