Bellingen Poets in Nimbin 2010

Bellingen Poets in Nimbin 2010
Taking Home The World Cup!!!

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Green –eyed.

© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2005

My lovers eyes are green
but his soul cannot be gleaned
I talk, I open, I reveal.
I would give it all away…
No … not my heart, not my soul
which is well protected
not like Ned Kelly’s in 80 kilos of steel
but sealed in a net, like spiders threads
delicate but strong.

I feel. I feel.
I feel our hearts beating.
I want to peel away the layers
and find the jewel.

I breathe my lover in
I know his smell
but the rest of him?
A perfect stranger.
Alluring, beautiful
hesitantly offering
small kindnesses
small hurts.

A few steps forwards, sideways, backwards
an anxious dance, the dance of lovers
when no one is quite sure of the steps
no one is leading or sure of where they want to go.

He looks into my eyes and I look back
tongue-tied, mutually mute.
He talks to everyone, but me…
and I…feel. I feel…
I feel lonely.

He moves amongst the people like a graceful horse
bestowing charms; Flexing, prancing, stretching
all glorious muscle planted in the ground.

My lover cooks for me
meals full of richness and flavour
His hands like an artisan
he moulds bread, hacks weeds
picks fruit straight from the tree.
He says what you see is what you get…
I have to disagree.

He likes kissing but is hesitant with intimacy
He likes hugs but is … lazy … with foreplay.
He knows about my clitoris
(but not the crook of my arm, my wrists, my belly…)
He likes fucking slowly
He likes cheesecake, his own cooking.
He likes me.

The first thing I see in my lover, long before he was my lover.
His skin. Like a child’s, clear, unlined, unblemished, unscarred.
Unlike mine, lined with life stories, scars, silvery stretch marks
veins, spidery or blue, mottled and swollen from carrying children
dimples, a baby belly, suckled breasts that tell a female tale…
She’s fat, she’s thin, she’s sad, she’s happy, she frowns
Smiling lines, laughing lines, weary shadows.

My lovers eyes are green.
He smoothes the bed cover over his bed
so that the pattern perfectly aligns.
He talks about commitment like he is trying it on for size…
I don’t think it fits, it constricts, like a suit and tie.
It roles off like a drop of water on oily skin.
He thinks it’s what I want to hear but
I am emerging from a connubial nightmare, so
I am curious about him
but he’s too scared to let me in.

I sit alone
I watch him over blueberries and a latte
restless, he gravitates back to me.
His eyes flicker over the crowd
sometimes he strokes my hair tenderly, he kisses my face
he places his hand in the small of my back like he owns me
like he’s guiding me back to him, for a moment
he unfolds, unfurls slowly, but not completely.

The seed of the end was clearly seen in the first hours
covered in a rubble of passion and soft kisses
fragrant caresses and earthy sighs.

How time can wear a lover down
beyond acceptance
to look for greener grass.
My lover had green eyes.

How we ended the middle east war...

© Copyright Brian Carter, 1991

It was 1995, the war in the middle east was into its 805th year
There was nothing else to do but introduce the enemy to cricket.
Thus the 904th round of negoriations saw the question asked...
Do you want to play cricket?
Winner goes home
Loser fills in the holes!!

It seems there was nothing left to do
In order to resolve the fighting and end the war.
Their intelligence was good but....
Would they know enough to work out the game of cricket?
There would be a fair chance we could lose them in Gully
Or catch them out in slips.

All were dressed in camoullage greens
And 19 were killed when the umpire tossed the coin....
To decide who was to bat.
We put 16 in the field
When we were sure they were unclear about the rules!
We had there 21 batsmen out by lunch
For 8 goals 6 points and made $480.00
And an arms deal, by lunch the next day.

In the eighth innings, 9 home runs were scored
When we blew up the wicket and the scoreboard.....
After 5 days and the mining of the field
We won by a nose
With a third trailing by the length of the straight...

It was a great moment for the world
When peace was finally brought to the middle east by cricket.
All the world then put in
To send ships to those purged and burned nation
In order to bring home all their holes
To distribute to other places.

