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Month: December 2017

Bloody Weather

Posted on 08/12/2017 by john keast

An old man in a flat cap in a paddock. We have been here before. He told me then about the weather, how it stole the life from crops and he knelt into the soil. This time, it is still dry. A stunted dull crop leans into the ground from whence it came. It’s a…

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how soft

Posted on 07/12/2017 by peterlebaige

how soft how soft the dawn on drifts of birdsong rising how soft the light put to the sky to the tiniest darkness around you how soft you fall again into sleep how soft the whipped greys in that sky on a breeze that tell of storm beyond the ridge storm at sea how soft….

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kill my buzz, i deserve it

Posted on 07/12/201708/12/2017 by Mark Prisco

kudos to you, i said, good for you & he went on                  &   more dead than ever i laid down   heard                           birds                            the breeze slipped in &                 if                                  anything i was happy

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You’ve done that again?

Posted on 05/12/201707/12/2017 by Editor

Think if you can a picture Of you and I embraced in a kiss Feel how I tremble inside Sorry if there was something I missed Outside tonight We can take on the cloak of the dark Before the dawn of another day He said this is what it sounds like When purple doves cry…

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Creatures of The Sea

Posted on 04/12/2017 by john keast

The terns and gulls are circling gulping the river-mouth air. They come in, drunk with hunger to settle among the silver river waves, pilfering the tiny life, water pearls flicked to sun and sea.     The huts here are faded yellow and candy-cane green. They are anchored in the sand, salted windows to the…

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murchison afternoon

Posted on 02/12/201709/10/2021 by peterlebaige

murchison afternoon for my father gold-mining december 2011, revised 2021 murchison – westport its heyday already over, the place shaken to a ghost of itself, when the hills caved in*, wouldn’t have gone ahead by much in your days here, a man of the mountains come down to the town for flour, a beer, a…

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our solitude

Posted on 01/12/2017 by Mark Prisco

rub the dark spot of her solitude, her ribbed feathers                               down   ..                                             give, the water here                  is   mottled, spun by the late sun,                 high clouds & gulls   heading out.   & still                                     we’re alone even when I sanctify these gentle folds beneath the                       cold heavens.  

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