Download - Melaleuca 020 024
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
1/36
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
2/36
2
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
3/36
A Conversation, Half-asleep, Half-awake
after Sexton
Gods in your iMac,
husked Anne, draped in something red
and risqu, tamping a cigarette.The world needs another
Confessor. Its not Your time to row
toward Him not yet. Keep hounding
the vaginismic journals: that pounding
by the Fhrer-Jew; those pricks shibboleth (The Gay
Plague);this goring New World Order. Luckily
Youll never be bled matchs strike by daughters,
an orthodox husband. My own hand: a blade
at the Yarra. Black cackles. Sweetheart, thoughcanonised the affairs! the booze! The Abortion!
Im in no position to administer last rites.
Stuart Barnes
3
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
4/36
Paranoias v. Delusions
My clocks deal in arms, the telephones bugged,
our apartments wirings starved as a noose
slung in the branch of a black-tupelo.
A skin-tight T and jeansll get me dragged
by the scruff of the neck to that faggotslair. Wafers and whitecoats can never soothe
these aches. Catnapping sets Cerberus loose.
Youre inescapable, like a shadow.
In a day Ill be walking on water,
or spurring Pegasus into battle.
Only I can relieve the shrieking souls
of their blaze. Ill spare the Afghans a thought.
Do your worst youll never smelt this mettle.
Great Phoenix, I always rise from the coals.
Stuart Barnes
4
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
5/36
Star-Crossd
for Levi Michael Hayes, made to wait more than six months to be psychiatrically assessed after
being charged with the 2010 murder of Rhian Elsmore who, on MySpace, professed a will to be
weird, nicknamed herself Ruination, claimed to be a little bit out of control and interested
in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos
lovers on a mountain top: mybest friends brothers
quietest best friend; his riotous
fire twirler enormous eyes throbbing
like a Blue-ringeds spots,
obsessed with underworlds,
LSD (possibly
more so than Timothy
Leary), and a suicide pact.
Throat slashed,body buried, him frenzied, unable
to follow through.
This history the truth
never seen in Queenslands papers.
Stuart Barnes
5
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
6/36
blue
If we could, still we do
disappear
remain in view
a template standsan idea changing hands
He is the gashead
carbon monoxide
and whatever is true
gaps wait
past becomes
wind picking up
too many voicesmaking more of the memories
love is in hate
same garbage, vehicle floor
vacate evermore.
Something mocks us now
for here it rains
while wherever he remains
even if its raining there too
there is no old white corona
with the hose poking through
as the engine idles
night sleeps til its day
wonder holding breath
a gap has its say.
Maybe god exists
whereupon all he heard is her truth
even if the man's insane
merely nothing to dispute
evolving is life
more definitions to refute
as the tank became empty
as the years, pass by
6
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
7/36
disappear
remain in view
'a badly drawn boy'
coincidence or confuse
fate remains negligent to his diaryour choice what we lose
and whatever is true.
