Sunday, 27 April 2014

 O. Spaniel Murray 

If gold sends you longitudinal, an iron mine in the grey fits of winter hammers shut the bored little corners of your soul. The stilted yellow box, crippled with sodium, haunt the long gullies like gallows. Amidst this, Rusty Core, flown in from Adelaide, spent his livelihood tackling ore body on a mighty loader. He would attach a dumb determination to it. As long as his lung resisted the exertion, he could make $2000 a week.

The town itself, Nibbler’s Lint (not to be confused with Nibbler’s Lint, the opal haven, just south of the Queensland border) was submerged in a red cloud. Canary yellow trucks, as big as small buildings, were bloody with corrosion and thudded down the good road with steady and ferric monotony. There was the Post Office. The Mine Office. The Housing Office. The Shire Office. The Police Station and Lock Up. The public toilet and the Nibbler’s Lint Hotel. Stuffed with quick cash, Rusty tried to find some honest preoccupation at the bar. All he found was a dart game doing fivers. “I’m gonna go mad living here!” he thought, admitting the forthcoming six week stint. By disposition he was restless.

This explains why it was that Rusty was sitting clad in nothing but his Bart Simpson boxer shorts with a fluffy madam named Serena on his lap and a long, long line of frosty white cocaine on the table before him when the eager Constable Flicker came busting through the door like a ramjack. “Nobody move!” yelled Flicker, brandishing his pistol.

Rusty couldn’t move because of the scantily clad Serena. She had scarlet red lips and a full moon of eye shade and the capacity to understand the working man. She had once done a whole semester of pediatric care in Sydney before throwing away a career as a backing vocalist to become a stripper. Similarly, an over-achieving gasfitter named Carl couldn’t move from the same divan because of a smiling redhead named Shirley, decorated in nothing but frilly French suspenders, plonked on his lap and bundle. There was also a quote businessman unquote named Neville nursing his precious briefcase and a fist full of fifty dollar bills sitting at the table as if it was his profession.

Thus the frozen moment. Rusty Core snapped to. The bleak landscape intruded. The desert yonder was vast and imprisoning. The desert sands are cold in mid July. ‘There is really no telling how this is going to play out,’ he thought to himself. He had been in sticky corners once before. Years ago he had worked in Customs, down in Port Augusta. On that occasion it was his fiance Stella who had come busting through the door and she was brandishing not so much the pistol as a blade intent upon a quick castration. Which made Rusty wince. It was the sheer boredom of a predictable morning that had made him do it that time too. When Stella burst in, as murderous as a banshee, there was a big chunk of Rusty that sighed with relief and said, ‘At last! Something happened!’ He felt the same again. Flicker was about thirty-five, probably married with two boys playing junior football, and his uniform made him look like a meathead. His pistol was well-made and metallic black but otherwise unconvincing. Rusty yawned inside. He couldn’t tell whether his brain was scrambled from substance abuse or whether he was just underwhelmed.

It seemed for a moment, though, that the impasse would be overcome by the brave Constable getting serious, but just then - as he lifted the nozzle higher - there came a squeak of muffled music. It was Freddy Mercury singing:

We are the champions, my friends...
We’ll keep on fighting to the end...
We are the champions...
We are the champions...

Flicker looked quizzical. “Oh. Sorry, I’II have to take this,” he said, rebadged his firearm and reached into his back pocket for his mobile phone.

“Flicker,” he said, putting it to his ear. Then the one-sided monologue:

“Really? All of it? Did you check? … OK. Well, that’s embarrassing. … No. No. … I wish you’d rung me a bit earlier because... Yes. I know. I’ve just got here and... OK. Remember. I want 20,000. All of it. Not a cent less... Yeah, well, we’ll talk about that later. … Right. Right. Yep.”

Disengage. Flicker put away the phone and relaxed. He looked behind him, then looked around. Some throat clearing. Finally, in an awkward location, he nodded to the Madam Serena.

