J.Burke

Whats Left

Steve Armstrog’s ‘Meeting with the Morning Walking’

Poems, Poems of the day

Steve Armstrong’s ‘Meeting with the Morning Walking’

from What’s Left

The sky,
this morning’s brilliant blue,
asks, “So, do you love me now?”
“Yes” I reply, “and never more
than this moment.”

The pavement under my feet is worn.
It speaks of passage
and of autumn leaves that stain its pores.
I say to this ground
“I’m thankful for all you’ve seen
and how you’ve served.”

The Chinese tallow-woods
that line the street say, “Eye our bones;
soon we’ll be glamorous and green.”
I see their rough bark and how sunlight
reaches into cracks and crevices.

The air whispers,
“Take me softly and take me deep.”
And I do,
for the air is warming
with the perfumes of the earth in this
changing season time.

My feet say, “Keep your rhythm.”
but the flowers by the path won’t be told
and say their piece,
“Behold our colours, they’re more beautiful
than you can bear, for you fail to stop.”
Then I do, a fool
falling through the eye of a bloom.

Steve Armstrog’s ‘Meeting with the Morning Walking’ Read More »

Wave 9 Collages

Matt Turner’s ‘Marriage’

Matt Turner’s ‘Marriage’

from WAVE 9: COLLAGES

speech
I am told

by others

*

the name of
life
belief in
a name

*

you old cock

*

the day

the past

amplifying
the fashion
the sort of rueful
smile

not to say

*

hoisting

the boy
at noon, in
the city, up

the time for any
going of
may, remember at
if found it
is aid

a picture
why may come

*

in a
muscle

a plain
slow

a lighter
than any of us
love

*

is more
how to

eh, the fool
a, a bit
luxe, luxuriant
age as an
age

chrome sky
behind reception
flanked
by the damned

lifts up to
straightened and

gives you
the wrong way to go
who begins using
your
name, the
adopted

a cold little
in these hands

actresses
that name

an enormity of
crap. Made

bold
heavy-muscled

a bull in pen
thin corners
flash out
a voice

deadly, cool
stories
of conciliation

the ball, carelessly or
with skill or grace
flings the ball away
shouts:

compare
the decay
of the cygne, tian’e

*

to whom
in loneliness
those who
in trust
return

*

power: maybe something else, and

*

comedy
in a comedy
to say

the gods will not
jibe
have a little fun, earth
heaped on us

both

vowing together
to slog

*

by a servant
housed

by sleep
fathered

by love
positioned

nonvirginal

*

the being
for storing
this

other future

*

undyed
blankets, hot wool
list of reef, star, swine

but again you are, in all things, once
a guest, please

*

excellent
adultery
of, drift out, common speech

less party if

it could
be

a blue-black
clash of
pricks

an old
habit

rocky coast to remain

wind an

Matt Turner’s ‘Marriage’ Read More »

The Bread Horse

Ross Donlon’s ‘Lookout’

Ross Donlon’s ‘Lookout’

from The Bread Horse

Morning
looks in as you look up
over the edge and out

Ferny tree tops
offer fronds
soft enough to land on

Just the floating fence
and your limb’s tingle
stops you taking

one last glass
of champagne air
and swimming

through filmy currents
cascading leaves
and cobweb mist

Water falling
is the only sound
of breathing

A matchbox cable car
slides up       one slips
out of sight

A black cockatoo
glides into cloud
speck of ash on white

Tourists shout to a mirror of sound
looking for themselves
a moment past

A small boy sees
something nameless
invade his universe

His young parents
suddenly hug against the fence
and their son says, It’s near Dad, isn’t it?

Ross Donlon’s ‘Lookout’ Read More »

Come The Bones

KA Rees’ ‘Liber Abaci’

KA Rees’ ‘Liber Abaci’

from Come the Bones

The moon spills
over the ocean;
the surface ripples—
glass eels swimming.

Driftwood sweeps on the curl
of a wave and the nautilus
with its air-filled chambers
floats in the pelagic.

Leaves fall from trees,
they spiral and twist
on the swirling breeze:
a peacock opens to the sky.

Stormbirds search unsuspecting
nests, their hell-eyes homing
in—the lights of a 747
wing-tips up, coming in.

Caterpillars mass on leaves
they eat through the soft belly,
sequencing nature’s code.

On the pavement, cracks fill
with ants, they swarm
and spread their frenzy
before the wet hands of summer.

The weavers in their webs
spin nets, their capture ready
to burst—wormy progeny
wriggle through the mess,
seeking to begin.

KA Rees’ ‘Liber Abaci’ Read More »

Richard James Allen’s ‘The Book of Bad Dreams’

Poems, Uncategorised

Richard James Allen’s ‘The Book of Bad Dreams’

from Text Messages from the Universe

(1)

You. You think you know who I am talking to. You
think it must be you. You who knows who you are.