Dale Costello
7
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
8/36
Beach Theory
Copacabana Beach NSW
the sea isn't always to the east
should be
but fools uslaying in bays
around headlands
it's doing that now as
the sun shines
lengthways down the beach
this morning
anglers
planted their tentless poles
stretched guy-wires into the seato dispel the night
now in the onward afternoon glare
the water is glistening mud
children add poignancy to the scene
caper in the shallows
parents stand
in arm-folded supervision
night is different
torpedo wakes race down the dark,
disappear without impact
the sea
ominous in the blackness
plans a tidal wave
We only ever master the sea with maps
flatten it to a single blue plane
cluster the rocks like black roeat yellow beach margins
quell our fear by diminution
David Falcon
8
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
9/36
Nostalgia Suite
For Ed Baker on the death of his Aunt Vera
our memories
are from waist height of them
in floral dresses and make-upsmelling of furniture polish
hatted and gloved in church
preparing sunday dinners of lamb roast
on trams to bronte
over the brow of the hill
to glimpse
the impossible blue ball of ocean
then through the cutting
we'd look down on the beach
pelt down the grassy hill
find and claim a tablein one of the latticed huts
uncle keith carved lamp stands
plaited us belts
big and chunky,
they lasted for years
their weave defied explanation
girded our waists like champion boxers
mum would come up the hill
with the shopping
and we'd run to meet her
help carry the string bags
she made big breakfasts mandatory
cereals were just an opener before
fried eggs and bacon or sausages
dad would curse and crank
the old prefect ute into life
or wake us at six
for a push -start down the hill
it was more in their actions
than their words
the hair on the arms of the men,the grizzled chins
old shaving mugs and brushes,
straps that doubled for threat
post-depression habits
of re-sharpening old blades
feeding the scraps to the dog,
keeping chooks
and whatever you do get you own place
we built a boat together
watching dad
pull the timber from the steam box
9
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
10/36
wrap it around the gunwale
was like seeing him younger
than i'd ever known
i still remember
the christmas they hid our new bikes
behind their dressing table
II
Memories are
wisps of smoke in the hospital corridor
float through the silences
cannot settle on the cold present
a sweet pain
settles at my core
tells me that much good has passed
III
They look into my eyes
from their youth
and I wish I could join them
in front of the photographer
in the steam-train smell and grime
of Eddy Avenue, circa 1946
Seeing the old house now
is like seeing my life from a distance
to be viewed entirely at once
in a way it never could be then
and the old dove interrogates
incessantly in the sun
is-that-so ?
is-that-so ?
as it always did
from the wires above
David Falcon
10
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
11/36
Three Pieces After Sunrise
1
the sky is a grey
gunmetal
turret made out ofwater where
the world's a sullen
disdained animal
2
the sky is paler
towards the
sun that has gone north
for winter
where skies are hard blueand it doesn't rain
3
oh I am rhymer
under clouds
and I will wander
over earth
seeking the blue sky
seeking the blue sky
L. S. Fisher
11
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
12/36
Butterflies
In suburban gardens
buterflies settle silently,
open jewelled wings
feed on white, pink, red.
nectar rich flowers.Lay eggs on golden rain trees, wattle.
ensure larvae's food.
As they flutter from flower to flower
their vibrant orange, gold,
brilliant blue on black
are at variance with their
delicate, soundless movement.
Eileen Jones
First published in:Reflections, Ginninderra Press, 2011.
12
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
13/36
Freedom Fantasy
In that twilight zone between wakeful
reality and slumber's vacuum I drift,
sinking slowly, softly into sweet oblivian.
The wily wind pestering at the panes infiltratesSteathily, stirs me to wakefulness, sweeps
me away through limitless, ever-epanding azure.
Seduced by the allure of this weightless,
worriless existence, I pivot through space, dance
with dervishes on powder-puff clouds,
dally on mountain peaks, disturb sea depths
then up and away, I hang suspended, spinning
like earth's orb in the infinity of space.
In an ecstacy of freedom I play along the Milky Way,
orbit the silver-sheened earth, grab
at the shimmering ball.
The ubiquitous wind whisks
me away, my clutch frustrated.
I find myself sighing, regretting the loss.
What have I lost?
Of what am I deprived?
Was it only the wind?
Eileen Jones
First published in: The Heart of the Matter, Ginninderra Press, 2002.