The war was completely bowled out
By a sporting rout...
Sport, if all cultures allowed, could end all wars
With the greatest tradition of all...
The handshake and drink at the start and the end of the game!!!!!!

Monday, June 21, 2010

For a grieving family

© Copyright Pip Wilson, 2010

By beaches of white shining, where the turquoise tide returns
the sound of children's laughter rings through eucalypts and ferns;
the kookaburra answers with his old familiar song --
they will be forever young.

The crystal healing waters from the mystic mountains flow;
the wounds are sweetly mended where the herbs and flowers grow.
There is a place not dreamed of, nor ever told by tongue
where they are forever young.

The children are not distant, for the place in which they live
is in our hearts forever with the blessings that they give.
Listen! They are playing now, their limbs again are strong --
they will be forever young.

At evening, when the kookaburra hurries to its nest
and we grow ever older, the little ones will rest
beneath the holy arbour with the fruit so heavy hung --
and will be forever young.

Sunday, June 20, 2010


© Copyright 2009 Craig Nelson

I ain't here to tell you nothin',
You ain't here to sell me more,
So, don't come knockin'
On my front door

With you proselytising,
Pontificating, puritanic crap,
'Cause I'll tell you what I think
And you won't like that.

We're not suffering today,
For some 'everafter' model,
You can stick that notion
Up your arse and twaddle.

Take all social chronicles,
Politics and religion,
Soothsayers, oracles,
If they're statues, I'm a pigeon.
Kev's Ute

© Copyright 2009 Craig Nelson

Kevin has a ute.
What does Malcolm drive,
A roller, a beamer,
Or take a taxi ride?

I thought they had Com-cars,
With drivers 24-7,
But, it seems, to have a ute
Is a liberal notion of heaven.

The richest man in parliament
Versus one with the richest wife,
If Malcolm doesn't have a ute,
He hasn't had a life.

A touch of Aussie envy
From an eastern suburbs swell?
Even if he had a ute,
Could he drive it well?

Imagine either of them
Sculling rum until they fall
Into swags, in the tray of the ute,
At a bachelor and spinsters' ball.

Throwing doughnuts in a paddock,
With 15 mates aboard,
Spotting for kangaroos,
Because that's what utes are for.

For awhile, I thought them real blokes,
Despite impressions from afar -
They used a week of question time
To debate the merits of a car.

Then, upon reflection,
I made a pretty harsh call:
Kevin's ute is a Mazda -
Nothin' Australian in that at all.
23 September 2009

© Copyright 2009 Craig Nelson

The world is upside down
When the sky is ochre,
Desert dust shrouds us,
And a joker,
On the radio
Quotes a boffin
Who claims
16,000 tonnes of dirt
Blow by every hour.
An apopalyptic warning
Of our wanton ways.
The wind howls,
Close the shutters,
But there are too many
And the clatter and bang
Of windows and doors
Leaves a land-lubber stranded.
Trees stretch their limbs,
Wave and dance and frolic
In the face of our frivilous ways.
It is not a day
For outdoor activities.
Even birds are ensconsed
In their indoor equivalents.
Yet, I heard a chirp,
A call, perhaps,
That we can still fly.

Report on meeting, Saturday June 19

I'm sorry if you phoned apologies for being unable to attend the Bello Bards meet at my place at 3pm yesterday. My phone is on the blink. While I think of it, I should also mention that I have telephonophobia and rather severe tinnitis, so all my family and friends have known for many years that I would rather pick up a spider than a phone, and therefore they email or text me. I can't put my mobile number on this website, for obvious reasons, but if you wish to text me, quite a lot of Bello Bards can give you my number. Otherwise, please email me: wilsonsalmanac [AT] Thank you.

