tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23377411346867112812024-03-13T07:16:57.723-07:00kippleone poem at a timemountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-1984624329795231852011-03-11T02:38:00.000-08:002011-03-11T02:43:52.074-08:00Southern Christmas - senryu and haiku - Peter Macrow<span style="font-weight:bold;">Southern Christmas<br /> senryu and haiku</span><br /><br /><br /><br />her Christmas red top<br />work makes her wear<br />'I'm here' she says it says<br /><br /><br />a man holds the seat<br />for his boy<br />wobbling his Christmas bike<br /><br /><br />neighbour's barbecue<br />guess who got a trumpet<br />for Christmas?<br /><br /><br />New Year's Eve a cabbage moth<br />crosses the lawn<br />ahead of its shadow<br /><br /><br />New Year's Day the first<br />dandelion daisy<br />in freshly cut grass<br /><br /><br />January 7th<br />a Christmas balloon<br />still in the tree<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Peter Macrow</span><br /><a href="http://www.pardalote.com.au/titles/oilslicksun/">http://www.pardalote.com.au/titles/oilslicksun/</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-85148126478773029922011-01-09T03:17:00.000-08:002011-01-09T03:20:34.390-08:00tincture - stuart barnes<span style="font-weight:bold;">tincture</span><br /><br />our prickly pear’s<br />eleven copper<br />suns have expired.<br />bellies of Rainbow<br />parrots flare against<br />a Henson sky like<br />matches. fireworks<br />ridicule horizons. a<br />stray cat blackens.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">stuart barnes</span><br /><a href="http://bluepepper.blogspot.com/2010/12/new-poetry-by-stuart-barnes.html">http://bluepepper.blogspot.com/2010/12/new-poetry-by-stuart-barnes.html</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-80535024568515420692010-12-22T15:40:00.000-08:002010-12-28T17:12:27.906-08:00We Raw Muggers Haiku - Shane Jesse Christmass<span style="font-weight:bold;">We Raw Muggers Haiku</span><br /><br /> <br />lying bathe bridge of his<br />nose one of the other<br />patience<br /><br /> <br />rapidly into an insole<br />fall to his<br />knees<br /><br /> <br />to lie swivels around<br />in trouble<br />this comet is useless<br /><br /> <br />the taps off and then<br />murder these<br />what do you want?<br /> <br /><br />the water turned trusses are<br />casing and us coming from<br />the bathing cautioned<br /><br /> <br />textual some unceasing<br />plucks off the night<br />it’s him to hog into what is right<br /><br /> <br />l walked the corridor well<br />doesn’t mountain bike in the amulet<br />crackled himself<br /> <br /><br />I’m a bit nervous<br />she ; the milky cup<br />of tea<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shane Jesse Christmas</span><br /><a href="http://luparapublishing.blogspot.com/">http://luparapublishing.blogspot.com/</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-58745951293643269152010-08-31T04:06:00.000-07:002010-08-31T04:12:41.501-07:00Modem - Stuart Barnes<span style="font-weight:bold;">MODEM</span><br /><br />London by night all alone,<br />London by night on my own<br />The KLF<br /><br />3 a.m., 3 a.m., 3 a.m. Eternal like<br />those Justified Ancients of Mu Mu<br />I snap awake, buzzy from my<br />purple shrinking pills, to stagger<br />to the loo to take a piss. Passing<br />the computer it startles<br />me still, this little black sarcophagus<br />with the boisterous proboscis and<br />kaleidoscopic lights, electric blue.<br />May it mourn for a tampered field<br />of corn? <span style="font-style:italic;">Is</span> there something more? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stuart Barnes</span><br /><a href="http://www.pool.org.au/users/stuart_barnes">http://www.pool.org.au/users/stuart_barnes</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-37736866034027045882010-07-20T20:42:00.000-07:002010-07-20T20:45:29.897-07:00Jeremy Balius - Three Haikufalling leaves spin<br />teaching dervishes<br />to whirl<br /><br /><br />-<br /><br /><br />mother smiles <br />then passes on to glory – <br />the sea ebbs<br /><br /><br />-<br /><br /><br /><br />a crow returns to murder<br />not enough <br />frequent flyer points<br /><br /><br /><strong>Jeremy Balius</strong><br /><a href="http://jeremybalius.wordpress.com/">http://jeremybalius.wordpress.com/</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-47491442906061877892010-06-28T18:37:00.000-07:002010-06-28T18:40:53.244-07:00Phillip A Ellis - 15 August 2009<span style="font-weight:bold;">15 August 2009</span><br /><br />Over lands, seas, and oceans, the stars rise<br />steadily, into night and the dark sky<br />unmarked by any moon. When the stars fade<br />from the heights, scratched as it is by streets' lamps,<br />houses, other buildings, then no eye knows<br />what was once seen, in the open night sky:<br />seasons, directions, legends, and fair lamps<br />hung from the heavens, and from a dark vault.