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A Conversation, Half-asleep, Half-awake

after Sexton

Gods in your iMac,

husked Anne, draped in something red

and risqu, tamping a cigarette.The world needs another

Confessor. Its not Your time to row

toward Him not yet. Keep hounding

the vaginismic journals: that pounding

by the Fhrer-Jew; those pricks shibboleth (The Gay

Plague);this goring New World Order. Luckily

Youll never be bled matchs strike by daughters,

an orthodox husband. My own hand: a blade

at the Yarra. Black cackles. Sweetheart, thoughcanonised the affairs! the booze! The Abortion!

Im in no position to administer last rites.

Stuart Barnes

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Paranoias v. Delusions

My clocks deal in arms, the telephones bugged,

our apartments wirings starved as a noose

slung in the branch of a black-tupelo.

A skin-tight T and jeansll get me dragged

by the scruff of the neck to that faggotslair. Wafers and whitecoats can never soothe

these aches. Catnapping sets Cerberus loose.

Youre inescapable, like a shadow.

In a day Ill be walking on water,

or spurring Pegasus into battle.

Only I can relieve the shrieking souls

of their blaze. Ill spare the Afghans a thought.

Do your worst youll never smelt this mettle.

Great Phoenix, I always rise from the coals.

Stuart Barnes

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Star-Crossd

for Levi Michael Hayes, made to wait more than six months to be psychiatrically assessed after

being charged with the 2010 murder of Rhian Elsmore who, on MySpace, professed a will to be

weird, nicknamed herself Ruination, claimed to be a little bit out of control and interested

in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos

lovers on a mountain top: mybest friends brothers

quietest best friend; his riotous

fire twirler enormous eyes throbbing

like a Blue-ringeds spots,

obsessed with underworlds,

LSD (possibly

more so than Timothy

Leary), and a suicide pact.

Throat slashed,body buried, him frenzied, unable

to follow through.

This history the truth

never seen in Queenslands papers.

Stuart Barnes

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blue

If we could, still we do

disappear

remain in view

a template standsan idea changing hands

He is the gashead

carbon monoxide

and whatever is true

gaps wait

past becomes

wind picking up

too many voicesmaking more of the memories

love is in hate

same garbage, vehicle floor

vacate evermore.

Something mocks us now

for here it rains

while wherever he remains

even if its raining there too

there is no old white corona

with the hose poking through

as the engine idles

night sleeps til its day

wonder holding breath

a gap has its say.

Maybe god exists

whereupon all he heard is her truth

even if the man's insane

merely nothing to dispute

evolving is life

more definitions to refute

as the tank became empty

as the years, pass by

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disappear

remain in view

'a badly drawn boy'

coincidence or confuse

fate remains negligent to his diaryour choice what we lose

and whatever is true.

Dale Costello

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Beach Theory

Copacabana Beach NSW

the sea isn't always to the east

should be

but fools uslaying in bays

around headlands

it's doing that now as

the sun shines

lengthways down the beach

this morning

anglers

planted their tentless poles

stretched guy-wires into the seato dispel the night

now in the onward afternoon glare

the water is glistening mud

children add poignancy to the scene

caper in the shallows

parents stand

in arm-folded supervision

night is different

torpedo wakes race down the dark,

disappear without impact

the sea

ominous in the blackness

plans a tidal wave

We only ever master the sea with maps

flatten it to a single blue plane

cluster the rocks like black roeat yellow beach margins

quell our fear by diminution

David Falcon

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Nostalgia Suite

For Ed Baker on the death of his Aunt Vera

our memories

are from waist height of them

in floral dresses and make-upsmelling of furniture polish

hatted and gloved in church

preparing sunday dinners of lamb roast

on trams to bronte

over the brow of the hill

to glimpse

the impossible blue ball of ocean

then through the cutting

we'd look down on the beach

pelt down the grassy hill

find and claim a tablein one of the latticed huts

uncle keith carved lamp stands

plaited us belts

big and chunky,

they lasted for years

their weave defied explanation

girded our waists like champion boxers

mum would come up the hill

with the shopping

and we'd run to meet her

help carry the string bags

she made big breakfasts mandatory

cereals were just an opener before

fried eggs and bacon or sausages

dad would curse and crank

the old prefect ute into life

or wake us at six

for a push -start down the hill

it was more in their actions

than their words

the hair on the arms of the men,the grizzled chins

old shaving mugs and brushes,

straps that doubled for threat

post-depression habits

of re-sharpening old blades

feeding the scraps to the dog,

keeping chooks

and whatever you do get you own place

we built a boat together

watching dad

pull the timber from the steam box

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wrap it around the gunwale

was like seeing him younger

than i'd ever known

i still remember

the christmas they hid our new bikes

behind their dressing table

II

Memories are

wisps of smoke in the hospital corridor

float through the silences

cannot settle on the cold present

a sweet pain

settles at my core

tells me that much good has passed

III

They look into my eyes

from their youth

and I wish I could join them

in front of the photographer

in the steam-train smell and grime

of Eddy Avenue, circa 1946

Seeing the old house now

is like seeing my life from a distance

to be viewed entirely at once

in a way it never could be then

and the old dove interrogates

incessantly in the sun

is-that-so ?