“Spiffing hamster,” he said.

At first, Rusty imagined this to be some order of euphemistic commentary on her anatomy but then he glanced over to where the Constable’s eyes had been directed. He hadn’t noticed it before. Sure enough, over on the sideboard, was a cage containing a small dappled hamster spindling in its plastic wheel as bored as the rest of them.

“It is, isn’t it?” said Serena, still not moving. “His name’s H. R. Puffenstuff.”

There was then a longish pause. The Constable recalibrated himself. Carl shifted and said to Shirley, “Can you hop up, darl, my leg’s gone to sleep.”

She obliged.

“Right. Well, carry on then,” Flicker said, and backed out the broken door frame. His partner, the rooky O’Callahan, was waiting.

A further longish pause underscored the Constable’s departure.

“What was all that about?” asked Rusty, at last.

Neville seemed entirely unperturbed. He was a happy man as long as no one touched his brief case.

Serena sniffed, leant over and raked a hillock of white candy with the razor blade. Now that it had been pointed out to him Rusty couldn’t help but notice the tireless Puffenstuff still trundling on.

“I have no idea,” said Serena. She looked up into her airhead and double checked. “No,” she said. She shrugged her skinny bare shoulders. “None.”

‘Even better,’ thought Rusty Core. ‘A mystery!’

Nothing could overcome the sedimentary monotony of the wide red plains and the seams of hematite bleeding into the surface like a mystery. The horizon line was thoroughly post-volcanic. The trucks were thudding twenty-four hours a day like a clock. The makeshift housing of Nibbler’s Lint huddled with its propane bottles against the chill wind. VHS killed off the cinema. That’s when the love-nests moved in. Even Serena and Puffenstuff had been flown in from Adelaide. Rusty was, as the orgia resumed, glad there were only a few weeks of this stint to go.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

Dawn Parade 25 April 1956 (with thanks to Eric Bogle) Mercedes WebbPullman

 Dawn Parade 25 April 1956 (with thanks to Eric Bogle)

When I was a young girl I walked with my Dad
through the cold foggy morning at dawn.
He was holding my hand, but his thoughts were away
with the comrades he’d come here to mourn.
He let go my hand and walked into line
standing proud, with his head held so high.
The ribbons showed bright, and the medals all gleamed
and jingled as the line marched on by.
He marched into line and walked with his ghosts
half blinded from letting them in
and the lines on his face made him a stranger to me
and every man there looked like him.
The dead that stay young, stayed there with the men
through the speeches and wreaths and the prayers
‘til the Last Post was played and the ranks were dismissed
and the living reclaimed what was theirs.
I saw as a child how war takes a man
to hell, and then slaughters his friends.
He does what he must, in the battle’s red heart
and surviving means do it again.
Remembered again, remembered in vain.
New marchers arrive from new wars
and the battlegrounds change but war stays the same
though we ask What are we fighting for?
I’d rather see water flow through the land
than blood flowing red in the cities.
I’d rather grow food, and help build new schools
than demonstrate new ways of pity.
Now I march for my father, and try to be proud
of the ribbons and medals I’m wearing.
But I know as I march that pride’s second best
to the love and the pain that I’m sharing.

By Mercedes WebbPullman

Tuesday, 22 April 2014

Fragments in April James WF Roberts

Fragments in April
James WF Roberts

So tell me all about your love...
Tell me all about our love,
tell me why so many women
die every week, at the hands
of the men they love.

So, tell me about all about
the open society,
where breast feeding is scandlous
but young girls show just the right
amount of flesh, to get them into
a night club--but they are only twelve years old..

So, come on tell me all about
how enlightened we are,
why women have to wax, and pluck
and shave every inch of thier bodies,
until they look like they haven't reached
puberty yet...

Tell me all about the world,
you have only visited from your couch
and digital TV.

We have all the knowledge of
the world,
but very little wisdom.
Know the price of everything
the value of nothing.

So tell me all about your love...
Tell me all about our love...

