Saturday, September 30, 2017

Kerri Shying R - # 329 - 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
a lawless
of ten poets
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

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
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

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
closed lids

Friday, September 29, 2017

Kit Kelen #636 - in frogloud spring

in frogloud spring

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

Thursday, September 28, 2017

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


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


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

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


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


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


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

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

everything’s a question

how often we were up a tree
so far down in that hole

the jealousy
the indignation
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

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

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
They’ll drown before
They reach the sea

Kit Kelen #634 - the house at home

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

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

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

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


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

Monday, September 25, 2017

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
like telling a joke
on your day off
the delivery
wait for it

Kerri Shying R # 326 - 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

fall flat

Kit Kelen #632 - my precious things

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