Freedom is

 
    like getting out of school.
    I run along the footpath
    over the bridge across the creek.


When I was six
   
    my sandals were jelly-bean blue.
    I ran under the culvert
    where the water splashed.


Late home I ran

    in the middle of the night.
    The immeasurable
    hour-glass from outer space
    had landed in the yard.


   
Now

    dust-covered helicopters
    hover above the banks
    like rooks on a chessboard,
    like faceless eyes.


I run

    along the footpath
    across the bridge
    over the creek.

   
My wings' sweep
    wields the wind.

The wattle bird

sits on the slender tree
elegant in silhouette
against cloud cover

like a Christmas ornament
clipped to a twig, a sleek ellipse
with a tassel for a tail.

Like the glass of my memory
set with bright bead
eyes among the pine

a living, brindled pair
perches on the railings
round my house

clucking perennial
colloquies in the
green.

Sunday night at Club Voltaire

       Poster by Branko Kuzmanovic

Edgar Allan Poet Journal #2

I am delighted to be published in Edgar Allen Poet Journal #2.

Poetry & Music at Club Voltaire, 7 September

Club Voltaire
14 Raglan Street, North Melbourne
(03) 9326 3006
7-10pm, $5

Jacinta Le Plastrier
Ashlley Morgan-Shae
Renn Barker


Poster by Branko Kuzmanovic, painting by Pinckney Marcius-Simons

Poetry & Music at Club Voltaire

This Sunday, 14 Raglan St Nth Melbourne from 7pm ...

Poster by Branko Kuzmanovic painting by Louis Welden Hawkins

Gooddess#8

Proud to be part of Goddess#8

D r e a m s

My new book.

Wild

                     they ate the Sabbath grain.

The women came,
one with her jar of nard.

In the leaves they breathe
of Galilee and Jerusalem
in tongues of flame
secretly

seeing though unseen
and knowing though unknown
of all things made and then unmade

like garments worn though never felt
next to the skin,
they travel time eternally.

Mother, daughter, sister, wife
scantly named

Maryam.

Star bright

Photo by Marie-Lan Nguyen

 

 

How are you fallen from Heaven
brighter than the other stars?

A doll, an idol, made of alabaster,
hollowed eyes filled with lazuli

walking on the land among aeroliths,
the moon’s horns in your hair

into the purpling evening you descend
to light the mansion of love.