Thursday, 17 April 2014

Honeymoon in San Francisco, 1965 Kay Kinghammer

Honeymoon in San Francisco, 1965
Kay Kinghammer

Curly, who wasn't, was balding.
Curly, whose real name was Adolf.
Curly, the brother-in-law of my friend Rosie,
Curly, the cheesecake salesman asked me. He
Asked me. He asked me to marry

Overwhelmed, I never thought it could happen,
I thought my life was ruined, forever.
I thought no one would ever want me.
I thought no one would ever love me.
This was the truth for unwed mothers.
What else could I do but say, "Yes!"

Finally, I could quit dancing, quit
Taking my clothes off for money. Maybe
I could be a normal woman. Stay home
And raise my son. It didn't matter
That I didn't love him. I was
Good at pretending, pretending to love to
Earn my living. Gratitude might lead me
To real love. If I pretended enough,
It might happen. There might be a
Happy ever after. The night before we
Were to marry, I thought about running away.
I talked myself out of it. This was my
Big chance, my chance to be respectable,
My chance to be other than an
Unwed mother, my only hope of being
A wife. So we got married, walked
Down the aisle just like normal people.

Afterward, at the reception, Curly borrowed twenty
Dollars. He borrowed it from a stranger
So we could spend our wedding night
In a cheap downtown hotel.
I was too drunk to notice,
Didn't find out about the begging until
Later. In the hungover morning he told me,
He'd quit his job, and we were moving,
Moving to California. So we packed up
Our things and we went. We drove down
To San Francisco, to small town
On the outskirts of San Francisco.
We moved in with Curly's cousins.
I was well and truly trapped.
I was so angry with Curly. My
Pipe dream of being married - exploded.
Like a pipe bomb, it exploded.
I sulked and I fumed and I
Exploded in hissing whispers. This was not
What I expected. This was not what
I wanted. He had to find a job.
He was a cheesecake salesman.
He was bound to find a job.

But he didn't. He didn't even try.
When his cousins finally asked us to leave,
He found a job for me, he found

A dancing job for me. It was a
Three month job in Alaska. So
I took my son back home to
My mother, took myself to Alaska,
Saved up my money in Alaska,
So that I
Could buy
A divorce.

New Rays of an ancient sun James Dooney

New Rays of an ancient sun
James Dooney

New Rays of an ancient sun
find blessed abode
upon the breathtaking plateaus
of my smooth silky skin.

These rays they shine
with their light so fine
that they enter me,
grab hold of me,
and cajole me,
setting fire to my rains within.

What is the price of love April poetry month 15/4/2014 April 15, 2014 at 12:26am

What is the price of love April poetry month 15/4/2014
April 15, 2014 at 12:26am

(C) James WF Roberts

Midnight embraces
Darkest desires
You can dream,
By the firelight
With your fingers

In my hair
You trace out the days to come...
My head in your lap
The night is only ours.
Your song fills my heart
With heavenly tunes,
I strum and pluck
Another world
Into creation.

Turn away from the past
What are you hiding from?
What is the price of love?
What is the price of passion?
What is this fire burning so wild within?
What is the price of love?

Mind in a labyrinth
You're chasing me one minute
Scurrying away the next...

What is the price of love?
But, love is the only true fire
Burning within us all.
Touch of your lips
Upon my flesh
Touch of my lips
Upon your flesh....
Lost in my obsession

Lost in your endless cycle
Drowning in our own
Self-inflicted addictions
What is the price of love...

Upon this little green hill
Shall we watch the blood moon rise
What is the price of love?
Shut out the world,

Just listen to my words

Falling upon your heart

Temperature rises,

Is it time for our motors
To re-start?
What is the price of love?
What is the price of pleasure?
What is the price of love?
Lost all control

Hidden in a daze
Of childish pride
Ordered chaos,
Can you tell me
What is the price of love?



