Thirty Summers # 139 Claine Keily

I removed the understory today with instruments blunt with age. I sweating and green. I cannot help but see the saplings as my minor characters and wonder about what it was that they dreamed. When you are the queen of your own green city and you are trapped amongst the Wait-a-While, you wonder who will visit you here in this dark castle of the wilds.

Kristen de Kline #230 I didn't want (for Rob. S.)

I didn't
want
the pure
instrument,
the shiny
shoes, her
laughter,
acid rain
dropping through
lower branches
as the hundred
suns caress
still waters

I wanted
to throw
a party
a tantrum
an axe
but by the third turn
I didn't throw doubles
five spaces
I must move forward
write another poem
pay the $50 fine
fall in love (again)
drip hot wax
onto flesh
no longer
just visiting

Lizz Murphy Poem # 374 Does the Sky Bleed

DOES THE SKY BLEED

Do stars tremble in the face of the wind

does the wind roar in the face of the star

if you fall upon a star

what if you land on a point

who decided a star had five points

who first drew a five-pointed star in one continuous line

do you remember how hard that was

what if the sky was granite

what if it was galvanized leaky tin

what if all the birds took to the sky at one time

would it just be a traffic jam or would they eclipse the sun

what if the sky was a crow’s wing

‘raven’ (it’s not the same bird) always sounds so much nicer

the sky would be a satin shelter

what if you dream your room has separated from your house and is spiralling 
up into the black sky and now the walls are disappearing and your bed is going to slide 
out into the night into space would you be singing twinkle twinkle little star

what if you are in your pyjamas on the stairs and they separate from everything

and fly up into the sky and you are sitting on the edge of the first step

and the bannister has gone

is reaching for the sky an unachievable unrealistic goal

why do they say reach for the stars

that’s a big reach

it’s not like getting a dish off a high shelf

who washes God’s socks

is that when it rains

is falling through space like almost drowning

is falling through space like drowning only faster

if the sky fit

would you wear it

midnight blue

a wattle bird nests in a drought-thwarted tea tree

when I walk past it flaps its way out

cuts a line through space to a higher point in a nearby gum tree

does the sky bleed when a eucalypt pierces it

is that why the sky turns red as the sun goes down

does the sun get a sinking feeling

Kerri Shying R - # 522 - Mr Christ - the opening address

Mr Christ - the opening address

Mr Christ  correct me   if
I'm wrong   but aren't
all your people  just

God's own
therapeutic flat-pak
Ikea  self-help

kit dolls  made
to show off
versatile

knuckle joints and
ball and socket
sweet spots

that God up there
he's the Allen key
of the cosmopolis

like ontologically
I guess  what a
blowhard   of a Dad

now yep I've got
this round
be sweet

Rob Schackne #765 - "Intrepid creature"

                   Intrepid creature

                   across the road

                   high wire walker

                   missing a string 

                   feels like home again

                   the windy days
                   will you look at that

                   riding a single strand

                   of spider silk

                   but then again 

                   it's only a magpie

                   as I am only a poet

                   the seymour push
                   looks like spring

Kit Kelen #1003 - universal declaration or someone is saying spring

1003

universal declaration

or

printemps avant le lettre

somebody is saying spring

still chill first thing

they tendril tell it

over fence

a prance of calves

and through, as if there were none

someone is out of the pouch

runs rings around all care

you can hear the dew drip mornings

suns says

day is stretching out to its full length

and graze and rotate ears

and stare

till now I am these words alone

and in a garden of them glisten

frogs have called off night

sink deep

so someone of a silence

choir-like

because of no one knows

(science for an afterthought)

no time at all from here

now leaves are too busy to fall

flowers come to their naming

the insect air

now mainly bees

though there are unknown others

who can’t tell green from blue

and all for a first time

never before

mere admiration

soaks up

moments, hours, days

all of us precious

belonging this once

and all this while

someone was climbing

out of this blue

into more

it’s secret

and true

and it won’t come again

no one can hear it

but everyone knows

someone is saying

spring

Tug Dumbly # 25 - The Way we Made Play From Industry

The way we made play from industry 

tube from a tractor tyre lashed under a door

made a raft for the creek,

slingshots sliced from the rinds

of those same guts of tyres,

billy cart knocked up from a fruit case

swivel crucifix and pram

to get you rolling on another  

childhood nostalgia jag

of making your own fun with

a bit of help from bungers and slug guns …

All those joyous ways to get hurt.

