Blog Archives

The Sound of Sight, by J. Iner Souster

24/6/2022

She lay unrested, cursed with eyes that see beyond the faculties
of sight. Visual perceptions of colours and light tell stories
as notes from some long-forgotten instrument.
Surrounding sounds from forests, early waking mornings,
and cities' eternal sleepless nights become the only music she understands. The chattering of life's personalities
scores the chorus of a forever-changing song
Watching as a gorgeous ascending moon
serenades the earth, singing with its charms of planetary influences
Leisurely, floating upward, and endlessly in its melodies
Building bridges of reality from absurdities and singularities
Terminally unique in its translations and orchestrations
Forever perpetually grand in dignities' desires,
thought, often feeble in the act, continuously subsiding the wildfire lost within. One shall be a dream while the other is simply a memory
Forever welcoming, all of consciousness and transcendent symphonies.

Clouds, by Cheah Yin Mee

24/6/2022

What if there were no clouds?
No swathes of soft, silky sheets,
no clusters of cauliflower cumulus,
no wandering wisps of cirrus,
No threatening tufts of cumulonimbus?
Instead, just a layer of flat clear blue
stretched out in a placid panorama.
Would the world be clearer?
Would we see better?
Do clouds obscure what we
want to see or do they simply
shield us from what could be?

Couplings, by Myram Huey

24/6/2022

jekyll meets hyde
bonnie meets clyde
& the rest, as they say,
is jackanory

Open Arms, by Marjan Sierhuis

24/6/2022

One can always hope
for a world filled with love
so greet with open arms

Twilight, by Guy Fletcher

24/6/2022

Frances Farmer was never comfortable
as a Hollywood star preferring the stage,
her left-wing views at odds
with this shallow glitzy world.
She was afflicted with depression, drank too much
and one of America's greatest stars
spent bleak years behind psychiatric bars.

She had the beauty of Helen of Troy
but she was living a lie
driving her to rage and despair
yet in the twilight of her existence
she penned poetry and painted,
an inner peace she would finally find
casting aside...the demons in her mind.

A Midwinter’s Birthnight: A Tanka for My Family, by Michael Leach

24/6/2022

My sister’s party
lights another cold, dark June
night of the solstice.
Warm thoughts linger on loved ones
who couldn’t be at our sides.

Rose-Tinted Pacific, by Sterling Warner

24/6/2022

Loving heads bow under magenta skies
bright sun muted behind a long fuchsia veil.

Glancing at tidepools, an arm in arm couple
examines patiently shellfish waiting for high tide.

Temporally land-locked, surfperch commit
saltwater suicide after birthing fingerlings.

Seagulls circle the Pacific shoreline like vultures
scavenging lifeless forms, cleaning up beaches.

Waves roll in a series, cresting highest at seven,
reclaiming all sand puddles under an ice moon.

A Major City of the World, by David Dumouriez

24/6/2022

In a dome of petty noise,
Our elbows cut the air
To nowhere. Glorying in the sight
Of dazzled eyes, we rise and rise ...

Elvis Graces Bendigo, by Michael Leach

17/6/2022

A respectful reply to the Florence + The Machine song ‘Morning Elvis’, written by Florence Welch & Dave Bayley.

I think of spring up
in Memphis & feel autumn
here in Bendigo…
I’ve ne’er travelled to Memphis
yet have just been to Graceland.

(And if you've never heard Florence's simply glorious voice, prepare yourself for a treat... – Ed)

Where Are You, Dudley Moore? by David Dumouriez

17/6/2022

Where are you, Dudley Moore?
The slightly uncombed hair?
The smile the ladies loved
that quivered there between
the last half-stifled voice,
the unexpected next remark?
The hands that more than
trumped the feet; that played
for our amusement or delight?
Those many parts died separate
deaths, were lost, until the whole
itself was gone, evaporated
by the force that made it -
the great interrogation point
inscribed again in one short span!

Flowers, by Malvina Perova

17/6/2022

When the war puts against the wall
Your hopes and dreams
And shoots them in cold blood,
You stop taking colours of the world
From ordinary mud.
You think,
What is the point of joy or glooming
And doing all that you do?
What is the point of flowers blooming?
But hey,
They bloom

Boring Weekend, by Alex Blaine

17/6/2022

Plotting
to kill . . .

And your day?