Elizabeth was playing in the backyard as was her custom after her lessons were through for the morning. Her father kept her on a strict schedule, not much time for play, he wanted her to absorb all the knowledge there was for her tiny mind to ingest. Today she had read two chapters of Hemingway.

” Lisa Jane, come here. Uncle Danny has a dolly for you.”

Elizabeth’s Uncle knew she had few toys as education was first and foremost in her life. Calling to her by her nickname with the promise of a doll put a sparkle in her eye, and sent her running into his arms.
“Let’s have a kiss for your Uncle Danny, ” he said lifting Elizabeth up, his hand up her dress.
She kissed him sweetly on the lips the way children do.

“I know you can do better than that, Lisa Jane.” he said before forcing his tongue into her tiny mouth.
Danny noticed the look of terror on her face, and knew he needed to calm her down.
“Let’s play with your Dolly, Lisa Jane.  Her name is Miss Rosie, and she likes to do all kinds of fun things. She likes to feel good. You like to feel good, don’t you?”
Elizabeth nodded her head up and down, not knowing what else to do.
“Miss Rosie will teach you how to feel good and have fun Elizabeth. Your Daddy makes you work too hard, and learn too much. Everyone deserves to feel good, Darling.”
“Yes, Uncle Danny,” Elizabeth answered.
“Everything I do to Miss Rosie, I will do to you. Don’t be scared. It will feel good. I promise.”
“Yes, Uncle Danny,” Elizabeth answered obediently.
Danny grasped the doll and licked the breasts.

“Your turn, ” he turned to Elizabeth.
Licking her breasts, as Elizabeth held on to the doll, his fingers traveled down to her panties.
“Miss Rosie says she wants me to put a finger in there Lisa Jane. Now don’t cry , Baby. Miss Rosie knows how to have fun and feel good. Put your hand down my pants. Miss Rosie says it’s okay. You want to have fun don’t you?” Danny said breathing heavily on her.
“Yes, Uncle Danny, ” Elizabeth responded mechanically.
Elizabeth lay there, feeling trapped within her own body. Danny pounding away at her tiny hand which was now down his pants. His finger wiggling around inside her. It hurt. Miss Rosie must like pain, because this hurt.
“Look, Cherry Jelly!” Uncle Danny said to her before licking his finger.
Elizabeth sat there motionless. Unable to speak. She felt as if she was going to die, if this was what dying felt like.
Walking away from Uncle Danny’s car, Elizabeth felt herself drift away.



She was regal perched at the piano
Playing his favourite serenade
One glass became two bottles
He sat gazing at her bare shoulders
The striking of her fingers once soothing
Now a maniacal reckoning in his mind
He pictured his brothers lips upon her nakedness
An ire rose up in him that the wine could not contain
A piano wire he deftly pulled from his valise
Precision was the key struck by her fragile fingers
Her life force tickling the ebony and ivory in one last
Blood Rhapsody of insatiable lust and jealousy

The Last Inch April Edwards

  The Last Inch

Some people will accept the time you give them.
Others will try to take as much as they can.
Some may try to hold on so tight that you feel suffocated.
I ask those people, “Please. Stop.
Let me stay of my own free will.

I can't breathe.”

He thinks he know me.
Knows my thoughts.
Tells me what I am thinking. 
All words that gratify his ego. 
All words that stamp out my voice.

Little does he know,
The tighter you bind,
The less there is to hold on to. 

April Edwards writes poetry to get things off her chest. Her favorite poet is e.e. cummings.
--I really hate writing bios. sorry. 

Penthouse Permutations by Frank Lardo

Penthouse Permutations by Frank Lardo

Expatriation into
boldness and coldness.
How dishes of chipped
bone porcelain nick
and kink into flesh.

Love surfaces
and loft services
like Perignon flood
Sheen of varying
figure -
passionately printed flesh
on Japan Black

Crosswalk crosstalk
among antigens
and neurons,
encourage, yet,
another magnetic
tape reel of
case study gawk
and elephantine
cigar chews and
mulling of mulberry
wine conference.