<br /><br />But the night is still young, younger than time,<br />younger than the lands over which it's hung<br />like a veil of unseeing, emptiness<br />kept at bay as by gossamer star-veils,<br />clusters of flaming gas, fields of burning,<br />fragile wards facing entropy, heat death.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Phillip A Ellis</span><br /><a href="http://phillipellis.f-snet.com/">http://phillipellis.f-snet.com/</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-51289155810671991472010-06-19T07:09:00.000-07:002010-06-19T07:14:50.617-07:00Jeff Klooger - A Brief History Of Getting Smashed<span style="font-weight:bold;">A Brief History Of Getting Smashed</span><br /><br />Emotion is chemistry, and alcohol<br />is love ― here especially, or anywhere tropical.<br />Tonight we will get drunk like scientists, our heads bursting<br />with untested theories, facts<br />whizzing past our eyes<br />and into the sunset.<br /> <br />We don’t care. Without fear or forethought,<br />we gaze into the magic heart of things. Reality<br />is what we see when we close our eyes,<br />sure as physics, sucking us in<br />like gravity. If you lie flat out<br />and stare straight up at the stars, you will get dizzy,<br />but all that whirling still makes sense somehow.<br /> <br />God is a dry martini, shaken not stirred.<br />Proof is a toothpick<br />piercing the olive of the world.<br />Einstein understood: the faster you go<br />the heavier you get. <br />Intoxication is a formula<br />that escapes to infinity.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Jeff Klooger</span><br /><a href="http://walleahpress.com.au/FR37Klooger.html">http://walleahpress.com.au/FR37Klooger.html</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-58001595464753728812010-06-01T03:34:00.000-07:002010-06-10T19:45:47.971-07:00Michael Lee Johnson - Charley Plays a Tune<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kIpN4iObQs/TBGjNzEzmWI/AAAAAAAAADM/wvxFEsjjgGk/s1600/CharleyPlaysTune%231.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 321px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kIpN4iObQs/TBGjNzEzmWI/AAAAAAAAADM/wvxFEsjjgGk/s400/CharleyPlaysTune%231.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481341678930598242" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Charley Plays a Tune</span><br /><br />Crippled, in Chicago,<br />with arthritis<br />and Alzheimer's,<br />in a dark rented room,<br />Charley plays<br />melancholic melodies<br />on a dust-filled<br />harmonica he<br />found abandoned<br />on a playground of sand<br />years ago by a handful of children<br />playing on monkey bars.<br />He now goes to the bathroom on occasion,<br />relieving himself takes forever; he feeds the cat when<br />he doesn't forget where the food is stashed.<br />He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local market<br />and the skeleton bones of the fish show through.<br />He lies on his back, riddled with pain,<br />pine cones fill his pillows and mattress;<br />praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beads<br />Charley blows tunes out his<br />celestial instrument<br />notes float through the open window<br />touch the nose of summer clouds.<br />Charley overtakes himself with grief<br />and is ecstatically alone.<br />Charley plays a solo tune.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Michael Lee Johnson</span><br /><a href="http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?BookId=SKU-000058168">http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?BookId=SKU-000058168</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-43452827903740787642010-05-24T18:27:00.000-07:002010-05-24T18:33:43.020-07:00Porgy Comes Home - Image & Text by Wayne WolfsonShe thirsted to hear my voice again, even the small things; asking her to shut the light, the click of the last domino being put back in the box, my cigar as she walked by the ashtray left on the counter.<br /><br />When she was beautiful there was something almost commonplace about it. I much preferred her looking tired or melancholy. It has a more honest feel to it as it also encompasses a sort of collaborative origin involving us both.<br /><br />Even when we had first met, her in her best dress, she interested me with the lies that she told and not her beauty.<br /><br />That first night we drank all the free booze which the party had to offer, then walked all the way to Les Halles for onion soup. We talked the entire time, not out of any awkward pressure but just for the enjoyment of it.<br /><br />Our two voices, her French more of a sing song quality than my thick tongued grunts, would sometimes come back to us via an empty alley echo. This late night duet was not without its appeal.<br /><br />It had kept me more alert than I had expected. The soup would now be more than mere ritual, I was becoming hungry.