Two of our troupe, Lyn Thiry and Russell Atkinson, attended the meeting around the fire. It was hardly what one would call a "quorum for a forum", as 78 invitations had been emailed to friends of Bello Bards, but it was convivial. No agenda items were put before the group because of the small turn-out. Please leave comments here whether you want to continue having regular meetings, or not. I am happy to put them on at my place, and my flatmate is very obliging, but if there's no point in my doing it, then there's no point in my doing it.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Australian Poetry Centre course, 'The Business of Poetry'

Lyn Thiry, one of our crew, has drawn my attention to the Australian Poetry Centre and that it is "running an online workshop offering poets the chance to develop a strategy for earning an income from writing poetry without compromising their style or craft.

"The course will be run by Marcus Powe (, starting Monday August 2nd, and run for ten weeks, ending Monday October 11th".

The course costs $200. Click here for further information

Thanks, Lyn.
Pip Wilson

Friday, June 18, 2010

A Living Body of Land

© Copyright Annabella Bray, 1995

what a living body of land

Is this country that i love
The gentle curves of the green hills
Fold into each other
Like the folds of human flesh
So sensual, soft and alluring
The fuzz of green trees nestling down
Into the secret valleys
The downy grass rolling over the slopes

In this season of bare boned trees
I feel the hard packed frozen earth
Stiff and cold beneath the lukewarm rays of a distant sun
And the brittle bright glitter of the vast night dark sky
Wind tousles my hair as it gouges concave hollows out of helpless clouds
That pile up monster high on the mountain tops
All gargantuan shape and bulk, signifying nothing
But the whiles and whims of the Valhalla gods

As they bend to earth
Embracing the Mother, the female form

Creating A Work of Art

© Copyright Annabella Bray, 1995

I want my soul to be stripped naked before you
I want my Dorian Grey portrait to be exposed
The hound dogs to sniff out my soft underbelly
And leave the bones glistening in the pale moonlight
And when the marble statue falls from her pedestal
And lies shattered on the floor
Take the handful of clay that remains
And fire it in the furnace of your love

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Poets with Names ending M-Z

Please send your poems as attachments to
cheers Liz

Poets with surnames or pen-names beginning A-L

Please send your poems as attachments to almanac [AT]

See 'How To' at

Cheers, Pip

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Search without Struggle

She sits, staring, out the window
wondering about the future that never comes
as the moment she's waiting for
is always now, and
always will be now.

She feels as lonely as a piper playing pee'brokh
as lost as a sailor without a ship.
In her veins she feels 'Eros' and 'Caritas'
she yearns enlightenment
yet pulls the grass to make it grow.
In her hands she holds atoms and electrons
then wonders where consciousness has gone.
She knows with intuition a million summers
and winters have just past.

So when death comes again
she decides to greet it with a song.
Time, humanity's illusion.
She questions where she went wrong.
At that moment she gave to an outstretched hand
she understood the goodness in all.
She realizes the sun alone illuminates this universe
and ventures on the second half of life
prepared to sweep the many veils
from her sleeping eyes.

Copyright 2007 Iain MacDonald
A Fond Kiss

The taste of our first kiss
Hidden, draped under
The cathedral dome
A giant fig draws elixir
From the aquifer
Deep below our feet
Far from the villagers gaze.
The shade, the leaves
Dappled light
The miracle that is your lips
Orange, daffodil and painted twig
Longing for tomorrows
With prayers and bells
Sweeter days
September birthdays
Presents of your sweetness
Your delicious eyes
The scent, the taste
Of you.

You lay there in the shade
Your very presence made the day
As we lay in the winter sun
Looking into your eyes
Reflecting gems
I saw myself, how I look
When I adore you
I have surpassed my dream
You are the lady
With the deliberate voice
Threading precisely
What you mean
Pearls of wisdom
I store in my jar
So glad I know you
I walk around you
My planets orbiting star.

Copyright 2007
Iain MacDonald
My Celtic Heart
by Iain MacDonald

Oh rowan tree
Purple heather
Raven's rock
Celtic carving!

I know you miss me
Wait there patiently
It has been a long time
What has become of me?

We grew up together
I smell and touch you as I speak
This thought may make the reader sad
This is not the intention I had.