is-that-so ?

as it always did

from the wires above

David Falcon

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Three Pieces After Sunrise

1

the sky is a grey

gunmetal

turret made out ofwater where

the world's a sullen

disdained animal

2

the sky is paler

towards the

sun that has gone north

for winter

where skies are hard blueand it doesn't rain

3

oh I am rhymer

under clouds

and I will wander

over earth

seeking the blue sky

seeking the blue sky

L. S. Fisher

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Butterflies

In suburban gardens

buterflies settle silently,

open jewelled wings

feed on white, pink, red.

nectar rich flowers.Lay eggs on golden rain trees, wattle.

ensure larvae's food.

As they flutter from flower to flower

their vibrant orange, gold,

brilliant blue on black

are at variance with their

delicate, soundless movement.

Eileen Jones

First published in:Reflections, Ginninderra Press, 2011.

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Freedom Fantasy

In that twilight zone between wakeful

reality and slumber's vacuum I drift,

sinking slowly, softly into sweet oblivian.

The wily wind pestering at the panes infiltratesSteathily, stirs me to wakefulness, sweeps

me away through limitless, ever-epanding azure.

Seduced by the allure of this weightless,

worriless existence, I pivot through space, dance

with dervishes on powder-puff clouds,

dally on mountain peaks, disturb sea depths

then up and away, I hang suspended, spinning

like earth's orb in the infinity of space.

In an ecstacy of freedom I play along the Milky Way,

orbit the silver-sheened earth, grab

at the shimmering ball.

The ubiquitous wind whisks

me away, my clutch frustrated.

I find myself sighing, regretting the loss.

What have I lost?

Of what am I deprived?

Was it only the wind?

Eileen Jones

First published in: The Heart of the Matter, Ginninderra Press, 2002.

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coffee with conundrum

Im still fleshing out

how people can fork out

forever on coffee & cake

the duo arrivelike inseparable twins

within minutes of each other

in expensive matching outfits

of cream & crema

but have patrons forgotten

the land of the mall

with itsyoull love this

olive-garlic-raspberry dip

this fried desire, yoghurt sips

of invisible taste, vegetablepaste on high-fibre buttons

all budget-free

& who could ignore

the art gallery knosh-ups

wine flowing like a river

of creative blasphemy

in architectural glasses

the opening night cheese

with review-friendly crisps

a neighbour felt frozen

by the latest headlines

lets have coffee & cake

like its a film a concert

I offered her cake at my place

you havent got a coffee machine

she frothed & its true

all I have is home-made cake

costed at a fortune per hourfrozen defrost-ready

for special occasions

like her

Margaret Owen Ruckert

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Ham and Corn Slice

my stand-by, my default setting

my rescuer, my found recipe

profound yet monosyllabic

my alternative mood food

all hopes baked into onesavoury slice

but you thought slices were sweet

and they are, this one is sweet

as any roast lamb

on days I have no meat protein

except frozen ham

or frozen cabanossi

(an excellent substitute for ham

when diced into micro-cubes)ham and corn slice will

cap the appetite

energise buds

begin a prayer meet

arrest disbelievers

shock the complacent

welcome strangers

substitute salmon for ham

garlic chives for shallots

tinned peas for corn

and call the action

my playful slice

a square dish

a square meal

for any shape of hunger

Margaret Owen Ruckert

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the morning you decide to cut lunch

