Category Longer Poetry

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…

by Kate Olivieri My neighbour told me Someone cried to their case manager My kids’ placentas are buried in the yard Will you compensate me for that my heart dropped so is my son’s the government is buying our house…

by ALFREED FANDANGLE Awe stars’ verses, bored as Aurora gathering rainbows at the dawn of local time. Unsavable daylight can’t power you through the night. Like some kind of magic wand in valley, no secret Malley bull is really fowl.…

by J F Garrow In the atrium, at the entrance, of Kmart, in Warragul there are birds living, Which waiting I watch. And high up inside this atrium, which is the entrance, to Kmart in Warragul there are birds living,…

by Earl Livings It can’t be all hunting on the wing, those sudden swerves, open beak scooping insects. There’s beat glide beat glide beat rise and dip into swoop barrel roll low fast skimming above quivering green above rain pools…

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…