Kerri Shying R - # 329 - Max

Max

quiet of the night

the dog   soft tongue

a comfort  when you sleep

with  sadness    that

warmth  across tendons

sore from pulling

  is the world

Rob Schackne #479 - "The invitation"

The invitation
was implicit
it was already
mid-autumn
a lawless
degustation
of ten poets
gatecrashing
bringing arrows
from their coats
they drew lots
and shot down
nine of the ten suns
and afterwards
they read poems
that solicited
some attention
then cleaned up
kissed everyone
and left

Kit Kelen #637 - in frogloud spring

637

in frogloud spring

(second attempt)

be bird

and sing first thing

or sometimes bark

be winged

fly pup

and pluck at harp

all paws for

howsabout a sea

or at least

have river run

winds tall

all bee begun

and hide in foliage

just have to swoon

hill high with view

it’s even so when sunshine says

when day is freckled forth to live

trickle of sweat

and you think to get wet

next door

hear hammer

they’re building too

we’re paddocks apart

the hour makes an attempt on us

and I hear blowfly buzz

then everything is green because

it simply can’t remember

will I bake on

or will I wash?

inside of spring

a story telling

all little echoes to it

dry

and I hear trickle

sap rise

great mulberration!

when beaks won’t wait for ripe

just let the words be brought to mind

here are my old friends

music

just let the words away

somewhere the picture of me says

at a stretch

sun settles here

and fades the thing

leave wood for a further winter

it’s in spring

I come out of my book

now leaves are fire

waiting on spark

and we could all go up

ants say

looks like rain

but won’t

air’s alive with cousins

I gather all in a last age here

run to mysteries myself

the children of laughter are all a panic

bleed heart to see them so

then won’t you sombre say to me

is any season rote?

is there a book where all spring’s told?

where the all day garden’s

just as sung

no never

but we jam

I wonder then where I was when

and if question leaves a mark

Kerri Shying R # 328 - The Real World

The Real World

sing in my ears

the lack   the high

unknown  tell my path

no waiting  seats are

allocated  the dead

move your body

to the light

smell the seaside

    between

closed lids

Kit Kelen #636 - in frogloud spring

636

in frogloud spring

leafless

as at the beginning

piping, breeze borne

one twinkle up

and dark enough for rain too

I consecrate a deed of conscience

my life timed by the flow

by the carrying of water

may I consider whose land this was?

now the progression of chords through the garden

dusk frogs say

here I am to hunt, deaf snake

and I am many more

all green

all rise

like leaf

everywhere the thisness breathes

like cliché, true

but always everywhere before

as I, of the elsewhere, now find a self here

now the temperature drops into its slippers

so shortly we’re to dream

each of the other world

each one knows

I know you’ll meet me there

Rob Schackne #478 - "A thousand years"

                               "They hated domination as much as we do."
                                         Bette Bounce to her mate Cracker Jack

A thousand years
from Anthropocene
what do we find amid
the ruined dreams
but nine ancient poets
countless empty bottles
sure they were sensitive
scars galore and epochs of poetry
yes bad health depression and disease
look at the boxes in the dark
now point it over here
what in the hell were
they thinking of
yes many were lawless
look this one's grinning
this one's pensive
what was the future

Kristen de Kline #151 after the rain

after the rain
that sun   lit up

from behind clouds
like a Renaissance painting

Bernie tells me where to find
a decent coffee   runs red dye

into my crown   her fingers smell
of tobacco     the No. 2 clippers

buzz away at my scalp   a whiff
of CK Eternity   I notice

her
breathing   

it's laboured,   musky

we spend the night   finely
cutting cabbage leaves

disinfecting knives
in boiling water

after the rain
that sun   lit up

Stuart Rawlinson #80 - The Archaeologists Will Report

I

Scrape
But never reach bedrock
Record
Each layer
Minutely. Remember every
Detail
On the drafting film
Seconds, minutes
Lifetimes

Test pits turn to craters
Bottomless and steep
The sheer walls graph
The big moments of
Fire, flood and invasion

In the laboratory
Silent white coats
Separate pollen from spores
Classified and logged
By species and age

Post-holes like shadows
Only show from one side
Three in a line is not
Random. Temples are imagined




II

Boy, aged 10, in reversible
T-shirt, unimpressed or
Unsure how standing stones
On a hill can mean
So much more
Or less
To a tardy future




III

There is fog on the A303
Thick in the hollows gives way to
Brief moments of sky
As the liminal road
Lifts over moving boundaries.