Excess? Apt abscess.
Spacious? Void euphemism.
Collapsing of
a heart's lung -
a heart's asphyxia.
Trapesing blindingly
aside wenches -
dagger play awaits.

A mere muse,
a mere spin
of barbed woolen
twine doth this
blind poet's foray

Thursday, 10 April 2014

Poisoned Chalice James WF Roberts

Poisoned chalice of love and faith,
passed around time and time again.
Suspicious and selfish—poisonous
and joyful. Addictive and painful.
Touch of your lips upon my flesh.
Sing me no songs.
Tell me no lies.
Weave no stories of love,
around my mind.

Just lie here with me now,
in the middle of the future
and the past.
You lie,
I cheat.
You dream,
I create.
I am me
you are you.

Nothing more than our true
natures can we expect from each other?
What are we now…
Enemy? Friends?
Brother and sister?
Mutual offenders?
Serial Monogamists?
Or just crazy fucked up lovers?

But, the way you look at me,
it is not with lust or mistrust,
you look at me with a hope
I’ve never felt before?
What is going on in your mind?
There’s an innocence,
a childlike  enthusiasm
that shines through
every part of your being,
until the creature has its
pure white claws around you

(c) James WF Roberts 

On the horns of a dilemma James Downs 4-10-14

On the horns of a dilemma
~~all my life until this year I spelled it dilemna
I have often wondered
What it was like to sit
Somewhere quietly
And arrive at a moment
Quite full of itself
No one knows how
It will start out…with
Lurches or lunges
Or just plain plunges
The moment glistens
And gleams at itself
As if to say I am the one
Or at any rate the way
It’s done…we glance
Behind to see if there
Is another moment
We could have chanced
But it is too late
For now we are stuck
With this blind date

James Downs 4-10-14

Sorry…Muse - James Downs

I know you may
Want me to stay and write
Some more
But I've got to get some sleep
Continue on without me
James Downs

My heart can say words James Downs

My heart can say words
Like “home” and “hymn” and
Thing to do when the crickets
Have come
It feels like it wants
………………..To stretch itself
All the way to some distant
Land…and learn
A new thing or two
But here we are and here is
Where it planned
And right now it wants
To say “me” and “you”
James Downs
~~for JLD

Thank you for the title, Jeffrey Hildebrand

Poetry Month Thirty Day Challenge Poem number #3 April 2014 James WF Roberts

Poetry Month Thirty Day Challenge Poem number #3 April 2014
James WF Roberts
(c) 2014
How can that little word,
that means so much be wasted by all of us;
for a song, for a meal, for a glass of wine,
a football team, the latest celebrity craze.
That word that rolls off the tongue.
Teeth and tongue and mouth collide, as I say I love you.
As I pledge my devotion.
But have I gone too far?
Have I said too much?
pushed the envelope too far now?
As we embrace before the dawn,

you leave before the morning…

Poetry Month Thirty Day Challenge Poem number # 2 Shards of Light Penetrate… (James WF Roberts) (C) 2014

Poetry Month Thirty Day Challenge Poem number # 2Shards of Light Penetrate… (James WF Roberts)
(C) 2014

Shards of light penetrate my solitude.
Shadows in the corner, grief-stricken clown, 
bitten off tongue sitting rocking back and forth on my bed.
Dark eyes—tell me the world’s gonna end.
Watching the rain beating down, upon my window pane.
Can’t you see eternity in the drops of water—
universe in a grain of sand.

Spreading her hands upon the table of night
the maiden burns a thousand paper
memories into the fires of fate…..
Time slides out of view,

when I’m lying next to you.
Clouds fall upon the dawn.

Sky might fall tonight,
but being here with you,
I know I shall be re-born.
Too many words in our language
too many phrase, too many deceits.
Too many wasted words—for commercials
and for cinematic television events—

where have the words of love now gone?