But I’m not speeding down 

that sheer suicide concrete driveway

into the lack of traffic today,

no siree, nor will you catch me

skipping through bindies

and sprinklers and patches of

maudlin mustard gassed lawn,

dead grass covered by a tarp too long …

Rob Schackne #764 - "I wanted"

I wanted
the pure
instrument too
it shined
in my dreams
I see it in
the top branches
the waves
at the seaside
a bird
stopping by

there
her laughter
I wait
this poetry
a light or two
before
it goes

Kristen de Kline #229 And again (nth time)

+
it's a thousand and one days now
kisses trail off down Lawless way

she gestures up at the skies
puts her hand on my shoulder

we watch one hundred suns
drop like acid rain

(I don't know how I got this way)

another hundred kisses
fly away, our hips

sway closer

+
as the thousand and first day
breaks,    we chase    (you stroke)

the dragon (the nape of my neck)

paper cuts
wings burn

what am I to do

Thirty Summers # Claine Keily 138

There is nothing more deathly it seems to me than arguing about grammar in the office, outside the classroom. Inside the classroom, I refuse to die, to instead infuse this necessary practice - which steals me from my garden - with a love stem-like. There I can see inside the covers of books, where the children hide their writing, and bud with knowing, that it is something far from the struggle for domination so often in their speaking.

Rob Schackne #763 - A Man About A Dog

A Man About A Dog


Some things have 
minds of their own in
what sense they wheedle
the dust bunnies 
beneath the bed
comfortably numb
pups in the alleyway
all that has to be done
bomb disposal experts
always super polite
(bless their hearts)
one shoe isn’t worried
the other one's missing
what we rub against
a man about a dog
we will clean up after

Clark Gormley #46 Double Demerits

the point is

you lose the points

Danny Gentile #74 - Malfa Walk (draft)

Taking the steep walk
Down the Via Scalo
To Spiagga dello Scario
Past lemon groves
Past Malvasia vines
To the ocean’s jewel
And the rocking boulders
Of that beach

And picking some stones
The memento mori
For a distant shelf
For a future inside
A room removed
From the vivid green
Mountains of Salina
And distant plumes
Of Stromboli
Those fires those fires
That bloom consistently
Against a soft horizon

Kit Kelen #1002 - aubade

1002

aubade

where winter was

too hot, too cold

bedded between seasons

till the roof

beyond the walls

the shift is changing

bats pre-dawn flit, birds begin

voices only yet

and they will sing a sun up

by radar just missing

veranda-head me

all minded of windows

for first to see

till the roof

beyond the walls

outlines a little breeze

all their world out of this Zeus head

sprung with shield

tell tunefuly

summer of the coming day

must make own darkness now

till the roof

beyond the walls

my kingdom

and call

in other words

to which I wake

fashion here

for home

Kristen de Kline #228 The thousandth day

I missed the thousandth day
what was I thinking

the poem was half-formed
struggling, too many words

that couldn’t be spoken
at dusk I watched one

hundred suns falling
across the man-made lake

replaying Chester Bennington
talking about: this place right here

signalling at his skull:
that is a bad neighbourhood ...

a shooting star burns up
the Gods peer down

I'm a day behind
forgive me

Clark Gormley#45 Film Noir part 3

With their line of enquiry

you’ve been asked to assist 

the pesky Policeman

who stands at your door

it’s the line up with other

unusual suspects 

where unfortunately 

you stand out somewhat

It’s the end of the line now

the words about justice

and sweet revenge have

already been said

it’s the line about murder

and one being too many

you can’t stop from rattling 

around in your head

Danny Gentile #73 - Untitled

Punctuating a song
In the Sicilian tradition
A battle of voices
With rising accents
An intake of breath

Then a tune fighting

The Voice 

Then back

Again

Kit Kelen #1001 - to country

1001

to country

and after all the wrong 

 a welcome 

the country is

where it is

was

will be

(well, in an age beyond us shifts

so science says

and that’s how we know

who and how long)

someone once paddled

(everyone actually

came on a boat

except first

someone swam)

it’s as if you can’t undo the country

a bad taste now and then

flood drought and ice again

creatures larger than life go

somebody sails past

and make ourselves at home

after all the theft

this giving

someone has welcomed me

here to my place

(I say mine

but I acknowledge

the others before

hands of the making

spirits still with us)

to those who’ve come

who take

you’re welcome

after the blinding

our skins are these

tongue tangles up

and gods go with

things traditional

and tribe, say nation

bring back words that are gone

to be welcome

all objects are the least

of dreaming

come cliché come!

sit up to beg

or have it your own way home

boomerang

walkabout

(some secret writing

sacred to the paint

say sunshine)

all are welcome to

along a track

old fashioned

where pals

someone with a little spear

is frozen to the neatest lawn

can’t live in a house

turn us all into desert

the voices!

(it’s as if all

were possessed)

those voices

are with us

but not our forever

someone has to live on a coin

the beard can barely fit

and you’re remembering now, aren’t you?

I see it in your eyes you see

after the wrong

and will we forgive?

it’s echo

I am

to be here

you’re my treasure

we are in the heart again

let me hold you

after the evil

a smoking

(let me bot one off you brother

a dollar won’t get me away, not this time

just a swig in the park)

after the wars we won’t mention

there is a little matter of facts

(here and how and who and why

and all because)

who built the gaol?

and who’s it for?

say police

and you must mean

how history inhabits

truth works upon us strangely

like habits

after all the wrong

a welcome

inviting me in or what?