I relate to quantum theory
Involving strings and rubber bands
In fact we've never been apart
We always hold hands.

Oh rowan tree
Purple heather
Raven's rock
Celtic carving!

At birth the Celtic
Was carved
Into my heart.

Copyright 2006
Peripheral joy

Peripheral happy, joy out the corner of my eye
a humble affection accompanied my days
whether in peace, anxiety or fear
he was always there, a sideline of content
by my side, always, a childlike always
a golden blur on a grey day
a wet leather nose flaring joyously
at a multitude of delicious doggy smells
the thump of his tail when I looked at him
and smiled, even so briefly
the warm spot left behind on the kitchen tiles
when I shooed him out.

The ancients had their words for love, grand agape
Eros, storge (with a hard g), filial love and friendship
the tender affection, furry love, unconditional
of no less value, still love, and in your absence, still missed.
The love of a dog, a golden Labrador with soppy eyes
fringed with red/ gold lashes and a gentle mouth
you could only call velvety, golden moss
carrying a raw egg, unbroken, or delivering
a tiny field mouse into my hand, drenched in his saliva
shivering in shock; after being rescued from cat play.

I still see him out the corner of my eye, when I drive
In the left hand mirror, his head out the window
the loose skin around his eyes and muzzle rippling
in the back draft, sniffing the breeze, like a gourmand.
I still see him in my peripheral vision, walking the beach
me, melancholy or not, collecting stones and driftwood
his whole body radiates with pleasure, an ecstatic gallop
a curious trot, a race into the surf and a satisfying roll
in the coarse sand. What more could you ask for?
Every so often he races back to check in with me
jumping his gratitude, pushing his wet nose into my hand
grinning his joy in sharing this glorious day with me.

My daily companion, walking with me every day
sitting at my feet or waiting for me to shower or toilet
tripping over him, complaining about his shedding
his doggy smell. His modest needs left me free
with my thoughts, yet not alone
his comfortable, comforting presence like old slippers
undress, and worn favourites.
Every day he greeted me, close to human tears
when I came home, at last, at the end of the day.

In memoriam “ROLY” died in the Bellingen floods, February 17, 2009.
Copyright 2009 Elizabeth Routledge

Thoughts on the nature of poetry

© Copyright Russel Atkinson, 2010

Though artists, architects, dancers, musicians and sculptors would no doubt object most strongly, it is my contention that poetry conveys the essence of them all. It is the supreme communication art in which all the others can be found.

Poetry has the sounds of music, the colours of paintings, the rhythms and movement of dance, the fabrications and structure of architecture and the shapes of sculpture. Nothing else can convey meaning as unequivocally as verse. A poet can express in a few sentences, ideas and truths a book is needed to explore. True poetry is the art of essence. Like sculpture, everything irrelevant is chipped away.

Poetry seeks to express the essential faculties of human nature, which reveals every aspect of human becoming as it explores the nature of the imagined, actual or beautiful. It is the expression of human thought, feeling and emotions. Every sentiment, every idea that touches the human heart and sends a thrill into it through devotion, love, awe, reverence or fear, humour, wonder, frustration, heart-rendering separation, sorrow, or the great joy of desire fulfilled after a struggle against difficulties - the expression of every one of these emotions in language is poetry. Genuine revelation of the human heart appeals to people of all ages and times however they may be separated by space or time, racial, national or a thousand prejudices.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Sometimes when it's raining

© Copyright Misty Hanley, 2010

sometimes when it's raining
and we've been far apart
it would be good to have a chat
it does good for my heart

but you have phone a phobia
and i am lost for words
and so i have to write to you
in order to be heard.

New co-admin of Bello Bards blog

Elizabeth Routledge has generously accepted the role of co-administrator of our blog, and has learned the ropes with the alacrity we all would expect of her. Welcome, Liz.