13
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
14/36
coffee with conundrum
Im still fleshing out
how people can fork out
forever on coffee & cake
the duo arrivelike inseparable twins
within minutes of each other
in expensive matching outfits
of cream & crema
but have patrons forgotten
the land of the mall
with itsyoull love this
olive-garlic-raspberry dip
this fried desire, yoghurt sips
of invisible taste, vegetablepaste on high-fibre buttons
all budget-free
& who could ignore
the art gallery knosh-ups
wine flowing like a river
of creative blasphemy
in architectural glasses
the opening night cheese
with review-friendly crisps
a neighbour felt frozen
by the latest headlines
lets have coffee & cake
like its a film a concert
I offered her cake at my place
you havent got a coffee machine
she frothed & its true
all I have is home-made cake
costed at a fortune per hourfrozen defrost-ready
for special occasions
like her
Margaret Owen Ruckert
14
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
15/36
Ham and Corn Slice
my stand-by, my default setting
my rescuer, my found recipe
profound yet monosyllabic
my alternative mood food
all hopes baked into onesavoury slice
but you thought slices were sweet
and they are, this one is sweet
as any roast lamb
on days I have no meat protein
except frozen ham
or frozen cabanossi
(an excellent substitute for ham
when diced into micro-cubes)ham and corn slice will
cap the appetite
energise buds
begin a prayer meet
arrest disbelievers
shock the complacent
welcome strangers
substitute salmon for ham
garlic chives for shallots
tinned peas for corn
and call the action
my playful slice
a square dish
a square meal
for any shape of hunger
Margaret Owen Ruckert
15
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
16/36
the morning you decide to cut lunch
a fingertip falls into the sandwich
and you thought you were slicing tomato
you curse the knives so sharp so early
cheese crumbles and marmalade runs
out of patience and heads for recycling
why are edibles so unreliable you ask
but kettles are poor listeners
you shut up the crackle pops
with a wild smash of the spoon
and green rain drips from the ceiling
starve an engine of fuel
and see how it performs
you open the fridge
technically the fridge doorbut technicalities are for manuals
youre on automatic kitchen
another cat rubs you up for breakfast
you sink a hand into the chaos
of the fridge and pour out kittys
cordial so that was the green label
your fingertip will spice up lunch
and cheese will settle down
under pressure from bread
your internal clock is waking up
now coffee mugs tea leaves
while breakfast rolls over to sleep
Margaret Owen Ruckert
16
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
17/36
sweet dreams
of childhood the nights
in shining ardour
candles and kisses
the princess and the
pea pumpkin slippersevil foodmothers
eat whats on your plate
enter: a wizard
who turns greens to sweets
you buy every spell
Margaret Owen Ruckert
17
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
18/36
Let the Children
Our children build sand castles on those shores
Running wild, their hooves denting the sediment
And their minds of azure somehow figure
They we must have forgotten them and gone home
And you know as well as I do that they are beautiful
Serene as that Buddha baby we saw in the Osaka airport
Their tiny fingers shaping turrets out of formless mud
Making sense and love that neither you nor I could touch
Drawing conclusions in the arched windows and solid walls
And you know as well as I do that they love us
Know as well as I do that Id have stolen moons for them
As well as I do that I would have told them stories
Of brave knights riding across star fields searchingFor what you and I have searched for in vain, still
Search for, in vain, what our children never lost
Because they were never born
And I know as well as you do that that pain never rescinds
But rather sends our barren hearts lunging into the abyss
Do you reach for them in half-fevered mist of dying dreams
Only to gather the cold sheets? You know as well as I
That we are the aborted. We are the ghosts
Swimming in our blessed childrens eyes. They feel
Us even as we tear the others circuits from our filament
Memories. Yet as the high-tide drowns their castles
They are adamant that there is nothing to forgive.
R. P. Webster
18
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
19/36
Love Means
I always sleep through my suicide
You enter the room and cry out
Cutting me down only to discover
That Im not there or rather a child
Raised by black wolves and nakedWithout a heart or soul, living only
In wicked season, a child who can
Barely walk, who says nothing only
That he loves you, knowing, silly as he is
That this will never be enough.
You always say Im too much
I leave the tomb quite content
To take to the road of good intentions
You fail to mention that I had never grown
And you had raised me as your ownBut could not raise me from the dead
So instead of a husband or a father
For your children, you watched me
Tie up your womb, assuming the form
Of a love that would die before it was born.
