PROFILE OF A POET
Grew up in a leafy Brisbane suburb
By a sleepy Brisbane River;
That eventually would burst its’ banks
Cause the populace to shiver.
My childhood was idyllic
Blithe – with not a care;
Concerts. Picnics, bushwalking,
Loving family – always there.
But I do remember World War II,
Children playing in the trenches;
An American invasion
To strengthen our defences.
I loved to play my violin,
To scribble verses – at aged eight;
Inherited my father’s genes
Of always running late.
(But hopefully took Mum’s advice
To be obliging, kind and nice.)
Then came the vibrant Fifties,
And the word was Immigration;
And migrants came from war-torn lands
To merge into our Nation.
I wed a man from Europe
Working on the Snowy River Dam
And our children- multi-cultural
Learned of other lands.
We raised three children-went to work,
Bought Hoovers, hoists and Holdens;
I re-joined an orchestra,
And life was really golden.
The years rolled by and widowed,
Lured by mountains, lured by mists;
Met a wond’rous man called Kevin
And life is utter bliss.
Now we sit and mellow in the sun,
Enriched by lifestyle- family- friends;
I’ve had a most enchanted life
And love shall never end.
© Lisa Plucknett
The Bunya Trees
The Bunya Range this place was called
when Tom Petrie came to see
the festival of many tribes
called to the Bunya tree.
The harvest waited patiently
as the cones matured and grew,
and, with their falling, tribes were called
and friendships made anew.
They came from many days below
and many moons ahead,
intent to find the bunya nut
laid on the forest bed.
No longer enemies, they came
and shared the peace-filled fruit;
marriage agreed, deep things thought out
to which all contribute.
Today the hardy trees grow tall,
dark leaves reach sharp and high,
resplendent with five hundred years
of history standing by.
(Last month this poem was incorrectly attributed
to another poet. Our apologies to Deanne who was
very gracious about the error – thank you.)
The Dragon’s Head
The dragon’s head lies among the gladioli
eyes glazing in the morning sun
burnished scales flat and grey
the slayer perplexed
by the emptiness of the moment
looks to another god for an answer
and the answer appears
like ripples in parchment
skin on warm milk
sighs in a vacuum
blushes of the full moon
smiles in the evening
with each ebb and flow
of his own heart beat
the dragon’s head lies among the gladioli
why does the slayer weep?
© John Kerslake
A glass of red
The Tuscan red was a careful selection
Less acidic than my usual choice he said
The move to venture thus
Triggered by clever marketing
And gratified I am
By its softness on my palette
A perfect accompaniment to my solitary evening
Perhaps the inspiration to express
Seeking a creative outlet
To sink into the lightness of presence
© Sarah Carrington
this heart of yours has followed me
through airports, customs, seven different time zones
burned three times its weight in fossil fuels
chasing my chaste heart. but I’ve grown
up now, grow my own at home now
less carbon debt always tastes better than regret
can’t waste emissions on omissions
any more. this heart of yours
skips immigration, visas, import tax
this heart of yours jumps borders when the other side is
doesn’t stop to pay the debts it racks up
doesn’t stop to sweep its tracks up, doesn’t stop
to give back what it takes; it takes
and runs—this heart of yours, this capitalistic heart of yours,
this sweatshop trading heart of yours:
free but never fair
© Holly Zwalf
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