Poetry

I breathe the leaves of the basil
It has news for me—
For all my senses

Alec, I said you’d be around
by stratagem or shift
looking for a lift
to the somewhere burial ground

Like wallabies we hurtle
This way and that
Unworried whether the world
Be round or flat.

A yacht lies down
in my window, on the harbour
the dusk has come.

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

[…]

Tailing Dam stands tall, Mine Lake hangs high.
At dike’s end stand a few grasses, snake-like.

Something in a locomotive, that black-clad traffic’s rush,
            something in the silver-tinted background: always
that tally of progress & catastrophe, engines wrecked

After his friends
rigged a pulley
and lowered the pack