Poem of the Day

2 Comments

Favourites

by Jenny Erlanger

 

You might like the Crunchie, an excellent pick,

this miniature, choc-coated honeycomb brick

or what about something the colour of cream?

If that’s sounding tempting, then try out the Dream.

There’s Dairy Milk, Picnic and Mint Bubbly too,

all of them sitting here waiting for you.

If fruit mixed with coconut’s what you like best

the Cherry Ripe option is what I’d suggest.

There’s smooth Caramello and crumbling Flake.

It’s not such an easy decision to make.

This might be the last time we’re offered such treats.

You’d better choose wisely from all of these sweets.

But just let me warn you, we don’t want a fight.

So stay right away from that Turkish Delight!

 

Poem of the Day

5 Comments

1960s Campbelltown

by Dianne Bates

On the highway to Appin
skies bled on summer nights.
The road hummed to town,
trucks sped coal to the coast,
and south of main street
silent on a bridge,
Fisher’s Ghost.

Weekdays we rose at five
blowing balls of warmth into winter air,
and milking the cows
I sang at the bails,
‘Rose Marie, I love you.’

Summer was blowies in the cream,
butter that melted,
eggs from gasping hens.
Mrs Tietzel brought the mail,
Campbell the bread,
the days moved sideways.

Saturday was cricket
or Menangle trots,
swimming at the Woolwash
and the Queen Street shops.

Bill was cockatoo for SP bookies in pubs
and kids lined up at the picture house,
game girls rubbing cheeks with bristling boys.
Paspalum brushed the sky
and we forgot ourselves.

In the showground cemetery
beneath the shadow of Ruse
who sowed the first grain
we made rubbings on tombs;
JOHN MACARTHUR, ELIZABETH, R.I.P.

In Mawson Park
the band played Matilda,
someone scribbled his mind on toilet walls,
and, beyond trains that steamed to Sydney,
I dreamed a freedom of cities and age.

© Dianne Bates

Poem of the Day

7 Comments

Scribbly Gums

by Kate O’Neil

The scribbly gum is a eucalyptus tree with a very smooth, pale trunk. The distinctive brownish ‘scribbles’ are made by the larvae of the tiny scribbly moth.

 

Tall custodians of scribbled mysteries,

What can you tell us, silent trees?

What tunnelling scribes find sanctuary

within this covert library?

 

Mere larvae, small but diligent,

whose little lives are wholly spent

to leave these ciphers in your care

’til later times reveal them there.

 

What is the urgent need that drives

this tracery of transient lives?

What are the messages layered here

in darkness? Why, year after year

 

do you allow these prophets in?

Is there an itch beneath your skin?

Are you, tall gums, merely content

to give their need your nourishment?

 

Or do your lives and theirs conspire

to keep these riddles from our eye

’til when these poets take their leave,

you wear their heartsongs on your sleeve?

 

 

 

 

Poem of the Day

Leave a comment

Can Snails?

by Bridh Hancock

 

Can snails die of too-long-life?,

Of too much travel and fun?

Have they a self-destruction gene?,

And might it be overcome?

 

Imagine an Every-Snail’s You-Beaut-Land,

With lots of food all fresh and green,

Where every snail would soon grow sharp,

And fleet of foot, and mean;

Where shells would be both smart and hard,

Affording real protection,

Where any bait a snail might take

Would prove a sweet confection.

 

How long or soon before a snail,

Though small its crustacean brain,

Would seek to escape its silver trail,

Nor there return again?

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

HOME

IMG_0964

Poem of the Day

3 Comments

Snail-fare

by Katherine Gallagher

 

Hello, hello

I’m your friendly garden-

gastropod.

 

Not Matisse’s snail —

he’s a fast one, flying through space

on a rainbowed thread — a clever clever

slippery flippery

purple snail on a purple trail,

heading into green and orange and yellow…

You can’t miss him.

 

I’m the quiet type,

going places

at my own pace

under my hard hat

 

always on the lookout

for any big boot

coming my way

as I leave my silver

trail without fail

on green green places.

 

* Matisse’s snail hangs in the Tate Gallery, London.

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

HOME

IMG_0964

Poem of the Day

3 Comments
by Walter de Jong

Dear planter of my paradise,

I wanted to you to know

how much that I appreciate

the great greens that you grow

When whispering spring awoke me

From my winter’s hibernation

I beheld a feast prepared for me

beyond imagination

For twenty years we’ve shared this place

And pickings have been poor

But now we’ve got this vegie patch

It’s looking up for sure

There’s one thing I should mention though

I’m sure it’s not your fault

You might not understand

That I’m allergic to that salt.

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

HOME

IMG_0964

Poem of the Day

5 Comments

WHO’S HOME?

by Monty Edwards

 

You will find him in your garden

Yet he’ll always be at home,

Which is strange, because he travels,

Though he never far will roam,

For his movement is quite sluggish

And he often stops to eat.

If you’re growing nice green lettuce,

He considers that a treat!

 

With his eyes on stalks like flowers,

He can find his favourite food.

Never interrupt him eating,

Or he’ll think you’re very rude!

Do not fear that he’ll attack you

As he cannot throw a punch;

He will just be feeling cranky

That you’ve spoiled his lovely lunch!

 

Since his home he carries with him,

He will never mind the rain

And if anything should scare him,

He just goes inside again!

You will look in vain for footprints

But you’ll see his silver trail.

Do you think you know his name now . . . ?

Yes, you’ve got it! . . . Mr Snail!

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5
Home

IMG_0964