Rob Schackne #819 - "Stretched jeans thick as a brick"

   Stretched jeans thick as a brick
   beholden to a bee, to the light
   everything is there to see

   the past is a passing plane

   a photograph taken quickly
   the shadow of a future and run

Tug Dumbly # 61 - Tulips

Tulips

People say ‘wozup? You look a bit down. A bit tired, a bit sad, a bit blue …’

Well, if I wasn’t those things before, I am now. Thanks a mil.

Look, it’s just the way my face sits. My resting face. My private face. My room-service-sign face saying PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB THE FACE.  

My face is happy to look sad. Sometimes. Doesn’t mean I am. But even if I am, please don’t bum my sadness out. I’m happy to enjoy my sadness. Undisturbed. Just me and my sad face.

No, I’m not consistent. I’ll take compliments. Say I look great – skinny, youthful, vital. I’ll lick you like a puppy.

Still it irks me. People try and read you like an emoji – ‘there there, chin up, never mind, might never happen …’

‘Wozup?’

I’m so glad you asked, Mr Sandwich Hand. You saved me from a moment of quiet reflection. Maybe tinged with a bit of nostalgia. Hard to put my finger on really. Shall we say a wistful whisper of regret, with a delicate filigree of yearning? Something ever-so-slightly rueful? Not really maudlin. More a light dip into melancholy. A plangent little shiver. A slight frisson of some lost past gently goose-pimpling the skin of the soul?

Know what I mean?

A little pebble plopped in the millpond of my being, sending tiny ripples spreading out to gently kiss and lap at the soft mossy verge of the human condition.

I dunno, how would you say?

A sort of softly swelling glow. Like sliding into a warm bath of mare’s milk coco. Or settling into the mantric hum of an ancient fridge in the dawn kitchen of an old beachside weekender

or trancing to a wood fire, dying with the gentle crackle of a Noel Coward 78 in the grate of a little log cabin by a lake in a wood, with you a sweetly bruised plum in the palm of evening, and just the chit-chitting of a lone cricket in the knotty pine floor boards.

Know what I’m saying?

A bit Whitman. A bit Thoreau. A bit Disney too, to be honest … actually, now I think of it, these are someone else’s fantasies. These pictures are just composite archetypes from the collective unconscious, ethereal vapours from the Lost Property Office of the soul …

… but anyway, that’s what I was thinking when you said ‘why the sad face?’

But look, if you’re really worried about my ‘wellness’, I’ll get into my clown gear. I’ll ride a tiny novelty unicycle on a highwire over a pit of flaming meth junkies while pulling a bunch of Gerberas from my bum and singing the best of James Brown …

No, no, please don’t go! I want to reassure of my emotional equilibrium. I won’t feel truly happy until I’ve convinced you that on the inside I am actually feeling delinquently overjoyed, just internally bursting with mirth and yuckety-yuk good cheer. So I’ll give you a joke:

This woman makes jam. All kinds of jam. Strawberry jam, blackberry jam, dandelion jam … All her life she makes jam. But one day she says I’m sick of all these old jams. I want to make a new jam. So she gets her hamster, sticks it in a blender and turns it into jam. And it tastes … disgusting. So she tips all this hamster jam on the garden. A week later all these tulips spring up in the place she tipped the jam.

Anyway, this guy’s walking past her yard. She says to him ‘look! Just look at all these tulips! Where did they come from?’ The guy says ‘oh yeah, didn’t you know? You get tulips from hamster jam ……………………………!!!’

GEDDIT!!

TULIPS FROM HAMPSTER JAM!!!?

… Ya see, the reason that joke’s hilarious is because there’s this old Max Bygrave’s song called Tulips From Amsterdam. (No one remembers it though). And what I did, see, how I engineered the joke, was I replaced the word AMSTERDAM with HAMSTER JAM. (Of course you shouldn’t explain a joke. Take it apart, expose its delicate mechanisms, it’s like killing a watch).

… Hey wait! Where are you going? I haven’t finished. Come back! You’ve got something on your face … It’s called a nose! (Yeah, I do dad jokes too). Hey, wozup? You look a bit down? Cheer up, smile. Might never happen!