You who will know what to do. You who will have
the appropriate response. You who will handle the
situation, whatever it may be. You.

Yes, you. Open your eyes. Wake up.
Wake up.

(2)

The streets are empty. What happened to that car?
Is someone still trying to kill you?

You are not going to die. You are not going to die.
You are not going to die.

You are already dead.

(3)

You put your hand in your pocket. This coat is too big
for you. Is it the same one you had on before?

Inside, a wallet, some keys, an ID card…but the
photograph looks different somehow…

(4)

You wake up in a tree. From your upside-down
position in the branches, people walking look like
they are doing little jigs as they perambulate. Happy,
floaty, oddball little jigs. Jigs they aren’t even aware
of.

They think they are walking
upright, but they are dancing
upside down! You laugh so
much you fall out of the tree.
You hit your head, and all goes
to black.

(5)

You wake up and you can’t remember who you are.

Perhaps this all happened earlier in the day. Perhaps
it happened just now.

Everything seems separated from itself, like a piece
of freshly baked bread that has been pulled apart.
It used to be one thing, but now it’s in warm gaping
fragments, slathered with something else.

(6)

You wake up. The sheer, delicate, translucent fabric
of time enwraps, entangles, enfolds. You drift back
into sleep.

Even as everything is so unexpected and out of
control, you have to admit that there is nothing you
like more than this endless caress of night.

Richard James Allen’s ‘The Book of Bad Dreams’ Read More »

Myron Lysenko’s ‘in the light’

Myron Lysenko’s ‘in the light’

from a ghost gum leans over: haiku and senryu

missing teeth
the comb also
missing teeth




open mind
but my nose
is full




spear lily
boys chase each other
around the lake



spotted gum
the small girl hides
behind a swan




the moorhen
steps out of the shadow
of a child




stumbling toward
my 60th birthday
cool change




weekly visits
I enjoy being a son
again



aged care...
a few brown leaves blow
through the door




dementia?
a chance to beat my father
at chess




short back and sides—
his granddaughter’s
wild hair



aged birch
my father beats me
at chess again




daylight saving—
I spend the morning
inside




delayed train
a raven arrives
on Platform 1



indoor soccer
the moon so large
at the window




he writes
about himself
the third person




emerging poet
every photo of him
blurred



the librarian
on our weekly walk
an open book





a lapsed catholic
presents his new poetry book
to the pope





the haiku couple
side by side reading
one chrysanthemum




in the beer garden
poets discuss relationships—
jonquils open up




building a room
he writes a poem
on a crossbeam




my biographer
I feel like I’m back
in confession



the typewriter
without a ribbon…
doorstop




outdoor video shoot
a dandelion seed floats over
the punk band




a fuckwit
until I write haiku
cockatoos overhead



the amplifier blows
during a political poem
litmag launch




CERES cultural village
we sing Ukrainian songs
in a Koorie shelter




graffiti
along the railway track
public tattoos



jonquil shoots
the postman brings me
typewriter ribbons




haiku workshop
the motel pool outside
the door




overgrown lawn
the old man’s poems
getting shorter



goods train
in one ear
and out the other




a breeze moves the leaf peak hour traffic




wilting rose
gardener’s gloves hang
on the line



scattered showers
I run for the train wearing
odd shoes




airport
a cloud coming in
to land




passing clouds…
a line of kiss-me-quicks
on the cliff face



frosty lawn
the old man trims
his goatee




she feeds the egg
back to the chicken
forsythia blooms




slow to rise a snail crawls up my door



a baby throws
her arms into the air
cloudburst




woodchips
I’ll give him a piece
of my mind




grass shoots —
a mushroom lies
on its side



a bald man
watches the cloud
on top of a rock




fallen rocks —
the eel glides under
a duck




light travels
in a straight line—
cross-eyed donkey



old jogger—
I wave to him
in my pyjamas




long kiss
Jupiter moves closer
to the moon




pony club—
a small girl rides
her bicycle



dodgem cars
not a whole lot of dodging
going on




anniversary stars covered by clouds




smokers outside
the old country pub…
Great Dividing Range



a large tree falls into the river
                                 me too




sunbaking in the park
the top of a tree
missing




plum blossoms
the bus turns into
sunshine



wild wind
she asks me to take
Viagra




another wave
crashes into the cliff—
cunnilingus




he tries not to look
at her cleavage again...
prickly pear



masturbation
being faithful
to myself

Myron Lysenko’s ‘in the light’ Read More »

Vaughan Rapatahana’s ‘te taiao o Aotearoa’

Vaughan Rapatahana’s ‘te taiao o Aotearoa’

From te pāhikahikatanga

ko taku whenua tēnei
ko taku rangi hoki
ko taku manu

ko taku rohe
ko taku kāinga

ko taku awa
ko taku roto
ko taku kai moana

ko taku maunga
ko taku ngahere
ko taku kararehe

ko taku tūrangawaewae
ko taku wairua
ko taku manawa

ko ahau tēnei whenua.

he aha tāu kōrero, taku hoa?

