Poem

God

David McCooey
Thursday, 22 October 2020

God, the lonely father,
shuffles through the
corridors of heaven,
haunted by angels –
memories of desire,
the source of nostalgia.

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My Compliment Is Not A Tulip

Luke Beesley
Thursday, 22 October 2020

- What type of truck?
- A fire truck.

The taper of a cup
sitting pretty in a circle –

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For Noting

Kate Lilley
Thursday, 24 September 2020

A creeping association might doldrum
your bullet points and action items
resembling life grid passing then gone
change my number leave me alone
give no ear to charms ...

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Actually Existing Australia

Louis Klee
Thursday, 24 September 2020

Pale ankles in the mountains, divergences
on a quarry. We are witness to it
land and witness to it
some fact of further summer
or things a truck driver might say ...

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Same Mind

Brian Henry
Thursday, 24 September 2020

Just before I left sleep behind
I borrowed a series of chords
so I could swerve my way through
the days I saw yawning in front
of me like graves freshly dug ...

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Fifty Years On

Peter Porter
Friday, 11 September 2020

Early on, my mind was in reverse.
I read a book the name I thought was From
White Cabin to Log House, and ever after
I knew ambition must go to cancrizans.

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'Maxi, goodbye'

Andrew Taylor
Thursday, 03 September 2020

So much activity outside
where sunlight spills across the snow
like cream –

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'Silverflash'

Will Eaves
Thursday, 03 September 2020

Not since I was four or five at most
and in the first of many striped tee-shirts
have I been this close to the flavour of safety.
I’m walking into town again, the child of hills.
You bought me fish and chips for lunch, my own
adult portion because I asked for it, in Evans’s
tiled restaurant, the Alhambra of takeaways.

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'Travel'

Dorothy Porter
Thursday, 03 September 2020

Waiting on a reeking strange
     railway station –
then the dead-quiet but crowded
     night ferry.

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'Rain'

Judith Beveridge
Thursday, 03 September 2020

      Rain bubble-wrapping the windows. Rain
falling as though someone ran a blade down the spines
   of fish setting those tiny backbones free. Rain
            with its squinting glance, rain

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