Youll never stop loving me
And as such Ill never stop loving
You, but only by dint of never knowing
What that meant or how a man carries
A woman across the threshold, and surrounds
Her and protects her only that hes sorry for being
So sorry and in such a hurry to turn back and sew
The masks of the kids you should have had to his own
Face, staring off into space with not a little regret
Only to forgive and forget that love conquers nothing at all.
R. P. Webster
19
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
20/36
Man Made
1.
Broken dad
you only ever had
Holding you too closeWith strike busted arm
Bourbon breath
Not knowing what
To say to his little
American girl
Unable to decipher
The sulfurous whisper
Of south side steel mills
Big-shouldered city
Shoving him from picket lines
Back to frozen fieldsOf quebec, a fever
Not a dream
Being hardly able
To harbor the dreamt
Much less love that man
Who pulled icicles from
His moustache
And said the craziest
Things in the most
Beautiful language
About spinning wheels
Of flame come down
From greyer heavens
As though satan had
Taken the skies
Over their tiny farm
And the fear that crossed
Over from Windsor
To Detroit, to the metallic
Shore of southern
Lake MichiganAnd again, hes silent
Over bare breakfast table
Feeling like a ghost horse
Beaten by the damned
Driven by the wicked
Cursed by the blessed
Indulging in the relics
In his head
Doubting the scars
On his liver
20
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
21/36
2.
A man bleeding out
To a god that never
Would come through
3.
And what of him
Could you piece together
Hardly pax Christi
More ash than incense
More insect than incest
He was never really incensed
With you
Nor you
With me
4.
For what of me
Could you piece together
Of him, standing alone
In field of quebec wheels
Spinning out gossamer
The silk of some unheard of benediction
That day he clutched his heart
When his liver finally gave out
There was the yellow
Of hepatitis contrition
There was a fraction of a moment
When I peered out between
The bars of the cage
Of your gaze
5.
And he must have known
That the dust of the fires
That had crawled up from
His intestines to his throat
Had been carried aloft
Penetrating you
Inundating me
Choking me
Making me cry out
Loud, in the middle of Sunday Mass
21
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
22/36
Because Id found a single
Gray hair on your head
And no Jesus of no epoch
Couldve ever soothed me
Like you did
His arms surrounding me
Cold and purifying
Like that field stretching
Back into the pale.
R. P. Webster
22
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
23/36
Too Much to Ask
How could dew
Dissolve so many garrisons
Of a man a mere
Mundane son
Dancing with demonsIn front of a mirror
That so clearly warps
The mechanisms of action
And all the steam
And all the ash
And still he pines
Foraging for blacker Sabbaths
A young man too old
To waste undeserved youth
This body eclecticAnd uncelebrated
Shredded to leaves of glass
Shards of stained grass
Leaving not even compost
Pathways of drivel
Composed of minor keys
Yet somehow survived
By a better man
Who arrives not
A moment too soon
Or too clear
As to why he is
Here, or as to why
He is
At the risk
Of being deemed a philosopher
Or worse a mystic
Or worse still a particle
Of magic matterDark and hardly mattering
Swallowing hard
The brahma cycles
Eight billion times
In eight billion years
As if that were some feat
At the risk
Of sounding deep
Let this man
23
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
24/36
Better than the others
Oversee the other seas
Becoming bitter
Yet another angst-entombed
Grown diseased and helpless
Leaning off bridges
And pleading the universeThe many-tentacled hell-beast
To turn around
For just one second
To let him go
To swim in the air
To birth soft into atmosphere
Thinning into oxygen
Blending with the breath
The gentle heaving of a fervent city
That will never pity himNor feel different
Necause he may
Have stopped them
In the streets
A second of their time
Not asking for money
But to weigh them down
With things that die
The little impenetrable things
Like hands and head
And the imagination
Reaching conclusions better
Left at the right hand
Of a straw god
Begging them
Without begging
To see his imminent
CripplingHis ultimate call
To faltering
Headlong head going
Head gone
Not asking for them
To care
At the risk
Of summoning strings
Strummed for nothing more
24
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
25/36
Than a mere man
Walking stiffly through
Streets of a furtive city
Giving back
What he was given
To the airThat sustains him
To the love
That contains him
To a life
That restrains him
And the state
Deeming him a risk
Asks him too much
Only adds confusion
To his fear and his tremblingKeeping him from completing
What must be done
Feeding him tasteless fruit
Treating him as too much
To ask
Humming a tune black
With god-awful treacle
What it means to be hallowed
(A pleasant enough ballad)
Practically enslaved
No thoughts aloud
In but not out
Hollowed out
And full to bursting
Until the worst is
Ejaculated
And he is assessed
And processed
And released
Too little possessed
By too much to ask
And yes, better, yes.