<br /><br />She talked of appetite in an honest way with all its accompanying unpleasantness, which appealed to me.<br /><br />Desire, those who always know how to get what they want, the abstract idea of the goal, radiate a sort of light like the gleam of a star, brilliant and cold. Marissa though, her glow was more that of a funeral pyre.<br /><br />It has been two years and I am still waiting to see how it will end. We both have our little power plays and bite backs but neither of us seem inclined to rush towards an end game.<br /><br />I have become superstitious about her tears. After conjuring them a certain amount of times they will haunt me long after she is gone. The tiger crouched in the pile of dirty laundry under the bed, I must be careful.<br /><br />I had not asked her to pick me up and she had not offered. It would acknowledge our shared history another link in a chain which grew a little longer every day.<br /><br />The airport at this hour was mostly empty, the few bodies one saw where all at a distance, frozen, more random components of a tableau than actual people.<br /><br />There were no taxis to be found so I caught the train.<br /><br />It was raining, I buttoned my jacket even though I knew the train would be too warm and I would have to undo it again.<br /><br />The last train of the night. Using the blurred lights which slide by, the drizzle paints an impressionistic image of the city upon the window which I now lean my forehead against for its coolness.<br /><br />I climb the stairs to the street. I stop at Pepe’s to call and let her know I made it all right and a quick Calvados to ease the pain in my side.<br /><br />Technically, they were not open but two old men sat by the window smoking cigars and playing cards. One tourist who had initially been attracted by the lone light on a dark street in a tee shirt sat alone and dazed in front of a row of empty glasses. He was too drunk to get back to his hotel but did not know where else to go.<br /><br />Not bothering anybody, Marc had stopped serving him but let him stay.<br /><br />We shook hands, he let me use the phone as he poured. I held up two fingers. She wanted me to come over. No. She wanted to come over. No. I would see her tomorrow which was now today after I cleaned up and rested a bit.<br /><br />She tried not to come across as disappointed. I noticed her effort but pretended not to.<br /><br />The drinks made me temporarily feel good enough to make it home. I paid and left.<br /><br />Without turning on the light, I put my bag down next to the door and started getting undressed.<br />I go to wash my face. I enjoy the quiet, the familiar scent of my place. I leave the lights out, I feel a headache coming on, I probably had not had enough water before flying.<br /><br />The rough hewn bar of soap left in the basin of the sink takes on the identity of a pearl in a shell as now viewed in the pale light spilling in through the windows. I should get some sleep. I look in the mirror, in this light though my features are indistinct, I could be anybody.<br /><br />I now reach for the soap, the underside is still slick like a secret, someone had been here. I hold it in my hand, my fingers playing over the cracks in its top.<br /><br />I thought of how I had gotten the drop on the one they had called Zeppo.<br /><br />He could have stood still and I would have just taken him in. But instead he had made a reach, chancing that he would be faster.<br /><br />I knelt down and clearing his lips of blood with my own handkerchief held his head up in case he wanted to say something.<br /><br />The killer had been warm like the hum of an old tube radio. He had gambled it all and lost. Men like us never seem to go in for half measures.<br /><p></p><p></p><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475014549664631778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kIpN4iObQs/S_souZzbC-I/AAAAAAAAADE/lutP7WThGv4/s400/the%2520drop.JPG" border="0" /><br /><strong>Wayne Wolfson</strong><br /><a href="http://www.waynewolfson.com/">http://www.waynewolfson.com/</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-3742343894746164232010-04-18T00:38:00.000-07:002010-04-18T00:42:12.428-07:00Landscapes - Stuart Barnes<p style="font-family: verdana; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">LANDSCAPES</p><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">Marcel Proust</span><br /><br /></div><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;"> </div><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">(I) Collingwood</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">the Magi are imaginable<span style=""></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">a poultice for sizzling footpaths</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">jasmine’s in clusters like jellyfish</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">or brains over ramshackle wooden</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">fences – missing pales, missing teeth</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">sepia light smogs broken warehouse</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">rooftops, cracks the jade-green eyes</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">of stray white cats<span> </span>you stalk,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">face ringing like a church bell</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" align="center">(II) Clifton Hill</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">alarming palaver!