a fingertip falls into the sandwich

and you thought you were slicing tomato

you curse the knives so sharp so early

cheese crumbles and marmalade runs

out of patience and heads for recycling

why are edibles so unreliable you ask

but kettles are poor listeners

you shut up the crackle pops

with a wild smash of the spoon

and green rain drips from the ceiling

starve an engine of fuel

and see how it performs

you open the fridge

technically the fridge doorbut technicalities are for manuals

youre on automatic kitchen

another cat rubs you up for breakfast

you sink a hand into the chaos

of the fridge and pour out kittys

cordial so that was the green label

your fingertip will spice up lunch

and cheese will settle down

under pressure from bread

your internal clock is waking up

now coffee mugs tea leaves

while breakfast rolls over to sleep

Margaret Owen Ruckert

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sweet dreams

of childhood the nights

in shining ardour

candles and kisses

the princess and the

pea pumpkin slippersevil foodmothers

eat whats on your plate

enter: a wizard

who turns greens to sweets

you buy every spell

Margaret Owen Ruckert

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Let the Children

Our children build sand castles on those shores

Running wild, their hooves denting the sediment

And their minds of azure somehow figure

They we must have forgotten them and gone home

And you know as well as I do that they are beautiful

Serene as that Buddha baby we saw in the Osaka airport

Their tiny fingers shaping turrets out of formless mud

Making sense and love that neither you nor I could touch

Drawing conclusions in the arched windows and solid walls

And you know as well as I do that they love us

Know as well as I do that Id have stolen moons for them

As well as I do that I would have told them stories

Of brave knights riding across star fields searchingFor what you and I have searched for in vain, still

Search for, in vain, what our children never lost

Because they were never born

And I know as well as you do that that pain never rescinds

But rather sends our barren hearts lunging into the abyss

Do you reach for them in half-fevered mist of dying dreams

Only to gather the cold sheets? You know as well as I

That we are the aborted. We are the ghosts

Swimming in our blessed childrens eyes. They feel

Us even as we tear the others circuits from our filament

Memories. Yet as the high-tide drowns their castles

They are adamant that there is nothing to forgive.

R. P. Webster

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Love Means

I always sleep through my suicide

You enter the room and cry out

Cutting me down only to discover

That Im not there or rather a child

Raised by black wolves and nakedWithout a heart or soul, living only

In wicked season, a child who can

Barely walk, who says nothing only

That he loves you, knowing, silly as he is

That this will never be enough.

You always say Im too much

I leave the tomb quite content

To take to the road of good intentions

You fail to mention that I had never grown

And you had raised me as your ownBut could not raise me from the dead

So instead of a husband or a father

For your children, you watched me

Tie up your womb, assuming the form

Of a love that would die before it was born.

Youll never stop loving me

And as such Ill never stop loving

You, but only by dint of never knowing

What that meant or how a man carries

A woman across the threshold, and surrounds

Her and protects her only that hes sorry for being

So sorry and in such a hurry to turn back and sew

The masks of the kids you should have had to his own

Face, staring off into space with not a little regret

Only to forgive and forget that love conquers nothing at all.

R. P. Webster

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Man Made

1.

Broken dad

you only ever had

Holding you too closeWith strike busted arm

Bourbon breath

Not knowing what

To say to his little

American girl

Unable to decipher

The sulfurous whisper

Of south side steel mills

Big-shouldered city

Shoving him from picket lines

Back to frozen fieldsOf quebec, a fever

Not a dream

Being hardly able

To harbor the dreamt

Much less love that man

Who pulled icicles from

His moustache

And said the craziest

Things in the most

Beautiful language

About spinning wheels

Of flame come down

From greyer heavens

As though satan had

Taken the skies

Over their tiny farm

And the fear that crossed

Over from Windsor

To Detroit, to the metallic

Shore of southern

Lake MichiganAnd again, hes silent

Over bare breakfast table

Feeling like a ghost horse

Beaten by the damned

Driven by the wicked

Cursed by the blessed

Indulging in the relics

In his head

Doubting the scars

On his liver

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2.

A man bleeding out

To a god that never

Would come through

3.

And what of him

Could you piece together

Hardly pax Christi

More ash than incense

More insect than incest

He was never really incensed

With you

Nor you

With me

4.

For what of me

Could you piece together

Of him, standing alone

In field of quebec wheels

Spinning out gossamer

The silk of some unheard of benediction

That day he clutched his heart

When his liver finally gave out

There was the yellow

Of hepatitis contrition

There was a fraction of a moment

When I peered out between

The bars of the cage

Of your gaze

5.

And he must have known

That the dust of the fires

That had crawled up from

His intestines to his throat

Had been carried aloft

Penetrating you

Inundating me

Choking me

Making me cry out

Loud, in the middle of Sunday Mass

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Because Id found a single

Gray hair on your head

And no Jesus of no epoch

Couldve ever soothed me

Like you did

His arms surrounding me

Cold and purifying

Like that field stretching

Back into the pale.

