Woman in Bushfire
High over her a 'copter is
Pouring pylons of water,
Transient stands
In shifting fire.
She dwindles,
Becomes a tiny tot
Drizzling the gutters
Of her doll's house.
J. K. Murphy
The Horse Races
The sound of the horse races is my father’s music.
The names of the horses are his worlds.
They are pregnant with prophecy,
live in short breaths
and green fingered gasps.
They die away at the turn,
worlds die away,
it’s simpler than you’d think.
Jennifer Finlay
Cheek to Cheek in Omeo, early 1970s.
the locals thronged to the young farmers' ball
after supper they dimmed the lights in the hall
so the brylcreemed and perfumed and sleek
could try to be daring and dance cheek to cheek
but our generation's idea of a ball
was not family orchestras in the town hall
for we would slink down to livingstone creek
kick off our levis and swim cheek to cheek
Geoff Baker
Hidden by ambition
We make love
Dress the kids
Eat and shower
Sweep and clean
Deep in life’s fog
Little knowing
That this is it
It’s simple
It’s special
A soft dream
Hidden by ambition
Bruce Shearer
To listen to this poem, click here.
The Ways of It
You could
take other paths
or just stay put
throw back a ring
or choose to wear it
flick the forked tongue
or keep your counsel
You might
act differently next time
if there's a next time
You have
or you haven't
done this or done that
Do you leap
or linger
Lerys Byrnes
Hawaiian Stilts
When you see those birds,
Stilted and statuesque in the rushes
And know that they have journeyed
From Alaska,
You suddenly understand
That your flights,
As uncomfortable as they are,
Are minor miracles,
Theirs are grand,
Delicate and durable
Their legs would never fold
Into the sliced space
We are asked to inhabit:
Nature eludes artifice.
Peter Gebhardt
Silence
How easily this word can be
traumatised by the simple
addition of a “d”.
Terry Veling
Unusual Partners
Beer and didgeredoo
juxtaposed on Smith
sun shining
People in buses arriving to shop
cautious window banking and safeway
brimming with a diverse air
nocturnal buskers
daytime players
the soft windy hollow of the instrument
against raw life in the street
Rose Heard
Rush Hour
On the South-Eastern Freeway
a semi-trailer has rolled into the sky
splintering the sun
blocking the