24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Is a member of the dandylion collective, a small writers' group based in South Australia. He is primarily a poet, who strangely, enjoys drinking wine (his predilection is Sauvignon Blanc, bubbles is second preference, & is also partial to pretty much anything else - except red bubbles, urrrgh!). In 2014, he co-edited the Friendly Street Poets Annual Anthology 38 "The Infinite Dirt" ... ... & co-edited it again in 2020, Anthology 42, titled simply "Q" (& if you remember the weirdness of that year, you'll soon understand why) ... as well as judging the SAETA Awards for that year. 2019 Two chapbooks published "the soft humus of sleep" & "the loam of our dreams" 2012 a solo collection ‘Gunyah’ Healing published as part of Friendly Street Poets New Poets 17 in 2012 (along with John Pfitzner & Rachael Mead). He has been published in Eureka Street & InDaily Poet's Corner; as well as poems in The Infinite Dirt, Patterns of Living, Light and Glorie, Flying Kites, dB magazine, Iron Lace & others. Career highlights include: having his poem “Many-Worlds Quantum Mechanics Vs Earth-Based Grease Monkeys” published in The Best Australian Science Writing 2013; winning Second Place & $1000 for writing a poem on a pretty obscure topic after finding a competition which closed in 6 hours that same day; & having “i thought the moon was a cop car in my rear vision mirror as i drove home late last night …” short listed for the 2012 Satura Prize, 2014 WP Yeats Poetry Prize, 2015 Interstellar Award among others.
iron & wine
the pagan, the angel and i borrow a car
overtake the white toothed man
listen to the buzzard’s lovesong
as we flee the carousel racing instead
toward our forgotten house by the sea
no one’s bones are ever innocent
the shepherd’s dog sings songs to the wolves
fearing resurrection or the urn
every boy with coins, bets his soul
knows the devil never sleeps
never finds peace beneath the city
hope is a flightless bird, choking in our american mouths
sentence
many are the days my grief & i
wish to simply curbkick company
lock all the doors draw closed the curtains
keep out as much of the cold as we can
cuddle the past under the doona
as we slide between the covers
to trap ourselves in another world
till all track of time is gleefully lost
only emerging from our paper prison
break the bars of my textual cage
to piss as infrequently as bladderly possible
then rapidly reincarcerating imagination
until the final phrase, the last line leaps
breaks free from the final page
fireworking the final neurons in our brain
before slumbercrawling back into the world
grief wrangled, mollified, appeased for another day
the big fish
when i visit the whale
he is alone somewhere off
the cold pacific coast
singing a playfully melancholy
refrain across a 1000 miles
he eyes me with utter disdain
yes whales can (or he could)
disdain with the best of them
“doubting again are we?” he booms
inside my head & beyond the galaxy
i wish i have a witty reply
but he knows everything
that’s deep inside me, so i
simply sigh & smile whereupon
he takes me on his back
& reminds me how to fly
types of time
the stars last
the rocks too
only we don’t
however
if you arrive in time
the water liquifires
into melting gold
post mid night walk
the thermometer’s
reluctantly stuck
at 2.9° wishing it
were inside (as do i)
breath polar bears
toes wet lungs
yellow halfmoon stars
dead tree silhouettes
empty heart aches
like a mime alone
without wind with
out their — trapped
in an invisible box trick.
there will be frost by dawn
a sort of sorcery
born from the tiniest spark
it can rip the chill from a room
or consume entire forests
birth dragons, electrify wands
enchant dogs, illuminate the hidden
draw stories from strangers
mesmerise us till only embers
crackle whisper roar
iambic paratrooper
although I am diametrically
opposed to any & all kinds of violence,
when artistic militiamen stormed
parliament my heart’s diameter
swiftly exploded into diamond shards.
iambic paratroopers might bring peace.
the little bird : is making me : weep : as she always does : thinking of : what i’ve lost : & may never have
the swing
somewhere near
my childhood
a swing hangs
from the branch
of an old tree
which leans
over the edge
of a cliff
often filled
with mist
an ancient house
hides nearby
only a few
family members
know of this
tree’s odd power
to transform
simple oscillation
into time travel
& space flight
Prompt 22. Choose a title from the five offered. Write a poem. I have. & it may be the best poem of my career. Either that or I am incredibly tired. But let’s go with the former.
Möbius’ Strip
she sure wasn’t
the greatest dancer
in the world
or even the club
but she had this
amazing way
of bending minds
so you never knew
if she was taking clothes off
or putting them back on