Category Longer Poetry

by Kevin Gillam my father, eighty years ago, at the age of – my guess, seven – was driven with classmates in a bus on a stifling hot February day to a salt lake, marched to jetty end and thrown…

by Marilyn Humbert The limestone outcrops at Chillagoe urge us to wander the caves before night herds the lost stars into constellations. On the descent cold coils around us, your hand the lifeline steadying my course. Our boots grind rubble…

by Marilyn Humbert on weary wander west dusk cleans her rouged cheeks ready to take the stage with the moon and stars in luminous perception flickering stippled shadows at furthest point from home on a weathered lava vent we stop,…

by Hazel Hall stoking the stove— her aunt’s and mother’s weary eyes— their work-worn hands— seven kids to bathe and bed before time of their own— ‘skin the rabbit’ they say— girls first— stripped one by one— slipped in the…

by Celeste Brittain night falls on the riverside board walk reflected in water a cathedral of stars deep, luminous glistening out of reach a hum like an engine – water crashes against rocks we shine torches on seaweed, and walk…

by Agi Dobson We walk in bright early- morning sun last night’s argument still in our mouths hoping sunshine will absolve. We walk. A light breeze caresses. We do not speak. Surreptitiously I watch you take breath, my mind numb.…

The last train station by Wayne Pollard Can or can it not be said that a passage of scribed thoughts from the revelation reveals that out of a river red gum forest resting on the banks of the Murray River…

by Kris Hemensley 1. 30 Aug 24 (14.20 or mid afternoon — wind the belter predicted — at Degani’s swallow complimentary water in a single gulp – like Morse “a proper drink” he says “it helps me to think” (fear…

by Maria Bonar A young dove builds her first nest on a precarious nook on my front porch. A previous site of windblown disaster strewn twigs, woolly strands, broken eggs She bills and coos loudly, announcing her flimsy new domicile…

by Rachel Skellett Sundays with you, where our roots start to grow, we wander in awe, as we venture, investigate and reflect on the place we now call home. The artistry of the season they call Kambarang radiating into view, golden-orange, honeyed…