Kit Kelen #1065 - three for the tip of the tongue

1065

three for the tip of the tongue

close to the word

under the blanket of all is

and so we are as well

lit every way

the one consisting of others, of many

in certain stretches sung

or do we commit ourselves to paint ?

you can just about smell it

like the rose to the nose

and then gone

some days

almost in it

the word is work

and with

and is

stands as tall as me

toe to toe

then back to back

at paces

turns

and

do you ever see

the arrow between

?

a hint

this under the word

overnight web

morning walks through

under this word

another

above our heads

how to spell?

it's like this

one climbs over another

the ladder falls away behind

you won't even need a carpet up there

pillow on a cloud

all around

wise sayings

great comfort

just to be home

word alive yet

under a world

and so many heavens

all

on the tip

of the tongue

before the word

was singing

that was the wind

we were told

music was in us

has to have been

everything was just in the making

no one said a thing

before we were thought of

a stretch

to fit

all the world in

the web of it all

dust and light

we were all surely meant to begin?

wait for the word

somebody said

tell the truth

it's all inside

though that was scarcely possible

and then we were away

imagine the first word

on its toes

what yelping yawp

ready and set

that supreme effort

has to have been mere nonsense

still

more meaning than anything since

a writer lives on the tip of the tongue

then out of nowhere

pages

a crowd

and all of my friends

wombat and possum

platupus streaming

all the air in arcs of song

sometimes comes like laughter in fits

or sneeze

and you've said so

not even knowing how much we won't know

but it's by this way we're making

those who are gone

are with us in words

each every one to its season

a given land

a promise

in love

in war

all cats' pyjamas

and will I be struck from the record​?

hours creep up on them

some words stand and test us

with remembering

settled in the bottom of the cup

will you read?

will you lie in my arms?

will I in yours?

and in one word

surrender

Clark Gormley #68 Boredom Romance

Boredom used to be my flame.
We'd spend every free hour together.
She’d drive me crazy but I’d hang around
as if I had nothing better to do.

But now I don’t have time for her.
My Boredom all-encompassing
obsession I have overcome.
These days I find her quite ho-hum.

Lizz Murphy Poem 379 Skylines 6 (after Michele Elliot # 35)

I ask the stars is there ever a right moment no good asking the moon it just questions the tides The moths are waking They leave the cool of cave take to the night skies travel the migratory route Lay their eggs Die The pupae hatch navigate the same path to the Alps gather in the billions cavern cavity crevice On the way they may divert block the light

Rob Schackne #818 - "This concept of money"

     This concept of money
     has to be quiet, doesn’t it ‒
     (the waste) but like scratching a cat
     or taking a bird out of the cage

     share it with the buckaroos
     & buckarettes ‒ except you spent
     all the ideas on yourself, weren’t you
     still shining, crazy diamond

     keep it to yourself then ‒
     anyone with a heart, a concept
     blowing a gale for two weeks now
     the bush is getting brittle

Kit Kelen - two poems - leaf & a libation for the gyroglyphs

1064

two poems

leaf

go to ground

dumb sacrifice

of sorts

a gathering

wrinkle from bud

to grey

die for me

to autumn it yellow

journey's end

and flutter yet

from here to earth

make light of

sword wind

nobly flame

all falling

for this world 

libation for

the gyroglyphs

a little Ra-Ra for the Seti-set

I invite you to

Sufi spin

for dizzies

imagine a merry-go-

make it all music

spin to spark

be dynamo

and on the burning deck

lost pants

green room's all pond and lily

bush behind

in the come again rain

tin rhythm

the winds sing

come out of the weather

to the wise this combo kept

make something sacred of ourselves

around the amphora priapic

Maenad meander

name the script

play up to it

be dotty

join the lines

fill pages here with score

inscrutable we'll be

into a ball and spring

invite you

and us the ghost

to tell as bees

all golden gathered

risen on wings

all because the world spins

curious this writing to make

something once

must have been meant

Kerri Shying R # 564 - Here.

Here.

clean with honey 

soap   bed resquared

stalk of lovegrass

all that’s missing

for a one note

idyll       me

a day away

from mopping

shit up off the

hospital floor

 stop   to feel this

hollow  I won’t

sleep    there’s a

jerk      he  

has the time

to graze

on facebook

pages  telling

me  how big

and wide his death

is going to

be   not me

let my body fade

into the garden

occupy a

screw lid

jar  please feed

it to the cat

sell it on the

bourse  dry

it off for

jerky  then he

won’t

visit it

no more

Kerri Shying R #563 - here where people of the just-enough-land

cream blossoms  take a drench 

beside the house the lotus pond

refills   a season  grows we have

no thought to name    the fifth

among   the too cold   too warm

here where people of the just-enough-land

pride themselves on  common

ground   this anomaly unsettles

like the lady doctor  speaking

in the House   today  answer  best

to turn your back and go the other way

Kit Kelen #1063 - true madness

1063

true madness

in a hollow itch

and feather me with light

to see the truth and shy

am bitten

I bite back

one wallaby unpaddocked

peering through the static

a little drowning in the words

lock up

and self same liquidate

administer me

in pill form

jab

I am the page filling up here

I could be falling leaf

be tree

who says a way around?

some certain days flower

so I am a season

weeds become a garden

Columbus in his India

and not just the imagination

but wrong to take

others dire

telluric

all this 'oh no' in the weather

my crossword is a crypt

an orchestra conducts me

I sing a bouncing ball

can we see ourselves

out of the picture?

pretend to knowing

where we've lost

all and all about to be gone

here – hold the tiller

believe!