[New Zealand environment

this is my land
my sky also
my birds

my district
my homestead

my river
my lake
my seafood

my mountains
my forest
my animals

my birthplace
my spirit
my heart

this land is me

what do you have to say, friend?]

Vaughan Rapatahana’s ‘te taiao o Aotearoa’ Read More »

Jill McKeowen’s ‘Umina Imprinted’

Jill McKeowen’s ‘Umina Imprinted’

From Sunday Morning, Here

The sun and crowd have left the beach
to a wall of leaden sky
and low tide printing waves, set after set,
for a boy on a board
mucking about in the white edge.

It’s quiet on the dunes away
from new streets and subdivisions, the flash of houses,
colour-bond yards, queen palms
glossing over
old points of reference:
the unfilled scrub
of burrawangs, paperbark and banksia.

Glass-front mansions have snapped up views
along The Esplanade, a graded
back-track once
for holiday flats and lettings,
where all the year
sand and wind swept in between the weatherboards.

And down on West Street, too many cars
are inching
frame by frame
beside the spill of coffee tables,
past the ghosts
of girls in Levi 501s outside the shut shops
on winter Saturday afternoons,
smoking, watching, waiting for chance:
a slowing car
of surf-haired boys, that Golden Breed.

My sense of place slides
about
like the boy on his board negotiating
waves, each one
a moment of change becoming
a past that’s fixed
but can’t be held
in the ceaseless roll to shore.

Jill McKeowen’s ‘Umina Imprinted’ Read More »

Sea Skins

Sophia Wilson’s ‘Cutting Teeth’

Sophia Wilson’s ‘Cutting Teeth’

from Sea Skins

days grow              rare
as hen’s teeth       they are getting their teeth
into the mountain       the weather sets
our teeth                  on edge politicians
bare their teeth        the employee receives
a kick in the teeth       animals are fed
up to the back teeth       a witness crawls in
by the skin of his teeth       clouds are dropping
their teeth                         the professor gives her
eye tooth                     kitchens are armed
to the teeth       the protest is long
in the tooth       the temple is
of the Tooth       trees grit
their teeth           infants fly
in the teeth            of danger the astronomer
gnashes her teeth       collectively the crowns
are broken               the boy
sows dragon’s teeth       they are pulling
polar teeth                   the guided tour sells
hell’s teeth                    the buildings lie
through their teeth       the children are up
to their teeth                      in it the quake takes
the bit between its teeth       debt sinks
its teeth                              into

Sophia Wilson’s ‘Cutting Teeth’ Read More »

fierCe

Angie Contini’s ‘ballad of weather’

Angie Contini’s ‘ballad of weather’

from fierCe

the sky does not cry

                   or feel blue

                          it is simply the sky

sometimes it rains

                 and the rivers rise  

                       but not in anger or with quiet defiance

                                                       they simply rise

and maybe the wind moves us to tears

          but not because it is singing a secret

                                   the wind moves


                                             that is all

a man

                  passing through the world

                                goes with less modesty

he forgets himself

                           says to the others

                                                           I am the weather

                                                                                        the stormy deep truth 

                                                                                                                                  I feel therefore I am

                                                                                                        I breathe through the trees

                                                                                and sweat from the skies

                                                            I beat down my body of sorrow
for all the dry eyes

                 I raise the rivers

                                   for lovers of tides

                                                and surge with

                                  the mood of the moon

               this life of rights

is a tender trap

             it aches with the

aura of the passions

             and all the while

                         the lull

             between life forces and letters

                          decomposes

                things will either be known

          or remain unknowable

                   and that is all

Angie Contini’s ‘ballad of weather’ Read More »

Steve Armstrog’s ‘Meeting with the Morning Walking’

Steve Armstrong’s ‘Meeting with the Morning Walking’

from What’s Left

The sky,
this morning’s brilliant blue,
asks, “So, do you love me now?”
“Yes” I reply, “and never more
than this moment.”

The pavement under my feet is worn.
It speaks of passage
and of autumn leaves that stain its pores.
I say to this ground
“I’m thankful for all you’ve seen
and how you’ve served.”

The Chinese tallow-woods
that line the street say, “Eye our bones;
soon we’ll be glamorous and green.”
I see their rough bark and how sunlight
reaches into cracks and crevices.

The air whispers,
“Take me softly and take me deep.”
And I do,
for the air is warming
with the perfumes of the earth in this
changing season time.

My feet say, “Keep your rhythm.”
but the flowers by the path won’t be told
and say their piece,
“Behold our colours, they’re more beautiful
than you can bear, for you fail to stop.”
Then I do, a fool
falling through the eye of a bloom.