Category Longer Poetry

by Pauline Cleary Shadowy, cloudy day; sprawling trees mesh together in a canopy. I crouch amongst the sprawl of asparagus fern; sticky, invasive, conquering. On my knees, I slither into the undergrowth, seizing handfuls of weeds, ripping them from their…

by Suzi Mezei The lithe dog is tethered to a post, where other lithe dogs with lineage are also tethered under the lemon-tinted arches of a mall, where shops and office space reach up towards sapphire sky, where humans prowl…

by Maria Bonar Delicate, feminine adorned with sparkling sand and shell grit A flotilla of tiny shells like babies’ fingernails cling to you When the tide surges you become your own coracle float on the waves, upside down wedded to…

by Stephanie Powell there is our front roomthe grey-green chair that rocks, its soft fabriclight from the router turns herface blue, a strange torch in those new eyes                                        hey, hey, hey,i hush to my baby. My baby as though i…

by Rob McKinnon In sweltering beds, the restless toss searching for sleep avoiding them, air conditioners and fans hum and clatter moving hot air around heated rooms. Somewhere in the searing housing estate, a lone dog howls miserably which rumbles…

by Kate King My dog pulled me up to focus on one scent amid a myriad of others, to really take it in, its richness, rankness, recency, all its glorious nuances. Grudgingly, I stopped, paused the torrent of thoughts that…

by Mary Salter Sheer red rock Furrowed and weathered bare Climbs out of a navy sea. Ancient volcanic rim Circles darkly on a Forever blue sky While curved shores Spread like flared skirts Hiding Her fiery centre. Tumbling down now,…

by Fred Duncan I sailed a boat, On a sea so calm and beautiful That I almost suffocated in its breathless passages. I walked through a forest, So green and deep and sombre That my footsteps and my soul were…

by Carl Walsh i. glamour of mid-morning sun fibro shacks lean into hawkesbury sailboats ride anchor half-sunk from last night’s rain mud blooms into water buoys mark out shallows girls keep their vessels close ii. train in waiting wondabyne bolts…

by Jeremy Gadd In Sydney’s Domain, where, pre-war, in nineteen-thirty-four, eighteen thousand once listened to the warnings of Egon Kisch; where, on Sundays, Webster promoted free speech and would-be politicians, proselytizers and the deranged stood and harangued gawking crowds, hecklers…