Poetry

did it come in the bark of a dog
in the eucalypt air,

the marsupial faces tilted, listening,
or the ghostly skin and the foreign hair,

A lucky rain
misted
the far hills to fresco

In back wards, sea spray thinning ash as the city
turned from itself, the ocean which brought it, faces off

Days later, not long after we left the convent,
the war ended. I promised to take her directly
to the train station, but the sight of her
on the back seat scrambling out of that uniform,

The workers specialize according to their age.
At first they feed the queen her royal jelly
and then they nurse the larvae in their combs.

A summer rain front laces a trailing hat of mist
around the headland’s mountain: a saucer of mist
scraping the treetops    hanging over rock outcrops

My grandfather’s right eye was a frozen slab
of milk-white ice that light never thawed
and when he slept, the lid didn’t drown
the curse of its constant stare.

I’m stiff as a board, bored stiff
with living like this, with this
being half-crippled and adrift
like the ancients in the hospice.

VQR hosts a panel to discuss the emerging medium of multimedia poetry.

They stitched their lives into the days,
Hawkesbury fishermen, with a smoke
stuck to their bottom-lips, bent

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