Bespectacled Beryl, by Mimi Grouse

17/6/2022

Bespectacled Beryl was simply a peril
With her nose always stuck in a book.
Unlike other girls, all perfume and pearls,
She gave not a care how she looked.
She studied and learned until her brain burned
With knowledge and wisdom and culture,
And the Bullies In Charge, when she was at large,
Watched their tyranny stagger and falter.
So Bespectacled Beryl, always a peril,
Taught her sisters and daughters as well;
And an army was formed of women informed
Who demolished the fiends' Citadel.

Sea View, by Guy Fletcher

17/6/2022

I can hear the roar of the untamed sea
as I stand on this eroding cliff top.
The cafe where I drank many a tea
has recently been demolished,
smashed into pieces by a bulldozer
and on this glorious day painted blue
mourn the loss of the cafe called Sea View.

The street is now a road to nowhere
severed by the erosion
which creeps like cancer across the land
with some houses now in the firing line,
a death sentence from the wind and sea.
Seagulls screech a lament to the cafe
as the coastline retreats...day after day.

A Summer Treat, by Marjan Sierhuis

17/6/2022

A warm summer's day
Savor the watermelon
Juices drip off your chin

The Dancing Hours, by Adrian McRobb

11/6/2022

The warped boards sprung from cleats
no longer support the dancers twirls
a chandelier long ago crashed to the floor
it's broken shards reflecting dark corners
upstairs corridors echo to idle chatter
the sweeping staircase carpet, mouse nibbled
curtains sag on rusty pelmets, moth holed
marble fireplace grey-black in ancient soot
a dream of chiffon and black leather pumps
an old clock, it's broken cogs now brass debris
lighter shades where ancestors frowned down
peeling plaster blows in an invisible breeze
clockwork dancers move in an endless waltz
while cracked glasses clink, in empty parody
all gone now, beyond the reach of time...

Ailuropoda Melanoleuca, by Michael Leach

10/6/2022

Two giant pandas in central Adelaide
spend their days laying and wandering in shade.
When they chomp on their bamboo,
they’re the highlight of the zoo.
The world dreams of the day their baby is made.

Beauty and Hope, by Guy Fletcher

10/6/2022

In the rubble of a tortured town
a girl dons a prom dress
as red as all the blood spilled.
She stands defiant, an awe-inspiring sight,
a beaming light in a cruel world
just a few moments on a television screen,
beauty and hope amongst the obscene.

They've broken all the buildings
including the school as well
but one thing they haven't destroyed
is the indomitable human spirit.
An aura of love shines from the girl,
just a few moments on a television screen,
beauty and hope...amongst the obscene.

A Fellow Creature, by David Dumouriez

10/6/2022

I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there -
Your body scarce the thickness of my hair.
I didn’t mean to hasten your demise,
To wash you down the swirling hole of life.
But though I cannot turn around your loss,
If it compensates a living thing that was,
I’ll mention that your end foretells my own:
Destroyed by something bigger and unknown.

At What Point, by Alex Blaine

3/6/2022

At what point
is the point
of no return?
At what point
did the fire
in my eyes
sizzle out?
Just when did
the ash turn
cold as snow?

Political Palette, by Michael Leach

3/6/2022

free-to-air coverage
of the Aussie election:
red, blue, teal, green

Funeral Procession on the River, by Guy Fletcher

3/6/2022

"The Fighting Temeraire", by J. M. W. Turner

I stare long and deeply at the painting
of the Fighting Temeraire
gaining fame not for deeds in battle
but immortalised by Turner's brush
being towed slowly by a tug:
funeral procession on the river,
glory days long gone...nothing lasts forever.

The sails are lowered permanently,
the vessel painted grey as if a ghost
and I wonder if old sailors are watching
from the banks of the iconic Thames
as it sadly heads for the scrap heap.
I feel the ship has a soul shedding tears
as the moment of her destruction nears.

River Isis, by Adrian McRobb

3/6/2022

Fog clings to water moving with the tide
dim figures too and fro under muted lamps
dark ghosts of boats drag sullenly past
as the meniscus pendulums with movement
weed draped ladders gently sigh in sympathy
pontoons now invisible, drum the banks
city spires tower above the river's shroud
The Tower traitorously, lets the water through
as hamlets cling to its condensating base
shadows glide in damp folds of grey cloth
lamenting the turn of their sundials hour...

Poetry

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