Thirty Day April Poetry Challenge number #1 (James Roberts)

Thirty Day April Poetry Challenge number #1 
(James Roberts)
The soft embrace of the
evening wraps
itself around me.
Touch of your hand 
The warmth of your embrace
Sitting on the porch in the stillness of night.
Pour a glass of wine
As I watch you sleep
Oh, what bliss....

Earth Sound James Downs

There is a thrum that seeps up from
The loam…it has waited there for a very
Long time…something in the sky has
Matched its frequency…and even if we
Cannot hear it…it aligns like a giant vault
Door…combinations locking into place
And the space between the under and
The over gets smaller…Earth makes
Sounds when it wants to connect above
Itself…when it does not know what will
Echo from without…there is no one
……………..I live with my questions
James Downs

“It is fine, my friend” James Downs

It is fine, my friend”
~~Jeffrey Hildebrand
I had somehow missed
Seeing you on here
For awhile.
I don't know why
I had
……..But I did
James Downs

“Pleading for less” James Downs

“Pleading for less”
~~thank you for that, Kay Ryan
Lightness hits us over
The head with a bled
Rightness…And yet we
Won’t fight over any
Of this…there comes
A bliss that thrums
From “Eureka!” drums
There is no weight
That weighs upon us
Unless we take it up
And carry it thus
When lightness hits
It feels like breeze
And surely we can
Tolerate one of these
James Downs


Only a star Can make a star James Downs

Only a star
Can make a star
It starts tiny
And works its way
Out to super colossal
Each bit affecting the other
Nearest it…there is no wonder
That can encompass its grandeur
Or the physical reactions and explosions
Surrounding it…so for sure it throws small parts
Out and goes on without them…and yet the dark awaits
To receive this gift from distant space and makes a place for it
James Downs

(poem of giving and receiving and gratitude)

Interrogative/Demonstrative Sigh by Frank Lardo

Interrogative/Demonstrative Sigh by Frank Lardo

"Clack" -
The clapper board
initiates the
personified revelation.
The word clock
summing interminable
agony as the torrential
downpour of continuous
rants endure.

With cross-examining
lens flares
of vulnerability,
a world upon thine eyes
hinges a perspective
of the ever cryptic

With each stanza,
another avant-garde
flat key dissonant
melodic line is
articulated before
binary translation
of a visual feast.

Rolling seasonal
personal freedoms
and imprisonments
like sine-wave undulations,
polar dislocation and
fragmentation -
sear and
adhere into
the wordsmith that vocalizes
his demure chants.

For blind-sighting
the next runway of
oblivious misadventure -
The next sands fall
into cake mixes of
pavement disposal efforts -
Rouge seals,
upon openings of a future
passage -
the certainty never lies.

(c) Frank Lardo

When Once We Danced by Cynthia Sharp

When Once We Danced
I fall
out of love
I don’t want it
to be
anyone else
don’t want
to let go
or let anyone
else in
I wanted it
to be you
(c) Cynthia Sharp 

Your Sweetness Lingers

Your Sweetness Lingers

flying with you

was the gentlest dream ride

diamond and alabaster

Stanley Park nights

Celtic trees and cold air

your body keeping me warm

scent of cedar

moonlit snowflakes

flickering across

the tips of the boughs

your eyelashes caressing my face

in friendship openness

the spark of your lips

stirring my desire          

like peppermint tea

tingling through my insides                                                          

like dipping our toes

in the ocean

and not being scared

to go all the way in


lonely for our conversations

the frosted pine

on the mountain

wait with me

i am longing

to laugh with you

spinning ‘round the forest

in your arms

to love you again

in earth memory

By Cynthia Sharp

Shapeshifting by Cynthia Sharp


Sunset is pink
on the belly of the dragon
highlighting his majestic scales
as he emerges
from the murky purple water
of the swamp
until the clouds reshape
and he dissolves
into curling puffs
of smoking breath
all that remain
of his splendor

 (c) Cynthia Sharp