Poetry

Haiku in Echidna Tracks Issue 11, 2023

Untethered, in Ekphrastic competition publication "The Sound of a Single Wave"

First day falling in Burrow journal, by Old Water Rat Publishing

2 haiku in the inaugural edition of the Folk Ru journal published by King River Press

A haiku capturing a little dinner-time angst in the January edition of Echidna Tracks journal 

Sonnet for lost lasts - Poem in Communion Arts Journal, Issue #16, December 2021

JobSeeker in the time of Coronavirus - September 2021 issue of Burrow, published by Old Water Rat Publishing

Have you been doing any writing? - Poem in Communion online literary journal, Issue #6, 2016. You have to scroll down past my long rambling interview question responses to get to my long rambling poem! And I cringe a bit when I read my interview back because I didn't meant to sound so judgy about travel, it was just that particular person's attitude to it - literally going places just to take a photo of a flag - that hit a nerve at the time! 

Tinned Pears and Dove Soap - read on ABC Radio National's Poetica program, from 5:50 minutes in to the program

Veteran - published on the Resistance Words blog

Things that make me happy - Poets and Painters Exhibition, Bett Gallery, August 2013 (No longer available on this website)

Driving her home drunk (previous version of 'Drink-driving') - Tasmanian Poetry Festival, Oct 2011 or
Version published in Verity La - Jan 2013

Solution - Verity La, Nov 2012

Bookshop Capers - Famous Reporter, March 2011

Those who come across the seas - Famous Reporter,  June 2010

From a faded couch - Famous Reporter, Feb 2008

Melt-down - Famous Reporter, Dec 2004

Not therapy - Green Left Weekly, Oct 2004

20/11/03 - Green Left Weekly, Sept 2004

IP Picks Awards - Best First Book, 1st Commended - scroll down to find judge's review and author bio


From Undertow:

The home run

The weight fell off him quickly.
This latest deterioration took you by surprise. 
The gauntness emphasized big eyes 
that looked at you as though you were a wall.
His personality was preserved 
like apricots in jam on toast – chunks spread unevenly.
Good days became rare, then faded out.

You left him at the hospital each evening.
At home, cooking was a waste of time.
Unopened newspapers were dumped in the wood-basket
beside a fire that was too much trouble to light.
Family photos leered from the walls.
The nights presented loneliness
on a platter of porcelain pain
you wanted to smash.

He just wouldn’t move – his systems had given up.
Walking became an exercise in miracles –
such a joyful fuss if – with a Stedy and two physios – he stood.
When he lashed out at you,
bruising your jaw as you straightened his sheets,
you reeled.
Social workers could not have prepared you for the hurt –
to be hit by him – first time in sixty years.

As to a nursing home …
you questioned yourself, your family, god, the bureaucrats.
What was best?
Just when you had decided, he passed away.
You tried to burn your guilt
along with his soiled pyjamas in a backyard drum.
Not long after you’d lit the fire
rain came.

Bordeaux, New Year’s Eve

Tonight, in this strange town,
I asked five men directions.

The first did not know the place

and led his dog onwards, eyes smiling.

Suit-man couldn’t understand

my poor French pronunciation.

The third, standing by a taxi,

pointed, but still I couldn’t find.

The fourth, suspiciously helpful,

walked me
                             astray.

The fifth was old and drunk
and stepping from his flat.
His slurred commands got me there,
where I drank my beer, alone.

There is no moral to this story.

Reggaton

My lounge room is an outdoor Cuban disco.

In my lycra pyjamas
I swirl cocoa skin
and dark, lively eyes.

The Spanish lyrics paint me out
of the picture
but I gyrate around the frame,
hustled by the insistent beat.

Like a tourist dishing out dollars,
my knees bend,
my butt thrusts and the rhythm
plays my weight from side to side.

Hips seek the pleasure of rotation –  

my possessed pelvis
steers a wicked course
close to your crotch.

You sit there, sofa-stuck, watching –

vanilla-skinned, worry-eyed –  
like a painter
without a drop of paint.

Veteran

The sunken couch cradles him.

He grips the remote
(friend).

The baby,

the pot plant,
her gloss lipstick
                  all study him.

Doctors riddle him with diagnoses

but it is war
that goes on interviewing him each night.

He asks alcohol to counsel him

              but all each bottle does
              is prescribe another.


Photos of the launch of Undertow