Pip Wilson as co-admin will post poems (with optional copyright-free pictures if they are offered) for those of our mob whose surnames or pen-names begin with letters A-L; Liz will do the same for M-Z bards. Until further notice, please send your poems as explained at ... therefore, until further notice, kindly submit poems and pix to Pip Wilson via email at wilsonsalmanac [at]

Per capita, Bellingen Shire might well be a contender for the most poetic district in Australia. Bello Bards must have hundreds of poems, as we have heard hundreds at Poetry Nights since March, 2007. So please submit them -- all will be published, none will be rejected unless in the case of defamation of other serious legal matters.

Your two admins would love to see your poems here on Bello Bards blog, and I'm sure others of our tribe would as well. Are you too shy to post them, or concerned about copyright? Then please leave a comment in the Comments section below so we might all discuss such matters. We all have these concerns, but I, for one, relegate them to the 'Don't Be So Silly, Pip' box that I keep under my bed. It would be to my financial advantage if someone stole or plagiarized my work. I would consider it an honour and a chance for lucrative litigation. It is also to my advantage if readers criticize my work. This is what is commonly called a 'win-win' situation. So, send in your poetry.

The only way that the Bello Bards blog can grow and thrive is if Bello poets submit their works. Your poems will be treated with the respect they deserve, with a rare opportunity not granted by many publishers of poetry: your work will be entirely unedited and available to the public for written applause and/or comments, just as they are at our poetry nights. So, please keep sending them. We would like many more.

You are welcome in this place; there are no dictators here, and there are many people of a friendly disposition who would delight in reading the works of your mind. Again, friends, I say: send in your poems, and do so often!

Desultory talkin' World War III philippic, or how I was William F Buckley'd into agreement

© Copyright Pip Wilson, November 3, 2001 till any date in the future unless otherwise announced

When I was walkin up the stair
I met a man named Tony Blair.
He wasn't there agin today
and he won't be there in the morning.

Along come a man, George W Bush,
Beady eyes and smarmy moosh;
he's bombin from the Hindu Kush
in the cold and snowy mornin.

I looks agin and what'd I see,
a dandelion as big as a tree,
bigger'n Bush and bigger'n me,
it jist grew up in the mornin.

George rode up with his 10-gallon hat
and carryin a baseball bat.
"My friend George what you want with that,
an' yer big ol' hat in the mornin?"

He says, "See this big ol' baseball bat?
I's gonna whup its ass with that.
Gonna knock it down an' lay it flat,
An' it won't git up in the mornin.

"That dandelion, he's a E-Vil weed,
he's full a li'l old E-Vil seeds."
I said, "My friend, best you succeed,
we don't want sin in the mornin."

He took that bat and whupped the ass
of the dandelion, and well you ask
what other things did come to pass
that cold 'n' snowy mornin.

Well all them seeds did fly around
like parachutes, without a sound,
an' some of them they come to ground,
an' they all took root next mornin.

I walked on up them stairs again
and passed by old Afghanistan.
An' I heard them souls all cry in pain,
an' they woke me up this mornin.

BELLO BARDS June 11, '10 barbie report, & Nimbin World Cup

Greetings, Bello Bards and lovers of poetry,

Expecting and organizing for some dozens of our mob, last night's Bello Bards poetry around the bardfire was, sadly, attended by very few (apologies were sent by Marti Guy and Steve Grey due to ill health), but we did pass some resolutions and also read some poetry in convivial circumstances. As the Winter Solstice is upon us soon -- "When the days lengthen, the cold strengthens" -- until the weather is warmer, 'The Ponderosa', Wilson's home at 23 Dowle St will hold Bello Bards meetings indoors around the slow combustion stove. As always, please BYO grog and tucker. Friday night Bello Bards gatherings, every second Friday night at 6:30 pm at 'The Ponderosa', are unrestricted in terms of food and beverage.

It was decided by our small crew to have weekly meetings every 3pm on Saturdays, at 'The Pondereosa', for practising and perfecting our poems for the Nimbin Performance Poetry World Cup. We can help each other improve our poems and their presentation, so Bello Bards will be a force with which to be reckoned in Nimbin, July 31 - August 1, 2010. It was decided by acclamation that no alcohol be consumed at these Saturday afternoon Bello Bards sessions. We might drink afterwards; perhaps even adjourn to the Federal Hotel at about 5pm after we work on our poems and their presentation. At the meeting, we all hoped that future meetings will be well attended both for the pleasure of poetry, and for preparation to win the Nimbin Cup.