R. P. Webster

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Too Much to Ask

How could dew

Dissolve so many garrisons

Of a man a mere

Mundane son

Dancing with demonsIn front of a mirror

That so clearly warps

The mechanisms of action

And all the steam

And all the ash

And still he pines

Foraging for blacker Sabbaths

A young man too old

To waste undeserved youth

This body eclecticAnd uncelebrated

Shredded to leaves of glass

Shards of stained grass

Leaving not even compost

Pathways of drivel

Composed of minor keys

Yet somehow survived

By a better man

Who arrives not

A moment too soon

Or too clear

As to why he is

Here, or as to why

He is

At the risk

Of being deemed a philosopher

Or worse a mystic

Or worse still a particle

Of magic matterDark and hardly mattering

Swallowing hard

The brahma cycles

Eight billion times

In eight billion years

As if that were some feat

At the risk

Of sounding deep

Let this man

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Better than the others

Oversee the other seas

Becoming bitter

Yet another angst-entombed

Grown diseased and helpless

Leaning off bridges

And pleading the universeThe many-tentacled hell-beast

To turn around

For just one second

To let him go

To swim in the air

To birth soft into atmosphere

Thinning into oxygen

Blending with the breath

The gentle heaving of a fervent city

That will never pity himNor feel different

Necause he may

Have stopped them

In the streets

A second of their time

Not asking for money

But to weigh them down

With things that die

The little impenetrable things

Like hands and head

And the imagination

Reaching conclusions better

Left at the right hand

Of a straw god

Begging them

Without begging

To see his imminent

CripplingHis ultimate call

To faltering

Headlong head going

Head gone

Not asking for them

To care

At the risk

Of summoning strings

Strummed for nothing more

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Than a mere man

Walking stiffly through

Streets of a furtive city

Giving back

What he was given

To the airThat sustains him

To the love

That contains him

To a life

That restrains him

And the state

Deeming him a risk

Asks him too much

Only adds confusion

To his fear and his tremblingKeeping him from completing

What must be done

Feeding him tasteless fruit

Treating him as too much

To ask

Humming a tune black

With god-awful treacle

What it means to be hallowed

(A pleasant enough ballad)

Practically enslaved

No thoughts aloud

In but not out

Hollowed out

And full to bursting

Until the worst is

Ejaculated

And he is assessed

And processed

And released

Too little possessed

By too much to ask

And yes, better, yes.

R. P. Webster

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Boiling Frogs

Inner city lullabies

grumbling crumble in the evening air -

commercial a/c, night deliveries

furtive seizure

overnight smash tinkerof temporarily vacated road space then

burnished black for morning peak.

Mounting stress on Stress Mountain,

noise scoops the ear.

Thin metal rods are screwed in across the shoulder;

we turn on a brain-burnt rotisserie.

Sausage souls,

habitual knots of ennui,

then a lifetime's classic snap.Pacing cloud, cerebellum.

There is no delivery for us.

We take each other's lives

and do nothing with them.

Les Wicks

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Flat Out

Sex is finished!

Too little time on

the BlackBerry ferry,

Big Styg.

Anti-depressants kill cornucopian concupiscence. A bit fat or

thin, my bones would crumble. Need

calcium

jojoba

vitamin B

the ballsy blue pills.

There are too few women. Where's the men?

Intercourse as injury.

The skin is thinner

than prophylactics.His stroke is broke. The back

the knees

a rumour of disease

Chlamydia perfidia. Plague.

Youve got to keep it fit boys,

I take mine out on walks.

A standing ovation of dogs.

Doomgaloots fret beneath fluorescent bulbs,

you can be old and shy.

Simultaneous.

Get it up? Give it up.

There's so much great television. "Must do lunch

sometime". Remember the spoon.

This intimacy lives somewhere near the heart

(a bad neighbourhood).

I don't go out at night.

Sex is finished

and we all mourn together,throw chocolates at the grave.

Les Wicks

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The Immortality Institute

is down the hall and just beside

the Smokers Lounge.

I asked for a sign

she did write run and got this black lacquer,raised white text. Everlasting life

is aspirational like

a red car. I am

expirational. Dont

lop my head,

on second thoughts I/

insights sliced on ice, blood film, pathology.

Popping bubbles in liquid nitrogen my hair

frozen in a 1980s blow-wave.

The world is already too small, mundane.

Life is a bleach,

one feels designed to fade.

She loves her cunning boys

shadow my cheek

hold flesh on mortgage.

hungry men order More toad!

This noise of oil,

oh the real freeways are merry.

Let us stay while we play,

then go.

Everything is suicide

and nature saves the brooding.