R. P. Webster
25
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
26/36
Boiling Frogs
Inner city lullabies
grumbling crumble in the evening air -
commercial a/c, night deliveries
furtive seizure
overnight smash tinkerof temporarily vacated road space then
burnished black for morning peak.
Mounting stress on Stress Mountain,
noise scoops the ear.
Thin metal rods are screwed in across the shoulder;
we turn on a brain-burnt rotisserie.
Sausage souls,
habitual knots of ennui,
then a lifetime's classic snap.Pacing cloud, cerebellum.
There is no delivery for us.
We take each other's lives
and do nothing with them.
Les Wicks
26
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
27/36
Flat Out
Sex is finished!
Too little time on
the BlackBerry ferry,
Big Styg.
Anti-depressants kill cornucopian concupiscence. A bit fat or
thin, my bones would crumble. Need
calcium
jojoba
vitamin B
the ballsy blue pills.
There are too few women. Where's the men?
Intercourse as injury.
The skin is thinner
than prophylactics.His stroke is broke. The back
the knees
a rumour of disease
Chlamydia perfidia. Plague.
Youve got to keep it fit boys,
I take mine out on walks.
A standing ovation of dogs.
Doomgaloots fret beneath fluorescent bulbs,
you can be old and shy.
Simultaneous.
Get it up? Give it up.
There's so much great television. "Must do lunch
sometime". Remember the spoon.
This intimacy lives somewhere near the heart
(a bad neighbourhood).
I don't go out at night.
Sex is finished
and we all mourn together,throw chocolates at the grave.
Les Wicks
27
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
28/36
The Immortality Institute
is down the hall and just beside
the Smokers Lounge.
I asked for a sign
she did write run and got this black lacquer,raised white text. Everlasting life
is aspirational like
a red car. I am
expirational. Dont
lop my head,
on second thoughts I/
insights sliced on ice, blood film, pathology.
Popping bubbles in liquid nitrogen my hair
frozen in a 1980s blow-wave.
The world is already too small, mundane.
Life is a bleach,
one feels designed to fade.
She loves her cunning boys
shadow my cheek
hold flesh on mortgage.
hungry men order More toad!
This noise of oil,
oh the real freeways are merry.
Let us stay while we play,
then go.
Everything is suicide
and nature saves the brooding.
Our own hands demand
the rest of ruin.
Les Wicks
28
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
29/36
Ladykiller
All alone
dog with a bone.
Pamphlet glint
glossy full photo
night-time guarantee.With the morality of a mat
he amassed a fortune in chains.
But this is the Wednesday of his Discontent.
Vacant fret of streetlights\
ginger mixed in bitter stars.
To stay the mark...
golden locks have eaten their rocks
off. Only the bathroom tiles are black and white. Gravel
will travel
in a shoe, worn mag wheelsrust is everythings crust.
She is not quite forgotten
She is an ache in the ears
touch without payback, the park
Tony, right there.
Beside a pit of immobility,
shake hands with yourself,
a time for formal introductions
without clothes.
The women have all built palisades -
their stories are similar
but you cannot share a wave -
Don on the dumper
waits for oxygen.