As yet undecided: transport and accommodation for the Nimbin Performance Poetry World Cup.

Below are the minutes of the June 11 meeting, kindly recorded by Liz Routledge.

Abundance and gratitude,

Pip Wilson
Local scribbler and, with Liz Routledge, co-administrator of

PS Our troupe has many hundreds of poems not yet submitted. Please send your poems, old or new, to wilsonsalmanac [AT] with the words BELLO BARDS in the subject header. Yours truly will post those poems by people whose surnames begin A-L. Liz Routledge will post those from poets whose surnames begin with the letters M-Z. The "How To" is clearly posted at

**)Ø(** **)Ø(** **)Ø(** **)Ø(** **)Ø(** **)Ø(**

Bello Bards minutes
As recorded by Elizabeth Routledge, June 11, 2010:

Present: Misty Hanley, Iain MacDonald, Elizabeth Routledge, Pip Wilson, Brian Carter, Nick and Belle, Stu and Emily and Lyn Thiry.
ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE NIMBIN WORLD POETRY CUP (and were too lazy to find out for yourself):-

The NPPWC is an annual performance poetry competition held in Nimbin NSW Australia.
The terms and conditions of performance are:
Poets have 8 minutes to perform 1 or more poems.
The competition is run over a weekend with heats and semi-finals held in Nimbin Cafes and the grand-final held on the Sunday evening in the Nimbin Town Hall.
Poems must be the performers' OWN work and must not have been previously performed at the NPPWC.
Performer Poets will be marked on a number of 'attributes' including content, diction, presentation and timing.
Good use of time will be marked by the judges and poets may be penalised for being over time, or running too short.
There is a people's choice award as well as the judges' decision; winners, runners up and encouragement awards.
It is the responsibility of each performer to arrive at their venues on time.
Poets may use an instrument for accompaniment (not a band).
Poets may use props where appropriate.

Entries close Monday July 26, 2010.

All performers will be notified of their venue and heat time by Thursday 29th July 2010.

HEATS: Saturday July 31st
Heats to be held in Cafe's within the Nimbin village.
SEMI FINALS: Sunday August 1st
Semi-finals to be held in Nimbin Cafes from 11am
GRAND FINAL: Sunday August 1st

~ from 7:30pm at the Nimbin Town Hall ~

Verandah Cafe open 6:00pm + After Party.
Entry $10
Nimbin Performance Poetry World Cup 2010

* Entries Close Monday 26th July 2010
* Competition is held on the 31st July and 1st of August in Nimbin NSW Australia.
* Poets have 8 minutes to perform 1 or more original poems.
* Poems must be the performers' OWN work and must not have been previously performed at the NPPWC.
* Good use of time will be marked by the judges and poets may be penalised for being over time, or running too short.
* It is the responsibility of each performer to arrive at their venues on time.
* Poets may use an instrument for accompaniment (not a band).
* Poets may use props where appropriate

Entry Form
Please see

Friday, June 11, 2010


Copyright © Pip Wilson, 2001 - 2010

(To the tune of 'Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos)' a 1948 poem by Woody Guthrie, later set to music, and popularized by Pete Seeger.)

Since many a month we’ve heard not of uncle
and cousin who walked to the Pakistan side.
They said they would get on a boat for Australia
where people are good and will listen their cry.

Our cousin and uncle left home in the summer
when the last pound of rice was our food for three week,
before we ate bark and before we ate grasses,
they went to Australia to be refugee.

Our cousin and uncle were gone when the big planes
scared us away from our village so cursed.
Oh can it be that our uncle to calm us
promised that life could not get any worse?
Goodbye Homayoon, take care of Aziza,
protect my small daughters, Miriam and Farida.
I will send you ten dollar for food for the winter
when I get to Australia and be refugee.