Our own hands demand

the rest of ruin.

Les Wicks

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Ladykiller

All alone

dog with a bone.

Pamphlet glint

glossy full photo

night-time guarantee.With the morality of a mat

he amassed a fortune in chains.

But this is the Wednesday of his Discontent.

Vacant fret of streetlights\

ginger mixed in bitter stars.

To stay the mark...

golden locks have eaten their rocks

off. Only the bathroom tiles are black and white. Gravel

will travel

in a shoe, worn mag wheelsrust is everythings crust.

She is not quite forgotten

She is an ache in the ears

touch without payback, the park

Tony, right there.

Beside a pit of immobility,

shake hands with yourself,

a time for formal introductions

without clothes.

The women have all built palisades -

their stories are similar

but you cannot share a wave -

Don on the dumper

waits for oxygen.

Les Wicks

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The Man who Invented Graphs

Scheme in the steam, paper paints a purpling steel.

William Playfair stormed the Bastille in an effluxion of history.

Carapace of liberty stars and shambled cloud...

over freckled sheets of copper, a copybookEuropean paradise

(plus Philadelphia heroes) formed on the Ohio River.

The cracked bell croaked,

then he robbed them blind.

He wrote genealogy, a scoundrel

and idiot. Pirate of proposals,

his riches rose and fell in a longitudinal wave.

So, so Britain, engineer and politics

with spindle whirr of swindle.

A man in his timerough stir in the brine.

Les Wicks

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Boomer School

We dammed the gutters with clay on rainy days

in baby boomer childhood time.

It was easy to fill teams for street games

with so many children born after the war.

Our house was near paddocks

holding former market gardens and farms.

Crab apple trees grew sour fruit

good when stewed and sweetened.

We roamed the fields and played in ponds

while Timmy the terrier distracted snakes.

Animal life was thick; bandicoots were common.Creeks and dams spawned little fish and frogs.

Birds flitted in remnant eucalyptus forests

that held out branches to practice tight rope walking

but did not charge for lessons.

The knowledge gained so early

has glimmered in surprising places

to light this other world.

Paul Williamson

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Mixed-up Sunday

Saturday faces look dog-tired

like the working week is un-ended.

By midday Sunday that weariness has gone.

People are relaxed as they casually scan the shops

do their weekly shopping, buy a coffee or lunch

from cafes scented by the worlds flavours.

Asian faces are here at Ryde; a few wear Muslim veils;

an African girl looks excited about the afternoon ahead;

old folks of Mediterranean extraction mix

with those of less obvious heritage

perhaps from England generations back.No-one seems to be concerned

unconsciously multicultural

while others elsewhere argue the issue.

Paul Williamson

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Murray River Gum

The river gum sports jagged darkened stumps

of lower branches torn off by violent floods.

It leans over strong currents

upper limbs stretching skyward

paying silent homage to the two gods

of its existence, sun and rain.

The trunk now fresh from autumn showers

glows in lemon, buff and ochre

colours begging capture.

The giant ignores the people who pass

on paddle steamers, boats and bicyclesas it has down its ages.

Paul Williamson

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Sealubber

The sea was meditation

as years floated away.

It began as a way to work.

He had the sealegs to live on ships

to sail on seven vessels

under Danish, Australian and US flags.

The ice ship rocked in drydock.

A coastal vessel wallowed.

Drillships sat in a pond amongst high waves.

From atop a drillship he saw baby Krakatoathe worrying child of a murderous mother

in northern tropical waters with visions of blue fish.

On the balcony of a hotel above Sydney Harbour

he watches the ships return to the sea.

Paul Williamson

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Stepping Path

My forebears made this journey

so I catch the jet to Norfolk Island.

The flight is delayed but painless

in spite of jokes about airline food

and lack of leg room.

A film screens to fill the hours.

My ancestors jammed into a ships hold

woman and man, chains rattling in wait

during the long days under sail through heaving seas

while the occasional corpse slid to find the deep.Then they walked where I will walk and

somehow found the stepping path to me.

Paul Williamson

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A Madrigal of Desire

Within the court of love, you are my jurist

to either keep or free my heart, that tourist

who is enraptured by love's sacred numen,

for, in the mysteries of love you're mighty,and in the seas of love an Amphitrite

who will initiate this catechumen,

and to your lantern I am drawn, bombycid

perhaps, of no more note than eve's tortricid,

for I am ever only energumen:

you are my Aphrodite and my Ares,

my constant polestar and my fair Antares;

and I your love's Anteros, yours to fondle,

the singing source of madrigals and rondels!

Adam Zeugma