Sarah St Vincent Welch #176 For the artists of Project 366

I touch the weft with my fingertips

searching the pattern

learning your song as you weave

wanting to sing along

in the echoes in the tunnel

us buskers

play around

call out

respond

I stutter and you understand 

you run, I chase

slip away in

a two step rhyme

we slow dance  

you are ever before me

laying out my dreams

teasing with a bright thread

passing me the shuttle

I leap to catch

Lizz Murphy - Poem 182: get your gear ...

get your gear around

a beer laugh your stock hats off

pig in a permanent grin 

No animals were harmed in the making of this post

#29 Needles of Bone by Emma McKervey

Needles of Bone

She wonders if this is productive enough

when what she wanted was nothing

except maybe to learn how the men shoot

snot from one nostril, pinning the other shut.

It seemed unfair when all she had was her hem.

In the damp corner of a field, seeking warmth

from the heaped hay she found the bones of a bird,

more substantial than if it had been the stripped bones

of a stolen fledgling the magpies had taken 

to ease the dark hunger in themselves.

The larger bones would make a fine needle

she could not help but think, but as she worked

the gentle corpse it was not needles or pins she made,

but a chain, each eye she pierced she found herself sliding

the next bone through, it formed a line to cut across the silage.

She left it there when she rose, intending to return home.

#181 Kevin Brophy 'Two weeks away'

#181 ‘Two weeks away’

We pack the car

consult the map

fill the tank

the water bottles

stack CDs

jubes and USBs

consult the map

make a booking

pack our clothes

books, camera, hats

consult the map

re-pack the car

make a list

re-pack the patient car

indifferent

and beautiful

watch local birds

do circles

sensing a departure

We leave

a twenty dollar note

on the kitchen table

for whoever

            breaks in

                        this time

#180 'Acclimatising'

#180 ‘Acclimatising’

Gradually infections take hold,

boils break out in mouths,

on hands, your throat hurts,

tiredness comes earlier each day,

unknown nurses say

they’ve seen it all before

(each one is out of here

on strict six-week rotation),

the youth worker’s taking

all the youth to Broome,

the vegetables are wilting,

and every thousand years or so

the desert settles a little more

confidently in,

gradually infections become the thing,

a cold won’t shift from your chest,

your throats is raw,

the crows are scattering the bins,

you have forgotten your umbrella,

the lessons of philosophers,

the rule of queens and kings,

and the brief lit hours given

between lengthening inconsolable nights

are given to inspecting new infections.

Julie McElhone #2 Plaint

Tiny against the mighty sky

How can we not worship the sun?

Nor I you?

Michele Morgan #174 grá iníon Máthair

flowers for mothers
or, rather,
daughters left behind

Lisa Brockwell #30.2 QF1: Sydney to London

QF1:  Sydney to London

Acres and acres of unfenced time,

I can run through the meadow, jump the stream

of my mind. No tasks can be done, a picnic

day is declared.  But there’s a clear start

and an end – the journey will finish before
I stumble across any crumbling cliffs.

Lisa Brockwell #30 Last morning with project 366, in response to Kit Kelen’s Motley Man

The moon just a crescent on the wane,

the sun seeping the east with crimson,

I’m walking down the length of the front paddock

to retrieve the recycling bin. My son,

on his bike: Mum, there’s frost, I can feel the crunch!
The dawn just here and already so strong.

Efi Hatzimanolis #135 for all the PoExits (with thanks)

Water and air
air and water,
uncovered in me 
a hunger.

I saw an eagle pursue its prey,
a spotted neck turtle dove, straight 
into my elderly cat’s mouth.

I tell you this, to keep you here.
I write this, because I cannot leave.

The pigeon is not me.
Neither the eagle nor the cat 
could arrest that moment of truth
into the beauty I crave,
a deeper hunger than I thought possible.

Onto my shoulder,
I lift my cat, with the pigeon
clamped in her jaws.
The eagle never takes its eyes off its prey.
It sits immobile,
until we enter the house.
I wish to offer you, the eagle, the cat, the pigeon,
here, in this space.

Mikaela Castledine #182 Thank you and Goodnight (tongue in cheek for all the June poets)

I’m thinking of journeys and tasks

Sisyphus Christ the miller’s daughter

oh they are eternal

punishment for misdeeds

meant to instruct

Herculean you might say

one poem per day for one year

rolling each one uphill

twisting each one into existence

carrying the immense weight of them

it’s a capricious damnation

and then others come along

for a matter of weeks

no more

and look, I’m not...

but christ!

if Simon of Cyrene had said

phew! carrying that cross

for that little section was hard

I’m glad I did it

but I might have a little lie down now

Jesus would have nailed him a new one

thanks for your poems

it’s been lovely reading you

but ease up on the exhaustion

some of us have 184 more to write

Chrysogonus' Translation #95 - from Red Cone's "weekend"

akhir pekan

kata-kata tak terbatas

tersandung di sekeliling

mencari satu tempat

akan hangat dan keamanan

akhir pekan 

akhir pekan penuh luka

bagi teman jauh di sana

tangis jatuh saat ibu

tak mampu temukan putra

alasan dan penjelasan

apakah guna mereka lagi

saat saudara-saudari

dan kita meraba luka

aku terus melukis

weekend

endless words

tumble around

looking for a place

of warmth and safety

a weekend of pain

for friends elsewhere

tears as the mother

can't find her son

reasons and explanations

what use are they

when brothers and sisters

and all of us feel pain

I keep painting