Between two lives – ancient
Modern, and creating new
Old layers of sediment
With every mile and turn




IV

Is it possible
That these stones were erected
Exactly for this?
This moment, this island
Of time, projected back
Millennia into a thought
A spur, a determination
Post-ordained and flipped
More easily than the lifting
Of Megaliths?

The Archaeologists will report
In time

Kit Kelen #635 - an archaeology of myself

635

an archaeology of myself / himself / oneself / the self

it all begins with as far as you go

everything worn turns to soil

this is where dust was settled up

the body is all superstitions

now I know to wait for the lines

cloud comes and our fate is sealed

digging in the weather

there’s everything that you can see

the here-we-are-ness, palpability

and all this while the show went on

dig like it’s a dream down there

it needs a good shake out

just a breath where we’re beginning

big sea in the bay, long view, tip toes

in moted dust look up

see stars

a spider climbs

and still today

you want to get between the lines/ the layers/ levels

it’s instinct led where you shoot through

bravery went on

in fear of abstraction

do you remember the promised land view?

saddle and ridge

truth set out succinct

see this line – here the hip ached first

where reading glasses were required

and often stretch to kiss

and lastly breeze begins again

where we have been before

this gravel crunch of driveway

and under leather sole

we have worked for intangible wealth

time piled up regardless

at some point the heart gives way

see the bones laced together for good

the writing is smaller than forever

it’s less than where we’re gone

the soul is a night darker than

still bubbling

may yet come to the boil

being first held

eye opener that

arousal!

everything’s a question

how often we were up a tree

so far down in that hole

the jealousy

the indignation

outrage!

all of this is signed

for the one who knows to read

we’re always drilling for a core

occasional the little trophy hordes

coins and little notes – a bank

there’s so much heal thyself

they’re handing out degrees

mostly though I’m decomposing

I remember the bottletop green of the bay

remember remembering most

everyone must have swum to be here

how else the tadpole legs?

egged on

and over the brink

we dared

won’t you!

as far in the deeps as music

the plastic layer

shows my age

come to the well of the singing wings

where once we learned to fly

all because I’m mindful

clap hands

hey presto

here’s the rest

what a long way down I go

and you’re there

and/or you will be

here’s the track

it’s almost as if

we live and breathe

but reader

you know better

James Walton #75 That wouldn't work with long division

you get seven with six she reminds me

the young mother who went to school

with my son here where the soil

seems so rich it has forgotten to heal

and I am lost not understanding

stuck without the mercy of silence

it’s like a South Australian dozen

she says or half of twelve plus one

I tell her of how my friends

put me up for a night and I stayed for a decade

back in the car I count the extra stubby

that wouldn’t work with long division

Rob Schackne #477 - "Eight poets"

Eight poets 
are lucky too
one's asleep 
at the table
three are in
deep discussion
about the one who
hasn't returned
two of course are
in the bedroom
one is dreaming
the immortal poem

about an unfast iceberg 
fading in Antarctica
how good & hopeless 
it is to bring 

things together
and the other one is you

Stuart Rawlinson #79 - Pacific Rediscovered

Dust and spiderwebs behind
The Pacific is rediscovered
Through convex eyes whose
Lenses meet the horizon
Early. Sand and succulents
All manner of insect
Hived in the cells
Hexagonal lattice of
Unconnected rooms
The creepers are tangling
Catching up
Exponentially
They’ll drown before
They reach the sea

Kit Kelen #634 - the house at home

634

the house at home

has no wish to be finished

which of us will call?

it’s all doors and windows to breathe

for floor

well deeps

face is those eyes into ours

the house whom fire and storm address

from all this burden of standing, of here

some centuries have slept

it’s all these moments by hand

and ceiling

hands hold off cinders

when the mountain comes

this is where the maze treads to

and in it are more gardens

so I have read somewhere

a forest of webs indoors

so we are caught to fall

all improvised

imagine a list of names

the house has a good stretch of a morning

you’ll come to light inside

house on track from standing one day

smoke from a stack going nowhere

at a distance you’ll admire

all tricks of how someone

once whistled it up

there isn’t the one flat surface to press

but seeing in

you’ll travel

time for everything

and come cloud

pass across a window

how many will watch that long?