Clark Gormley #67 Bathroom Renovations On Hold

brown tiles, smashed mirror
and exposed particle board
but it's functional

Clark Gormley #66 The black AM band view

driving through the CBD

there was so much static

I could hardly understand

a word the announcer was saying

it’s due to bandwidth congestion

the superhighway gridlock

mobile networks blowing their horns

contaminating the airwaves

with their fully sick 3G, 4G

NextG and the one after that

drowning out the AM

with their Wi-Fi hi-fi

it’s only a matter of time

before they discontinue the AM

same as the shortwave factory

in the Pacific was closed down

the old drivers who can’t

steer the new technology

like the Tuvaluans

will sit parked, in uninformed silence

Kit Kelen #1062 - it's only by singing we're here

1062

it's only by singing we're here

after William Barton

come to the fire

to listen and sing

come among these sands

a voice runs through all things to be

this is the story of how we are here

is it too hot for you to hold?

as the moon is

as the sun

fire is forever a circle

and all in words

by words

no tricks

around around is dance

light casts into itself to go

chase tail to see

sit branches

and join arc to arc

is there anyone here who won't sing?

we come to the fire to learn

that low murmur is the wind

that vast stillness

ash to be

see how we skitter

by little legs or not

roll away into a hole

how we leave these tracks

and then the tracks are gone

this is the story

of who we may be

come to the fire

to learn

Rob Schackne #817 - A Man's Gift

               A Man's Gift

                    
                   The solar panels open
                   the energy is ready
                   push the boat 
                   until the sand
                   it never was so hard
                   Mars is a comedy
                   it keeps on trying
                   checks the butterflies
                   it still needs guitars
                   everybody wants to play
                   now it starts to rain
                   another whisky please
                   these dreams of violence
                   what was I thinking
                   where was I going

Kerri Shying R # 562 - crickets sing to the glory of white nighty

punch holes left by the gold tip of your

light-plied needle   pink French knots

buttons  the mother of pearl  no mention

of who is the father   the river is a slosh

with seed pearls   all dying for a berth

crickets sing to the glory of white nighty

which sits so light on me that I’m hugged

not as a foreplay but with the intent of cocoa

perhaps a tulsi before bedtime  breakfast

to look forward to   you have made me  this

garment  life  a daily covenant    for us both

Rob Schackne #816 - "Where a new goat resides"

Where a new goat resides
a couple properties away, chortling
& the evening goods train races through
screaming about time and money
(and no one cares it's gone)
I’m sitting out the back smoking
after creating my garlic ginger soup
which simmers while a cicada rattles
& I bide my time making up poems

Kerri Shying R # 561 - Little girl's memory of a sunny day in childhood

Little girl’s memory of a sunny day in childhood

the body  at the bottom

of the pool

inside my head

quiet for all these

years   are we one adult

woman  or two

it was this

moment  of blue

triangular limbs

rubber  flesh

men diving  in to

get  what was

remaining  of

you   I don’t know

now if we are one or two

this is the first glimpse

back to you

 drowned girl

what popped you

to the surface

no clue

Kit Kelen #1061 - joy of was

1061

joy of was

for a book of flimsy reasons

gone to the foretelling

when once before winter got in

it was all down to luck

make a page of rolled up scraps

that was a life

to say we were

and slept into each other's arms

far from

always far

trust and wind up here

(set out the jagged automaton course)

a bitter fall is always to earth

then I'm the shell gone into

hiding in the words again

and hammock up the text

picture all in simple choices

know that was no world

is it just to be here

always choosing a side

[?]

(cage the mark of question)

I check for your heart

and see I'm not there

look for our days

and we're gone

Jeff Skewes #56 Whose park

The altercation was over
the vacuum cleaning bay
seen by some as allocated such
and some just another way to park

perhaps this dispute is at it's roots
the land
underneath
at the local love my car 
car wash and servo

dispossession
never leaves aunty
with laws at play
the rhythms lay some
quirky karmic tunes

a right royal battle insisted
lots of witnesses called
then again others see
unfinished business a play
on activism

so whose land
laws and customs
don't you agree
this land once
roamed free

true this land was stolen
the servo bought a lease
now we live in a vacuum
only legal customers use
the vacuum cleaning bay