there’s a place my everything is due
clattering parrots barge through it
you and I suck a margin we can’t keep
waiting for disaster
Continue reading “little itches: the business of change”
remember this if it hurts and have a nice lie down
Continue reading “winter solstice 2019:”
A blackbird took my lock of hair Continue reading “upon seeing a lock of Emily Dickinson’s hair nicked by Robert Frost”
It was meant for someone else—
I had left it wrapped upon the stair
While I fetched a golden thread
Cheeky in and quickly out—
Now it nests with spotted eggs
A better use than my poor keepsake
It praises Summer there—
Thought I saw Les Murray in my rear vision mirror Continue reading “Ditty”
walking with a black dog where the footpath isn’t clear.
Had like a simile in one hand but no lead gripped in the other:
puppy was or wasn’t his, it would appear.
Where is that crow going? Continue reading “Christmas 2018”
Same place as us.
Look at it rowing
Between a slog and a swallow.
Once heard it groaning
Now it fills the expanse
Mirror black where the oil spill was
Speck of midnight at noon
A little storm in the blue
No reminder of awful death,
My love, sweet shade in the belting sun
Soft dusk two words two words two words
All the murder soft-loud following-joining
Slowing the progress of twilight.
So we’re going the way of that crow my love
So the oceans are filling
So bad men do great
While good women groan
So the trial of God secret
So I am unkind—
Call low-hard soft-loud to your murder
From our crooks above the creek bend
Hunched and bright dark
If life gives you lemons fuck lemonade
All that sugar—just suck.
Find yourself winded on the kitchen floor
Don’t get up, lie a while and feel the dirt
Check your bits why don’t you
Giving up whatever knocked you down
Thank your stars for arms and legs
And move on—but not just yet
Where’s the hurry to do?
This is not wallowing.
If you’re humble about your failure—
Anybody could have done it
Shit just chose you—
Every now and again
Bless and be still.
Sleeplessness is awful
Insomnia is worse.
Dreaming of pomegranates
Left on our porch
Only to find they’re real—
Or did our porch dream them?
Why not bathe in cool tea
Instead of drinking your shame
All alongside the night?
Find our neighbour left the fruit
But still give credit to the porch:
Bathing in reality is not entirely sweet.
I shall run toward my story
After market, after poetry.
Now, where is that strainer?
fig leaf alchemy
mudlarks galore hop poorly
in dawn’s bloody eye
Saw Alexander Putin waiting for a latte extra hot
They utterly failed to call him Put-in, not Poo-tin
I don’t know why he didn’t tell them call me Al
Now he’ll badmouth Melbourne coffee snobs at Summits.
As if Turnbull wasn’t bad enough in the queue
Deciding who and on what terms we would get mugs.
All I can depend on is the rain.
Continue reading “Summer Solstice 2017: diary of a good year”
now I am a snake
come October alarm clocks
cry – pesky mynahs
mornings by the creek
ceviche growling grass frog –
Continue reading “percentage game”