right now it’s radio

every ache worthwhile

maybe there’ll be rain

we pray

sunshine is a joy too

shell of a riddle

this standstill

a bird taps just at

seeing selves

come with an axe

no rings recording

the house is long in tooth

all learned silences

here too you must imagine soul

intentions can’t be read

it’s what the ants must bear away

and down where the dark is true

the house without a single wish

mere effort of will makes tall

Rob Schackne #476 - "Seven poets"

Seven poets
make up a great
dinner party

the tail wags the dog

a hundred poems

will go begging
vox clamantis in deserto
looking for our specs
so much to read
but we'll talk & drink

till Claine gets here
and that fella Rob
who reckons he's lost 
directions meaningless

Kristen de Kline #150 The lawless chatter

well into the night
we chatter   the lawless
whores   ratbags

poetry and spilt drinks
Canberra and convertibles
never forgo the house wine

it's true
that all the bad things
make us write
way too much

well into the night
they   crawl   around
in our messages:
psycho ex's
dead beat collaborators
holding Apple TVs
over your head
narcissists dropping the bundle
it's all about him him him
fancies himself
a cut above
the rest
thinks he's the next Dylan Thomas
time to cut the chord
pull the pin
he really needs
to be hit
by a meteor

down Lawless way
we play our cards
close to our chest
chatter through the night
wash down a glass of wine
with a handful of codeine
wake up to a plunger
of dark roast
and that sun
catching   touching
washing away
the tears
down Lawless way

Stuart Rawlinson #78 - The Long Sleep

Proto-retirement
Deadening of the senses
Listen to the palm trees
Catch a rare breeze
Soften your steps and
Glide over the flags
The fan turns
Frame by frame
I count and equate
A dead cell at every pass
Take a deep breath
Diaphragm lift
For a wide vacuum
Turning blue
In the lightless sky

Kerri Shying R - #327 - Curator of silence

Curator of silence

just now     the once

in this epoch  spread

the milky way

of tattered nights that bled to days

and back  give not a word

for me              of praise  

the open window  lets in

singing crickets   say

so they still

mean luck

Kit Kelen #633 - nameless

633

nameless

each is creature

just a breath

and about the business gone

here as elsewhere otherwise

easy with

over, upon

in all senses brought

some certain beams

fall on one here

to travel with the thing

each is creature

yes I am

and blaze with eyes for

all about

here by way of habitation

from whim bent

sometimes I’m the bellows

and often sunk into the soil

it’s first of the clock I am

obedient to seasons

though we cannot name them yet

each is creature

yes and yes

ring the hills bespoke

each every one is full of time

we all air abuzz

blade parting

make a way through grass

all fall about in and with laughter

who is upright in that?

who takes to lying down?

all in the court of love

robed with day full lit

have a wall around myself

am I a grove-through thicket glimpse?

every day more in of garden

this being the place where worlds begin

forever and ever arriving

Rob Schackne #475 - "It's true that"

It's true that
dogs help you pay attention
cats not so much
heavy rain a lot
and all the bad things
that make us write
way too much
I suppose this is
unavoidable
like telling a joke
on your day off
the delivery
wait for it

Kerri Shying R # 326 - social

social

feel the bite            now   slide the mocking tongue

swallow              hold this in your heart             one two

electric insult                        some one unknown

aimed                 so aimless   strikes 

you where             the heart             the glands that make your spit

gush out             the tingling tip of tongue

what part of go            do

something else

entirely

fall flat

Kit Kelen #632 - my precious things

632

my precious things

are present to me

some highly strung

some hung

and some I am to pipe upon

all the years house won’t burn down

they gather, come to light

with them we sing a sun

moon melts

let me call them home

(I’m here!)

like crumb to rodent come

this scratch across paper

says I say

and I remember where things are

were left

then they are how the day’s divided

cloth cut to touch

a gathering

and orchestra

this is where the wonder shared

hallelujah to the chorus

creatures all concerned for me

as this picture shows

I, all ink with

nose pressed to paint

mostly among books I’m found

pretending till a garden grows

James Walton #74 Contracted out mail

A ute hangs five

off Sweeny’s bend

in mechanical contradiction

the flooded open palm

of river anticipates

patient as the Boatman

while Cliff’s toupee

by a once in a hundred years gale

arrives back in town

an unexpected delivery

of tumbled matting hirsuteness

now a dislodged umlaut

chased by dogs

pecked by maggies

claw flicked by cats

rests finally in the mud

at the RSL car park

stamped down the middle

not on the side