Poems

‘Cliff Walk’ by Judy Johnson

Poems, Poems of the day

from Exhibit

Cliff wind has a particular
whistling sound like a gas bottle 
released a quarter turn – 
gulls tumble in its slipstream
wallabies are fastened to 
the grass by their ears.

Here on the high side
we squint the miles of absolute blue 
and watch the white knots of diving birds
unraveling to stitch the sea.

In this ritual of circles
the trees are intertwined. The tracks
we tread, dreadlocks on a leviathan’s head.

Below is the spiral heart of palms
and grass trees growing crooked spears.

And lower still, beneath the waves
the constant swirling helix of blue blood
whooshing through a vein.

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‘Earth or sky’ by Michael Brennan

Poems

Michael Brennan’s

from the earth here

She was talking about a field,
a field empty with the sky.
We had seen it a thousand times,
never the same.

She said she would go there
and lie under the blue sky
and sink into the ground 
while looking at the sky.

She said it was like sinking 
into the sky when she did it.
She felt the sky hold her close,
ease in through each of her pores.

It was much later then, 
the happiness never left me, 
her words coming back
warm upon my face.

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Far-and-Wild

‘Unresolved’ by Irina Frolova

Poems

From Far and Wide

I want to move on
from the middle of this nowhere
to other eyes, hands, lips.
But I also want to stay,
muddy the waters,
make it seem like there is more
there.
Make you wonder
where I was last weekend,
who I did last night; search
my body for hints,
look to it for validation
of your relevance. Dig deep
for the foundation of us.

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What the river told me by Jane Skelton

‘hurricane’ by Jane Skelton

Poems

From What the river told me

shadows, seeking fingers, creep across the moor
as clouds roll over
a slag of suggestive, rococo cloud
reclines upon the hill’s haunches 
a pregnant Welsh pony whinnies 
hysterically into the wind 
the roosters’ chorus answers, rises from the village
the squirrels are barking
a teenage fawn hesitates on the edge of the pines 

in a cathedral in Hexham
I watch the organist practise 
trundle through a hymn 
the wind cannot be felt in here 
but trees snap, crash across the road
the smell of torn vegetation

I am stranded 

and later we hear a woman in Ireland 
was blown off a cliff in her caravan

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local by Anna Couani

‘I’ve walked the same street’ by Anna Couani

Poems

From Local

I’ve walked the same street
many times
for decades
living in the village
even if it’s the city
and times before
carefree barefoot summers
on the dirty asphalt
never a shopping street
reminiscent of the barefoot summers
of childhood
on the dusty dirt roads
now paved
that endlessness
of school holidays
and this place
filled with creative lives
when before that was only starting
and then we were just learning
trying to figure out what to do
now it explodes round us
then my faint hope
of having an artistic life
associating with artists
realised on these streets
tucked away in the corners of the village
basement studios
writers in coffee shops
and a street full of live music
since retail died

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Alive in Dubbo

‘Trafalgar Place’ by D.G. Lloyd

Poems
Trafalgar Place
ruts in the road
painted along the gutter
All Drains Lead To Troy Gully
and on Wirraway Close
a dented No Through Road sign
An old house was torn down
leaving nothing but a jade plant
like the stark withered tree
outside Dan Murphy’s
the corner
of Windsor Parade

There is manual labour and there is drinking
and words within words
Are you okay?

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Sea Skins

‘Word Flight’ by Sophia Wilson

Poems
I woke to hear the murmurings of a new language:
brainstem compromise, cerebromedullary
disconnection, de-efferented state

My brain
was inundated and turned to slosh
like plains after the flood’s passed through

speech swept away by torrent
vocal cords divorced from breath
expression marooned 
and I am now a silent island  

devoid of movement and of gesture
no matter how I muster will
to signal ‘stop’
or raise a lip-corner of smile

Monotony weighs in, a daily groan
Nurses flit. Fluids enter and exit via tubes
Medical students loom
dangling stethoscopes like rattles

I’m locked in, looking out
tracking the movements of others
who are teaching me
to employ eyelid-flutter as speech

I haven’t achieved competence 
with the new Morse – 
lid movements are effort-laden
my code, indecipherable

so I can’t tell them I’m leaving
that I’ll employ the words
crowding my head, aim their acuity
at the rot, dissect and redefine it  

I’ll fly out through the key-hole
if I have to

They think I’m wallowing in my own
garbage
but I am gathering strength
to soar 

( In memory of Vivian Wilson, honorary Māori chief and All Black, 1899–1978 )

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Alive in Dubbo

‘Gun’ by D.G. Lloyd

Poems
Wrecked farm equipment with webbings of dead 
grass
in the open fields of Lazy River Estate …
the overhanging foliage
… more than twenty kilometres out of town
on the old Dubbo Road
was the pistol club.
I had only been a few times.
Luke told me I could get a One Month Membership.

They all said I showed potential.
There were three ranges:
a couple for the .22 calibre and one for the smaller 
air pistol.
It was fun shooting targets every Sunday.
5 bullets. 4 rounds. Timed.

One day some random guy walked in …
paid his membership and went outside.
He loaded the gun …
put the barrel in his mouth and blasted out the back 
of his skull.
But that was not the reason I never went back.
I just lost interest.

I never saw Luke much afterwards either.

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