<span> </span>blue Mary,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">grey child<span> </span>OshKosh B’Gosh</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">buggies, brown and black – they pass,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">slow as hearses<span> </span>birds-of-paradise</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">fly fabulous crests’ molten colours</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">at the air; I stare and stare<span> </span>the light</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">of the day is starry, and comes </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">from the eye of the cardinal mountains</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">you come out of nowhere</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" align="center">(III) Abbotsford</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">a shock-haired man rubs lamps</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">of Technicolor glass<span> </span>graceful </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">as giraffes, nuns unfurl dark habits</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">hands rub like papery leaves</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">in November there’s mayhem</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">at the manger<span> </span>last winter I witnessed</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">a froth of hops, like sheep or a crime,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">across the water<span> </span>you in white</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">across the water<span> </span>fire in the sky</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana; font-weight: bold;">Stuart Barnes<br /><a href="http://pool.org.au/users/stuart_barnes"><span style="font-weight: normal;">http://pool.org.au/users/stuart_barnes</span></a><br /></p>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-13091898290925077462010-04-02T16:57:00.000-07:002010-04-02T17:00:24.762-07:00In The Middle Of The Night - Julie Buffaloe-Yoder<span style="font-weight: bold;">In The Middle Of The Night</span><br /><br /><br />She played video games<br /><br />on a dirty brown couch<br /><br /><br /><br />that reeked of Doritos<br /><br />and sweaty ass.<br /><br /><br /><br />She pulled the heads<br /><br />off her Barbie dolls<br /><br /><br /><br />in a dark apartment<br /><br />above Charley’s Bar<br /><br /><br /><br />where her mother<br /><br />turned tricks for crack.<br /><br /><br /><br />She joined the Army<br /><br />to pay for college–<br /><br /><br /><br />put on boots<br /><br />and slammed<br /><br />to Combat Rock.<br /><br /><br /><br />Now she sits on a<br /><br />leather sectional,<br /><br /><br /><br />sells adult toys<br /><br />in Manhattan,<br /><br /><br /><br />has 798 friends<br /><br />on Facebook,<br /><br /><br /><br />updates her page<br /><br />with sexy videos<br /><br /><br /><br />and hangs up<br /><br />when her mother<br /><br /><br /><br />calls bawling<br /><br />in the middle<br /><br />of the night.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Julie Buffaloe-Yoder</span><br /><a href="http://juliebuff.wordpress.com/">http://juliebuff.wordpress.com/</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-25068577755153382912010-03-27T19:59:00.000-07:002010-03-27T20:05:53.643-07:00Unraveled - Benjamin Dodds<div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Unraveled</b></span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Never referred to explicitly</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">they feature alongside</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">anonymous lab technicians</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">safety-goggled henchmen</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">wielding delicate glass pipettes</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">and endless arrays of plastic phials</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">in footage furnishing 30-second </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">news pieces about genetics </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">and ‘ethically-troubling’ breakthroughs.