Les Wicks
29
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
30/36
The Man who Invented Graphs
Scheme in the steam, paper paints a purpling steel.
William Playfair stormed the Bastille in an effluxion of history.
Carapace of liberty stars and shambled cloud...
over freckled sheets of copper, a copybookEuropean paradise
(plus Philadelphia heroes) formed on the Ohio River.
The cracked bell croaked,
then he robbed them blind.
He wrote genealogy, a scoundrel
and idiot. Pirate of proposals,
his riches rose and fell in a longitudinal wave.
So, so Britain, engineer and politics
with spindle whirr of swindle.
A man in his timerough stir in the brine.
Les Wicks
30
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
31/36
Boomer School
We dammed the gutters with clay on rainy days
in baby boomer childhood time.
It was easy to fill teams for street games
with so many children born after the war.
Our house was near paddocks
holding former market gardens and farms.
Crab apple trees grew sour fruit
good when stewed and sweetened.
We roamed the fields and played in ponds
while Timmy the terrier distracted snakes.
Animal life was thick; bandicoots were common.Creeks and dams spawned little fish and frogs.
Birds flitted in remnant eucalyptus forests
that held out branches to practice tight rope walking
but did not charge for lessons.
The knowledge gained so early
has glimmered in surprising places
to light this other world.
Paul Williamson
31
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
32/36
Mixed-up Sunday
Saturday faces look dog-tired
like the working week is un-ended.
By midday Sunday that weariness has gone.
People are relaxed as they casually scan the shops
do their weekly shopping, buy a coffee or lunch
from cafes scented by the worlds flavours.
Asian faces are here at Ryde; a few wear Muslim veils;
an African girl looks excited about the afternoon ahead;
old folks of Mediterranean extraction mix
with those of less obvious heritage
perhaps from England generations back.No-one seems to be concerned
unconsciously multicultural
while others elsewhere argue the issue.
Paul Williamson
32
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
33/36
Murray River Gum
The river gum sports jagged darkened stumps
of lower branches torn off by violent floods.
It leans over strong currents
upper limbs stretching skyward
paying silent homage to the two gods
of its existence, sun and rain.
The trunk now fresh from autumn showers
glows in lemon, buff and ochre
colours begging capture.
The giant ignores the people who pass
on paddle steamers, boats and bicyclesas it has down its ages.
Paul Williamson
33
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
34/36
Sealubber
The sea was meditation
as years floated away.
It began as a way to work.
He had the sealegs to live on ships
to sail on seven vessels
under Danish, Australian and US flags.
The ice ship rocked in drydock.
A coastal vessel wallowed.
Drillships sat in a pond amongst high waves.
From atop a drillship he saw baby Krakatoathe worrying child of a murderous mother
in northern tropical waters with visions of blue fish.
On the balcony of a hotel above Sydney Harbour
he watches the ships return to the sea.
Paul Williamson
34
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
35/36
Stepping Path
My forebears made this journey
so I catch the jet to Norfolk Island.
The flight is delayed but painless
in spite of jokes about airline food
and lack of leg room.
A film screens to fill the hours.
My ancestors jammed into a ships hold
woman and man, chains rattling in wait
during the long days under sail through heaving seas
while the occasional corpse slid to find the deep.Then they walked where I will walk and
somehow found the stepping path to me.
Paul Williamson
35
-
7/28/2019 Melaleuca 020 024
36/36
A Madrigal of Desire
Within the court of love, you are my jurist
to either keep or free my heart, that tourist
who is enraptured by love's sacred numen,
for, in the mysteries of love you're mighty,and in the seas of love an Amphitrite
who will initiate this catechumen,
and to your lantern I am drawn, bombycid
perhaps, of no more note than eve's tortricid,
for I am ever only energumen:
you are my Aphrodite and my Ares,
my constant polestar and my fair Antares;
and I your love's Anteros, yours to fondle,
the singing source of madrigals and rondels!
Adam Zeugma