Apopo

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Artist: Robyn Hancock

Tomorrow

Future dawn.

Spirit reborn.

Apopo

Creating opportunities for change.

A chance to start again.

Tomorrow

Hope renewed.

Situations reviewed.

Apopo

Time to start a-fresh.

Adopting a different mindset.

Tomorrow

Eternal sunrise.

Celebrating life…

© Copyright 2016, Robyn Hancock. All Rights Reserved

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
I decided, given the new year, that I would create new poems for this publication, thus giving me a creative challenge.

Working through Cobwebs

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Melbourne Street Art – Artist Unknown
Photographer: Jennifer Cox
Photo used with permission

“I’m trying to work through cobwebs”, he said,

with eyes pouring like rain
into a leaky boat
squaring off the shoreline,
heading out to sea
avoiding Redbacks
like the plague. negotiating
rogue waves
behind his back,
facing his fear; ex –
tended arms pull
away – escape
for the moment.

he scans the horizon
left to right that sinking
feeling farther, closer
than he expected de –
Nile; a river in Egypt
too far away to row
a thunder clap into eternity,
Isis turning a blind eye;
Trite – on dragging him
under, spinning
a vortex only Terra –
firma can translate.

taking the bull
by the horns, he finds
solid ground wrestling
Taurus, knee deep
in mud that sticks
like shit on the inside;
cobwebs cling to hard –
wired neurons
lodged in the gaps
in – between grey,
a matter for
black and white.

separate, facts find
fiction fornicating
in a web of deceit
by design, too lurid
for children like
Persephone – abducted
innocence; a metaphor
for rape, choking the Hell
out of life. all the while,
pseudo affection bribes
a hand – full of lollies,
to sweeten the blow.

“I want everything to be saved”,
he said.

© Copyright 2016, Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
It’s very sad watching loved ones hurting.

Long Lines of Lies

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Photographer: Unknown

I don’t know what to do

when they look into my eyes

expecting

the drawing they made of me

they rewrite me,

insert the cliche that hangs like a slave in the square

I feel their lies

tickle,

nuanced and lovely to the touch,

and me gracefully bludgeoned

eventually they find the door

and drag away their sharpened tongues

and behind

a mind reawakened –

coloured by Matisse

with words sprinkled in the lush greens of grass

Copyright © 2016 (Keith Nunes)

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
This poem makes sense of what I feel going on around me or at least what I perceive is going on.

Bird

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Artist: Hua Tunan
Image used with permission

Morning time. So I leave my door, descending the four steps

Precariously

 

My feet are bare upon the grass. Its wetness is almost sexual

If not for the cold.

 

A spider’s web catches the silver promise of light within a single drop

Of moiisture. Such a perfect fragile jewel;

 

It’s the sound I catch first. An impatient fluttering, daubed with

High-pitched peeps of distress.

 

Step over the log, my feet finding primordial satisfaction in its

Careless roughness.

 

The chicken wire lies in a tired bundle, threaded through with grass

And a single impatient thistle.

 

There. In the middle of the roll. A tiny brown speckled form. A thrush

Trapped within the deaf wire.

 

Exhausted.

 

My feet stop. With each step closer, the bird becomes more animated

Beating its tiny form against the wire.

 

How can I say ‘I mean to help you, to tear back the walls that encircle you,

To give you back your universe?  For we are so deeply

 

Alien to each other.

 

I am torn. I cannot leave this other life. Yet I cannot help. Energy drains

From me. I am now unnecessary.

 

A watcher only.

 

The bird is still. Its chest heaves once. A wing slips and hangs loose,

Askew.

 

It’s quiet.

 

I begin to hate the wire.

Copyright © 2002 – Jerry Beale

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
This poem describes an actual event which had a profound effect on me. It emphasised how separate we have become from the simplicity of nature.

Forgotten Skin

 
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Artist: Nod Ghosh
Image used with permission

He carries acres of skin,

a decadent petticoat, wrapped

around his identity.

 

He finds a portion

untouched since

the beginning of memories.

 

A foreign pellicle,

symbiotic lesion,

that forges a crossing through

Lethean shorelines.

 

He travels to unknown

territory, unravels keratin spirals

bounded by

an integumental sea.

 

He feels its smoothness,

unremarkable

in doughy caress.

 

He enters the fourth room

of a three roomed house,

licks himself clean,

like an atheist in heaven.

 

Copyright © 2015 (Nod Ghosh)

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
When the meat and veg of life are difficult to chew, Nod Ghosh finds sanctuary in a gravy of words. Forgotten Skin examines the urge to self-mutilate, while Sailfins relates to when a person chooses death over life.