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Throw in the phrase <i>playing God</i></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">and you’re there.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Electrophoresis gels lay out</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">ladders of striated DNA</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">that fade into chemical whispers</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">running down the page.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">To unfurl the coils</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">you’ll need a solution of Acrylamide</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">our dreaded antagonist</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">and known neurotoxin.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Acrylamide even looks dangerous</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">with its cross-braced capital A</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">dangerous enough to knock me </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">off my feet after a long and hot bath</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">on a departmental flex day</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">to find myself naked and dry</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">on the bedroom floor</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">involuntarily trawling</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">the bridge of my nose</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">up and down beige carpet</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">in a wide red arc.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’ve since read </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">that Acrylamide accrues</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">in the system.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">That ground-in stain</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">with its rusting brightness</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">smiles up at me still.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Benjamin Dodds</span><br /><a href="http://benjamindodds.blogspot.com/">http://benjamindodds.blogspot.com/</a><br /></span></div></div>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-30984497138701363082010-03-12T16:48:00.000-08:002010-03-12T16:57:15.772-08:00in the things we hold and the things we cannot - Mark William Jackson<span style="font-weight: bold;">in the things we hold and the things we cannot</span><br /><br /><br />the bottle paints it perfumed image?<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">_________________</span>days of empty despair<br /><br />while the light that guided<br /><br />smiles as I talk to her<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">___________________</span>about poetry<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mark William Jackson</span><br /><a href="http://markwilliamjackson.com/">http://markwilliamjackson.com/</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-80198215445254358582010-03-05T15:45:00.000-08:002010-03-05T17:47:35.928-08:00Three Poems - Majena Mafe<span style="font-weight: bold;">Always…</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">_____</span>you’d become still<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">_____</span>before the jump to<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> ____</span>here<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">_____</span>O laugh out loud...<br /><br /><br />-<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">so sue me</span><br /><br />‘Doesn’t she look goo-ood<br />her full-blown-self…’<br />Ridge Forester bloats.<br /><br /><br />-<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">cut</span><br /><br />the placing of flowers inside<br />presupposes a confidence in water<br />and the dubious assumption that kept<br />water will beauty provide<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Majena Mafe</span><br />http://www.majenamafe.com/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-84965792498235532952010-02-27T16:10:00.000-08:002010-02-27T16:18:55.224-08:00Three Haiku - Pearl Nelsonthe pond at the end<br />of the street, its edges frozen<br />and without toad song<br /><br /><br />-<br /><br />after a hard rain<br />the old man’s turnips<br />bare sensuous purple shoulders<br /><br /><br />-<br /><br />that old drunken moon–<br />smoking cigarettes and singing<br />songs in a toad’s voice<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Pearl Nelson</span><br />http://pearlnelson.wordpress.com/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-26783636430359933452010-02-22T04:00:00.000-08:002010-02-22T04:06:33.180-08:00Looking Back - Ron Wilkins<span style="font-weight:bold;">Looking Back</span><br /><br />A thump with the heel<br />of the hand forcing entry,<br />then the metal ripper jacking up<br />the lid in levered steps until<br />with a twist,<br />the jagged disk snapped loose.