Wednesday, March 14, 2012


Ode to Grandparents

Your faces shine like oval moons
over the green gate,
rose blossoms at your feet.
You left, marking a passage of time
forced through the sea
in grey light.
Your voices return through
the silence, spreading coins
on a kitchen counter.
Us, mischievous kids
bypassing the deli
for shrinking waves at Manly
our feet rushing back
in their thunderous return.

The blossoms are swept away, gate
abandoned. Curvature of tin roof
and pepper pot chimney, gone.

Such moments to think back on
as history, as youth ―
a world of watercourses that held
a fun pier, green sea divers
with knives like missing teeth.
Yet, pines still spread their mass
along the esplanade,
seas drip from children's hands
while carnivals reel in Sunday marches.
Grandma, Grandpa, you seem to have
sunk into silence, but I did notice
early this morning
red rose blossoms
falling at my door.




Fairly proud of myself, even if I do say so myself! Check out my reading of an excerpt from a chapter called "Stealer of Secrets". This is from my novel-in-progress 'The Ozone Café.' - Oh, deadlines, deadlines, must get on with it. Varuna, Writers House Blog

Monday, March 12, 2012


Saturday, March 10, 2012


David Aspden's yellow tree

by Bob Adamson

The yellow tree's
a shadow so dark it's invisible

we know it's there
oh we know exactly where

the painting will sail on to meet
its maker's grandchildren

one day in a stainless museum
they'll look up and say

nothing but turn inward
as the tree seems to be asking us to do

so that you may perhaps meet some traveller
there and walk awhile

some unknown
place

talk will smudge the air
and float from your mouths

you will shine
with a light the painter

knew
was there

inside
somewhere

Aspden's drawing "yellow & orange" 1976 in the NSW Art Gallery can be viewed here...

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Driving to the City, Dublin 2011


On route to the M1, doubt is released
as verges widen, and a diesel
tractor bumps off its hay.

I hand over one euro-eighty to uniforms
who witness and laugh at my accent
and loss at the Rugby match.

My diminishing fuel is mea culpa.
I've made an appointment at County Rentals
ending a kind of chaos opening the tank.

Near the airport, I enter
and reappear, losing my bearings,
the fuel tank near to empty.

I enter Dublin, a cavern
of one way streets, glares and crowds.
The River Liffey moves under my feet.

I find the tourist bureau, tell a
Melbourne assistant I need directions
to County Rentals from the other side

of the city. I act nonchalant, first stop Grafton
Street, buying camera parts, books. I disguise
my morning hell over Hahn beer, this nervous

entry into a city, as simple as an awkward tourist.














Where I'm Staying

The Centre sits on 450 acres of a bequeathed estate.
There are wide lawns, stone paths,
potted fushias and cool country lanes.

Behind my apartment of five rooms, stairs
to a balcony, the woods are a miasma of hills
and dales, and across the road in front of

The Big House nears a lake they call Annaghmakerrig.
There is a boat ramp and a seasonal fishing spree
with cars, dogs and restless maggots.

Today early, I will walk down to the fishermen
and talk about their miniature jetties, fixed and
splayed as iron chairs in water.

Some men stand in their wellington boots, others
pin their hopes on their jackets, all manner of
tackle, hooks, glasses bonded to their nose.

Each day I will walk under the canopy of maples,
an avenue at dusk with only small troughs of cloud
passing through. The season is warm and mild,

an Indian summer, the radio says. And I can only
think of the shamrock buried in my hands before
I left, a very lucky wish from my Oz-Irish friend.



















Paradelle to Irish Women

I can't forget your warm, singing smile
I can't forget your warm, singing smile
Always baked ready in the morning kitchen rush
Always baked ready in the morning kitchen rush
Morning smile, I can't forget the warm rush
Always singing, I baked in the ready smile.

It is time for me to write your poem 
It is time for me to write your poem
Praise your friendly, culinary skills at the stove
Praise your friendly, culinary skills at the stove
You're at the stove for me to skill the poem
Praise time, it is for me to write your poem.

The aprons on, your old world, familiar.
The aprons on, your old world, familiar.
Your talks remind me of your bread, pasta and sorbet
Your talks remind me of your bread, pasta and sorbet
The familiar pasta and sorbet as tasty as your bread.
Your old world of aprons on, remind me of your talks.

I always praise the morning stove, the familiar poem.
Sorbet, pasta and bread of your tasty talks.
Your warm smile I can't forget, your culinary skills.
It is time for me to skill the poem, your old world.
Singing, and aprons remind me  to rush, to write.
Kitchen-friendly, I baked it for you, it is ready.

The Paradelle was invented by Billy Collins. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only those words.

I found the paradelle to be just as challenging as the villanelle. It was also fun to write, thank you Billy Collins!

Monday, March 5, 2012

Article about e-publishing
With an avalanche of new services promising to help writers self-publish or distribute their e-books even better and more profitably before, it’s imperative that writers educate themselves about how these services typically operate—plus read the fine print of any new service before deciding to commit.
Read on..

Bounty

Bounty
Prose Poetry

The Five Lives of Ms Bennett

The Five Lives of Ms Bennett
A Family Saga

The Ozone Cafe

The Ozone Cafe
White Collar Crime

The Last Asbestos Town

The Last Asbestos Town
Available from Amazon

Evangelyne

Evangelyne
Published by Australian Poetry Centre, Melbourne

of Arc & Shadow

of Arc & Shadow
Published by Sunline Press, WA

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