I regularly read the poetry at this blog.  Thanks Robert for your inspiration.

O at the Edges



That it begins.
And like a wave which appears
only to lose itself

in dispersal, rising whole again
yet incomplete in all but
form, it returns.

Music. The true magic.

Each day the sun passes over the river,
bringing warmth to it. Such

devotion inspires movement: a cello in the
darkness, the passage of sparrows. Sighs.

The currents are of our own
making. If we listen do we also

hear? These bodies. These silent voices.

* * *

“Requiem” was written in the 80s, in response to a piece of music. It made its most recent appearance here in November 2016.


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my mother’s garden — love the people you meet

Sharing this piece from my dear friend Mel Irvine.

my mother’s garden is older than me in places (it has places) i have never stood or seen until now, remembering cedar trees (dad planted them when we were little) and weekends spent collecting bush seeds, saplings and native vines, repotted in the school holidays when the other kids in the street visited the city […]

via my mother’s garden — love the people you meet

A Brief History of Edges

Love visiting this blog.

O at the Edges


A Brief History of Edges

This road leads nowhere. I live at its end where breezes
wilt and the sun still burns my darkened skin.

I’ve sailed to Oman, but have never seen the Dakotas.
My friend searches for the concealed parable in this truth.

An early clay map depicted Babylon surrounded by a bitter river,
and an island named the sun is hidden and nothing can be seen.

Fitting the limitless within boundaries, she remembers no one.
The lighted sign says boots, but I see books.

Venturing from the shadows, she offers an accord: intersecting borders,
we must retain ourselves, deliver what calls.

In our place between the hidden and the invisible, consider
that neon gas possesses neither color nor odor.

What lives in creases and at the periphery? The isle called beyond
the flight of birds has crumbled from the lower edge.


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An early fall walk in the evening

I love visiting John’s blog, and reflecting on his poetry. He also has a wonderful photography blog and shares photographs with the Nineteen Months project.

the Book of Pain

IMG_6684What I remember best is the sharp smell of wild grapes
carried aloft in a warm updraft, their sharp tang a hint
of the coming winter, when their leaves will be withered
and the vines hard and dry, their hopes gone and the roots
hidden in sleep. I know they don’t, but I wonder—do they
dream, longing for a wet spring and a warm summer sun?

Do they yearn for another year, to bear again their bitter fruit?
Do they think about waking, and then, knowing that they are awake,
do they bask in the knowledge that they are the good creation of a
good God, aright in their place and placed aright by love’s design?
So much living, I think, for such a little tang on a last warm night,
there and then gone in a quick waft of air. Was it ever there at all?


It was actually on a bicycle ride when the scent of wild grapes hit us, so it is a small exercise of my artistic license…

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Willow~Haiku Linkage Leap

Really enjoying Carol’s exploration of the short forms. Thanks for sharing Carol.


Willow~Rostislav Kralik Willow~Rostislav Kralik

Willow kisses grass

Formed by many winds

The earth is curved


© Carol Campbell 2015

Prompt from:

“This week our HWT is Leap Linkage. As a writer’s skills increase, and as he or she reads many haiku, as we all do here at CDHK, either their own or others, such easy leaps quickly fade in excitement. Being human, we seem destined to seek the next level of difficulty and to find new thrills. So the writer begins to attempt leaps that a reader new to haiku may not follow and therefore judge to be nonsense. The nice thing about this aspect is that when one begins to read haiku by a certain author, one will find some of the haiku simply meaningless,but years later, with many haiku experiences, the reader will discover the truth or poetry or beauty in a haiku that seemed dead and closed…

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Letter from Insomnia

Thanks for sharing Robert.

O at the Edges


Posting this in response to Jeff Schwaner’s Full Moon Social. No time to write a new one, so I hope this oldie will do.

Letter from Insomnia

Accepting Li Po’s tragedy,
apocryphal or not,

we embrace her imperfect
rippling in the breeze,

but manage to surface.

I once thought I would name a child Luna
and she would glow at night

and like Hendrix, kiss the sky.
But that was whimsy

and only candles light this room
at this hour
on this particular day
in this year of the snake.

And what fool would reach for a stone orbiting at
1,023 meters per second?

There are clouds to consider, the stars
and the scattering rain

and of course wine
and the possibilities within each glass
and the drops therein.
We must discuss these matters

under her gaze, where smallness gathers.

This originally appeared in Middle Gray in October…

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It goes with the territory

It’s very moving visiting John Etheridge’s poetry. And he’s a wonderful photographer as well.

the Book of Pain


I heard she made her kids promise to cremate her—
anything but anything not to go into that cold ground alone.
I remember…I was young, but old enough (and am now old,
but young enough) to know  how transitory it all was, even then:
how hot it was and she in just her bra, her kids looking scared
(something I was not used to and still wonder about)
while she smoked her long thin menthols and asked me
for a glass of ice water.

I wouldn’t, today, know one of my cousins (twice removed)
if I met one, nor have a clue, life being what it is, as to
their scatterings and shatterings, or what they embrace
and what they cannot. But I recall how slippery that glass was
with the condensation running down my back
and how the ice didn’t rattle as I handed it to her,
although it was a near thing. Now I rather think it might,
not that I care where they bury me.


The photograph was taken at Benjamin Franklin’s grave in Philadelphia, PA. To see…

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Treasured Imperfections

TreasuredImperfections (2)

Brendan Bonsack is a songwriter and poet from Melbourne. He performs regularly, both solo and in the folk trio, Accidental Bedfellows.

His work has been recognised with a number of awards and has been translated into Polish and Russian. Brendan’s books and albums are available online via

Thanks for permission to share this work Brendan.