<br />It was hard preparing a meal<br />of sausages and vegetables<br />in those student days,<br />filling up on a chunk of bread and jam,<br />a mug of tea.<br /><br /> <br />Now, the opener is half the size.<br />It grips the rim and by successive turns<br />of a wheel at the side,<br />the can rotates <span style="font-style:italic;">et voila</span> –<br />a perfect reflecting circle drops,<br />neat as a freshly minted coin.<br />How much easier life has become,<br />though as I gaze at the pale beans<br />glowing in their pink sauce,<br />I wonder could I be viewing the present<br />through rosy-tinted spectacles?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ron Wilkins </span><br />http://tasmaniantimes.com/index.php?/weblog/article/changsha-beauty/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-59445726156596482662010-02-13T17:08:00.000-08:002010-02-13T17:16:10.409-08:00Beloved - Shonni Hodge<span style="font-weight:bold;">Beloved</span><br /><br />The lies have wrought their own piece:<br />Intricate curls, gilt and glamour <br />to showcase the shame.<br /><br />Glass beads set in the mask <br />reflect years.<br />Contorted husk<br />of animation, <br />carved dream of humanity:<br /><br />Her perfection is without equal.<br /><br />How I despised her, and her magpie eyes. <br />Unyielding presence, a thing possessed – she watches<br />And knows. <br /><br />Empty shell! Your partner quit your side forever.<br />How he must have loathed your <br />porcelain, so cold beneath <br />mere flesh.<br /><br />But now my heart is merely sickened<br />to watch you sit and stare. <br />Skin once flush and heated is now <br />Chilling, startling to touch. <br />Eyes whose life once boiled, flooding my heart,<br />reflect the world without wonder.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shonni Hodge</span><br />http://disorganisationanddiatribes.blogspot.com/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-81761354871696983862009-12-28T15:55:00.000-08:002009-12-28T15:57:27.967-08:00The Words That Fell To Earth - Amelia Walker<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Words That Fell To Earth</span><br /><br />Thirty seven pages.<br />Thirty seven miles.<br />The diary of Ilan Ramon,<br />Israel's first astronaut,<br />found, wet and crumpled,<br />in a field just outside Palestine,<br />Texas. Words:<br />scrawled survivors,<br />the only survivors of Columbia,<br />the space shuttle that disintegrated<br />upon re-entry, February 1st, 2003<br />- the newspaper says. <br /><br />Disintegrated.<br />Such a newspaper word. <br />Distintegrated.<br />All that metal.<br />All that flesh<br />and blood and bones and organs<br />and thoughts -what thoughts?<br />Any?<br />Where did they go?<br /> <br />How is it ink and paper escaped<br />the explosion, the heat,<br />the ice cold plummet,<br />the dirt and damp of the field<br />to be found, two months later<br />and returned to Ilan's wife?<br /> <br />All that ink.<br />All that paper.<br />All that metal.<br />All that flesh.<br />Thirty seven pages<br />and how many words?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Amelia Walker</span><br />http://www.freewebs.com/ameliawalker/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-38838665967300825492009-12-18T18:22:00.000-08:002009-12-18T18:29:19.147-08:00New Tone Poem at 'The Poetry Slave'Jane Williams and I have just finished the first collaborative tone poem at 'The Poetry Slave' (see link below & to the right)<br /><br />Much in the same way that Sergei Rachmaninoff used Arnold Böcklin’s painting ‘The Isle of the Dead‘ as a starting point for his piece of the same name, we’ve used the expressionist painter Marc Chagall’s work Les Fiances de la Tour Eiffel as ours.<br /><br />Have a look!<br /><br /><a href="http://thepoetryslave.wordpress.com/tone-poem-1-the-bride-speaks/">http://thepoetryslave.wordpress.com/</a>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-91549738053425461642009-12-12T15:58:00.000-08:002009-12-12T16:10:35.822-08:00Mark William Jackson - These Days that Play like ToothachesThese days that play like toothaches.<br />dragging each breath in<br />then pushing it out<br />like a cheating lover.<br />Breath upon breath until<br />the day is drawn up<br />and spat into a waste basin<br />by the straight syringe of time.<br />Day upon day until<br />we are left<br />to sleep with worms.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mark William Jackson</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">http://markwilliamjackson.com/</span>mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-31706697397492162212009-11-29T02:42:00.000-08:002009-11-29T02:49:31.442-08:00Ron Wilkins - A Matter of Life and Death<span style="font-weight:bold;">A matter of life and death</span><br /> <br />While walking down the street<br />I surprised a girl and a boy<br />in passionate embrace against a wall.