But some say the boats cannot make for the sailing,
and some say Australia will push them to sea.
And some say that uncle and cousin be drownded.
And some say you never hear from refugee.

Let go of my shirt, do not cry my Farida,
I will walk only night through the mountain and snow,
So, insh’allah, Taliban will not catch me,
and, insh’allah, God will care me as I go.

We beat Alexander, we defeated the Buddhist,
We defeated all armies, we beat Genghis Khan,
Three times did the British run away from our courage,
The Russians did run; so will Uncle Sam.

We should happy the river three years without water,
the bridge the big planes will never be bomb.
Eight days I will get to Peshawar, my brother.
I will rich in Australia and send money home.
Goodbye Homayoon, take care of Aziza,
protect my small daughters, Miriam and Farida.
I will send you ten dollar for food for the winter
when I get to Australia and be refugee.

And rice will be yours for to eat when I get home
with one hundred dollar and Aziza will cook boulani.
And one day America will catch that bad Arab
who bombed California, and we will be free.
Goodbye Homayoon, take care of Aziza,
protect my small daughters, Miriam and Farida.
I will send you ten dollar for food for the winter
when I get to Australia and be refugee.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

I think it in banana

© Copyright Pip Wilson, 2010

I write it in cherry.
You read it in berry
and like it.

The shame is that cherry
I cannot abide.
What shame you don't taste
what I think or I write.
And berry's a flavour
I do not much like.

How holy would be
our poetical karma
if only I wrote and you read
in banana.

Rainy Daze

© Copyright Fiona Kendall, 2006

Butterflies flutter,
hearts do too,
plans come and go,
dreams do come true.

Matters of your once shattered heart,
rise to the surface,
you wonder,
how did this start?

Right time,
same place,
when we came,
face to face.

Cup's half full

© Copyright Fiona Kendall, 2005

Driving hot streets and lonely roads,
lost in fantasy,
each day,
it grows.

Standing round, the human carousel,
reality dawns,
then it begins,
in real life,
it's bottom of the bin.

Worlds within worlds,
many exist,
caught between,
truth and myth.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

To 'the ladies'

© Copyright Pip Wilson, 2010

When I was in fear of losing my livelihood
Because I came into work a bit tired one morning,
And said to two of my colleagues,
Who I thought were my friends,
"Good morning ladies",
And they railed against me most fearsomely,
And hissed at me, and threatened to report me to Management,
I, being quite a quick learner, quickly learned to say
"Good morning women", or "Good morning womyn",
However it is spelled,
So, whenever I came into work tired,
And perhaps not thinking completely clearly,
Or not tired,
Or into any social situation where females were present,
I leaned how to speak.
Because I am a coward, but also I know
On which side my bread is buttered.
Because if I was dismissed from that horrible job,
I would not have been able to pay my rent,
Nor my grocery bills, my electricity, phone and Internet,
Nor buy my children food, nor clothes, nor birthday gifts,
And I would have been evicted, and homeless.
So I learned the correct manner of diction.
Because, also, I do not care much for living under bridges.

I've had too many mates who've lived under bridges,
And they assure me it’s not as good as it sounds.

So when I hear womyn call each other
"Girls", "chicks", "ladies", "girlfriends" and "bitches",
I thank Providence
And my own sense of pride, cunning, tenacity and strength,
And my uncanny ability to survive
Almost all "kicks against the pricks",
As the Good Book calls it in the Authorised Version,
That I still have a mind that works – quite well, if I might say so myself,
And that I have never been evicted from any home,
Never had my electricity cut off,
Never had my phone cut off,
And, believe it or not,
I have never, ever missed a meal in my life,
Unless I was on a fast,
Done for my own purification
And for a dash of reasonableness in the world.

And I have never lost a job for a slip of the tongue --
I have only lost a job or two
For what I considered then, and consider now
Very deliberate, honest, reasoned, reasonable assertions of the tongue.

Goodnight ladies, ladies goodnight.