I could murder a cup of tea

don’t worry

right now

as I live and breathe

and as we speak

I’m working on a thanks

James Walton #119 by a suburban rear lane

every Sunday he cuts a rabbit’s throat

but not the time the Christmas goose

overfed but not wanting to be stuffed

B52’d its way up onto the roof

honking at the peerless empty sky

wanting the ancient formation of brethren

to pick up the burlap straggler’s call

a furry one held by back legs

the squeal of fear and protest

escaped to a week’s reprieve

while his ninety-two-year-old wife

scaled the cyclone wire grape support

for a drumstick and breast that needed seasoning

when she wasn’t next door over the back

her wheelbarrow full of bricks

the building crew had stacked wrong

relaying in perfect herringbone

a pattern from beneath the canals of Venice

Rob Schackne #762 - "I roamed for years"

                
                
                    I roamed for years
                    a dreamscene film
                    I woke up in a cell
                    what happened
                    to the light

                    always the trouble
                    with black & white
                    me and my shadow
                    give me more light
                    this slow gumshoe
                    a dangerous broad
                    what did I smoke
                    retired don't have to eat
                    sleep he wasn’t there
                    what's the shadow
                    getting darker

Lizz Murphy Poem # 373 Starless

STARLESS

We believed in heaven occasionally spoke more poetically of the heavens often raised our eyebrows said heavens above! But that heaven those heavens were not connected to the sky The sky was just the sky Separate We didn’t look at the stars In winter we were inside because of the cold or shrugged into our ourselves and itchy scarves beholding our frozen breath thinking about our frozen feet In summer the night didn’t fall until midnight We were starless

*

In this hemisphere

city lights blur the skies

In the country

where the nights are black

and you can’t see the person

you are talking to

the stars are back to front

I try to read them

wish I had a sky size mirror

*

Mythology has the sky full of creatures and the The Milky Way is a woman spilling her milk It sounds so nurturing Women can’t help themselves Though in ancient Ireland it’s The Way of the White Cow which still sounds milky and may be how come the cow jumped over the moon

Rob Schackne #761 - Idle Question #1

Idle Question #1


Why is there
a kaleidoscope
fashioned in a box
our bees, the beats
coming from afar
shipped like this
counting the heart
honey in stereo
cones and speakers
humming outward
the wind signals
noise and sound
this fragrance
and all the air
sending us away
like we were dying

Rob Schackne #760 - This Knee Buckler

               
            This Knee Buckler

                     
                 Orright. Curveball
                 or intense sensation

                 The origin of the species
                  a lullaby
                  before the fire ban
                  burning off

                  Such is life, ya baboons!

                  What were you thinking?

                   I construct a world
                   writing of my world
                   when rejection comes
                   it's not my problem

                   Let the hand of the law strike me down
                   if it will,
                                  but I ask
                   that my story be heard and considered 

                   Poor cordite

                   Buckle my knees

                   Why term this a natural life

      
                   Ah poor Ned.

Kerri Shying R # 521 - our oasis booked against the certainty of death ( for Nicki)

we’re in the noon hut   riding on that minute

between the morning    and the rest      void

space    a lemon pip    life between our  thumb

and fingertips     bubble made of laughter

gentle   motives    a holding of intent   

our oasis  booked against the certainty of death 

so close  and immaterial to life  

 as lived   so far     the tightness of two heads 

   holding   space  and time and fear 

      the noon hut  one spacious moment

        on the road

Sarah St Vincent Welch #375 after the September winds

with his death my dreams began again

lifting out of id

night invasions

work worry

playtimes, colours

why his living stopped them can’t be spoken

after the September winds

blossoms spiral, fall

Kit Kelen #1000 - prophetic

1000

prophetic

on the thousandth day

hollowed from mist

web cast

tangle of all that’s lit

and so is

you’d think there’d be arrows pointing back

call this the work

make a note of it

make up whatever you like

and a world where it will be true

here I am today

dizzy

with not a thought of having come

or

I might not have got here

break a leg, I am

boxes and tribes

hallowed be the namelessness

the coming ripe

the lying fallow

a wallow in

and muck

how many times round the clock

do we go

?

by heart

afoot

leaves throw the tree

come all the way round

damp in the ugg tip

home

decent fall in my absence

someone slept beyond me here

a sun came first

and we were spun

it has to have been

this way

Kerri Shying R # 520 - nothing calls me back

here   at altitude  standing on  thin air

my heart   puffs     with valves

exploding    the pressure     step now

from this bedroom  to the kitchen

to the porch     see how

nothing calls me back

below my  equator   of

slow bites   small wins

the company  of circles

grown concentric   days spent

knitting   mangrove roots