<br />Nothing strange about that, you may say,<br />but she was dressed in school uniform<br />and it was during school hours.<br />Ah, that’s life I said to myself.<br />Hey, guess what I saw in The Boulevard<br />I said to my wife.<br /><br />Next day I was carrying<br />a ring-tailed possum by the tail<br />as I walked along the road.<br />Schoolgirl heads<br />swivelled in unison as I passed.<br />Burying the possum<br />in an unmarked grave next to the last<br />and beside the graves of my two cats,<br />creating quite a cemetery,<br />I thought to myself, that’s death.<br />Hey, guess what I saw down the street<br />I suppose a schoolgirl said to her mum,<br />completing yet another<br />life and death tale.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ron Wilkins</span><br />http://www.quadrant.org.au/magazine/issue/2008/4/wormmountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-12131915442694133982009-11-12T22:48:00.000-08:002009-11-12T22:56:19.638-08:00Sorting - Benjamin Dodds<span style="font-weight:bold;">Sorting</span><br /><br />Stainless-steel pincers prick and tear<br />at a spread of gelatinous film<br />as I tack across the magnified world<br />of circular Pyrex dish.<br />Resting my eyes back in 1:1 scale,<br />I find that this membrane <br />is the anaemic skin <br />of a tiny speckled frog <br />made transparent <br />through weeks <br />of refrigerated storage<br />in hermetic cube-stacked jars,<br />its silken bounds <br />the only thing<br />that kept free-floating workings in.<br />Previously anchored to their task,<br />strange forms now range adrift <br />in the sterile expanse of ethyl alcohol,<br />a wash of organelles<br />breathed out by the slackening shape.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Benjamin Dodds</span><br />http://benjamindodds.blogspot.com/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-30681370926104068092009-10-30T18:58:00.000-07:002009-10-30T18:59:52.758-07:00Running - Vanessa Page<span style="font-weight:bold;">Running</span><br /><br />When roadside has turned to red<br />and desert oaks are stenciled <br />neat on car window canvases<br />you’ve run far enough - to where <br />dust folds over to new thicknesses<br />taking with it every trace.<br /><br />It’s too late for the maps, left<br />unfolded on the passenger seat<br />you’re lost in odometer’s slow roll<br />passing bloated marsupials<br />with legs stiff as tent poles<br />grasping the sense in endings.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Vanessa Page</span><br />http://vanessapage.wordpress.com/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-42993433248557794922009-10-13T02:50:00.000-07:002009-10-13T03:10:34.274-07:00A Free Verse Sonnet for Freya Buchanan - Phillip A. Ellis<span style="font-weight:bold;">A Free Verse Sonnet for Freya Buchanan</span><br /><br />With the sun slowly<br />growing through winter,<br />till the spring comes at last<br />with its crop of birds,<br />and the earth itself wakes<br />from the somnolence that is frozen soil,<br />it is not strange that some may<br />look to the long suns of summer.<br /><br />But, before you do, think on this:<br />each element of snow is unique,<br />and will never be seen again,<br />just as is each mote of dust<br />strangely attracted along the shafts<br />of summer sunlight on sleep-dealing days.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Phillip A. Ellis</span><br />http://phillipellis.f-snet.com/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2337741134686711281.post-76149938349841142892009-09-19T17:41:00.000-07:002009-09-19T17:51:05.278-07:00Haiku from Graham NunnCurrently leading our Kasen Renku at <span style="font-style:italic;">Issa's Snail</span> (see link to the right) is the talented <span style="font-weight:bold;">Graham Nunn</span>. Here are some of his own haiku:<br /><br /><br /><br />dawn service<br />red scarf slashed<br />across the digger's throat<br /><br /><br />~<br /> <br /><br />nudist beach<br />all eyes stare<br />out to sea<br /> <br /><br />~<br /><br /><br />rooster's yellow beak opens the morning<br /><br /><br />~<br /><br /><br />makeshift bed<br />blood on the face<br />of the new born<br /><br /><br />~<br /><br /><br />at dusk<br />pink and blue clouds<br />of fairy floss<br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Graham Nunn</span><br />Unfortunately, Graham's haiku collection, a zen firecracker, is sold out, but his beautiful haibun collection is not, have a look below<br />http://www.pardalote.com.au/titles/measuring/mountain-ashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03913913919862931843noreply@blogger.com0