Artists and Poets
- Adam Bosich / Natasha L Adams & Andrew Burke & Sue Clennell
- Dennis Goater / Sue Clennell & Sally Clarke & Saz Campbell
- Harry Wheeler / Maureen Sexton & Sue Clennell & Helen Hagemann
- Jay Morris / Sue Clennell & Christopher Konrad & Deanne Leber
- Emma Tamblyn / Val Neubecker & Sue Clennell & Glen Phillips
- Emma Biasin / Caroline Sambridge & Flora Smith & Sue Clennell
- 7. Emma Biasin / Trisha Kotai-Ewers & Michael Williams
- Raymond Thomas / Gary Colombo De Piazzi & Scott-Patrick Mitchell
- Craig Essler / Glen Phillips & Sue Clennell & Gary Colombo De Piazzi
- Joanne Schoenfeld / Paula Jones & Sue Clennell
- Avril-Jo Copping / Helen Hagemann & Kevin Gillam
- Tony Santoro / Christopher Konrad & Jaya Penelope
- Tony Santoro / Sally Clarke & Val Neubecker
- Trevor Mitchell / Maureen Sexton & Jan Napier & Nathan Hondros
- Tony Pedrochi / Deanne Leber & Scott-Patrick Mitchell & Maureen Sexton
- Tony Pedrochi / Sue Clennell & Gary Colombo De Piazzi & Annamaria Weldon
- Graham Hoffman / Jan Napier & Annamaria Weldon
- Graham Hoffman / Annamaria Weldon & Nathan Hondros
- name withheld / Mardi May & Jaya Penelope
- name withheld / Michael Williams & Maureen Sexton
- Graham Soulsby / Val Neubecker & Paula Jones
- Graham Soulsby / Jeremy Balius & Saz Campbell
- Kathy Adair / Liana Joy Christensen & Natasha L Adams
- Kathy Adair / Mardi May & Jaya Penelope
- Alfie Campbell / Val Neubecker & Julienne Juschke
- Alfie Campbell / Natasha L Adams & Catherine Szathmary & Nathan Hondros
- Kristen Cameron / Natasha L Adams & Deanne Leber
- Kristen Cameron / Christopher Konrad & Christina Gammon
- Michael Hoey / Natasha L Adams & Jeremy Balius & Maureen Sexton
- Peter Layton / Paula Jones & Sally Clarke
- Jodie Leuba / Mardi May & Julienne Juschke
- Lisa Bernic / Catherine Szathmary & Caroline Sambridge
- Meryl Harris / Trisha Kotai-Ewers & Sue Clennell & Glen Phillips
- Lisa Williams / Peter Jeffery & Sue Clennell
- Vivienne Sharp, Lisa Williams, Graham Soulsby & Kristen Cameron / Andrew Burke & Jeremy Balius
- Peter Iland / Christopher Konrad & Maureen Sexton
- Ken Reedy / Jan Napier & Sue Clennell & Flora Smith
- Terry Cousins / Jaya Penelope & Caroline Sambridge
- Mark Peacock / Kevin Gillam & Paula Jones
- Keith Meakins / Liana Joy Christensen & Saz Campbell
- Keith Meakins / Natasha L Adams & Nathan Hondros
- Keith Meakins / Jan Napier & Caroline Sambridge
- Keith Meakins / Annamaria Weldon & Gary Colombo De Piazzi
- Robbie Wiltshire / Jan Napier & Sue Clennell
- Barry Tonkin / Helen Hagemann & Jeremy Balius
- Cheryl Ham / Catherine Szathmary & Julienne Juschke
- Millie D’Rozario / Christina Gammon & Andrew Burke
- Millie D’Rozario / Scott-Patrick Mitchell & Kevin Gillam
- John Tilbrook / Sally Clarke & Jan Napier & Maureen Sexton
- Jenny Travers / Christina Gammon & Saz Campbell
- Reg Mitchell / Liana Joy Christensen & Mardi May & Kevin Gillam
- Klyrisa Drane / Glen Phillips & Catherine Szathmary
- Elinor Doddrell / Sue Clennell & Maureen Sexton & Deanne Leber
- Warren Brass / Peter Jeffery & Sally Clarke
- Odile Frichot / Liana Joy Christensen & Andrew Burke& Sue Clennell
- Janelle McMahon / Sue Clennell & Christina Gammon
- Jeffrey Loh / Peter Jeffery & Trisha Kotai-Ewers
- Dennis Tomlinson / Sally Clarke & Helen Hagemann
- Dennis Tomlinson / Mardi May & Scott-Patrick Mitchell
- Colette Deavin / Julienne Juschke & Deanne Leber
- Tony Langmaid / Trisha Kotai-Ewers & Val Neubecker
- Tony Langmaid / Michael Williams & Flora Smith
- Adam Bosich
Me!
Free as the spring rivers that flow
or the summer breeze that blows
I’m a leaf on the wind, drift wood on the sea
I’m easy going, I’m just happy being me!
Natasha L Adams
You’ve got to hand it to Adam –
He gave it his all and it came off.
Any other artist may have tried
Variety: not simply hands
But a nose, perhaps an elbow.
Adam stuck to his hands,
And, hence, didn’t put
His foot in it.
Andrew Burke
Pat a cake Pat a cake, Baker’s man.
This is a game to play if you can.
Take the blue of sky
yellow and green
pat it all over
with black in between
mix it all up
with the handprint of man
this should remind you
how art began.
Sue Clennell
- Dennis Goater
The wind’s eye spies
on my red breasted birds and
lush green hills.
A kiss of grapes and wine,
mandarins, oranges, pears,
softens the farmer’s cheek.
Sue Clennell
if I had a car,
I would drive
through this countryside,
race along enjoying the scene—
cows grazing in green paddocks,
birds winging in blue skies,
distant mountains.
perhaps you can come,
bring a picnic,
plenty of cake.
Sally Clarke
The Space (Ships) Between You and I
Cosmic law invites me to dine
upon secrets
the many unknown phenomena
bigger than you and I
E T beings
springboks galore
ancestors evolved
soon coming in ships
dissolving the space
between you and I
Saz Campbell
- Harry Wheeler
The flavour of the valley
with its red and purple grapes
under a golden sun
and masses of bougainvillea
lining the fences.
Try some cheese or
a taste of chocolate?
Perhaps a three-course meal?
How refined can you get?
Maureen Sexton
Purple grapes explode
against the roof of my mouth,
Lemon ice-cream rains down.
Sue Clennell
Saved
The wind scatters the heads of thistles. The crowd roars and all the bottle tops flip to the floor. Cotton balls fall from the bathroom cabinet to the sink. The red pom-poms of the marching girls float in the air. Blueberry muffins line the tea tray. All these objects assemble: thistles, bottle tops, cotton balls. The muffins meld into shapes like the wayward fluff of pom-poms. You can no longer hear the wind, the click of the cabinet door, the roar of the parade, or the crowds at the football. Only these little shapes, chuckling; colourful balls interlocked on canvas, where they never want to leave.
Helen Hagemann
- Jay Morris
Here fairy dust is
sprinkled in a magic circle.
Let the child who will,
dare to put her foot in.
Sue Clennell
The dimension of depth
I look behind her eye
it takes me to other universes and
leads me to my nebula layers
There I am bereft of any knowledge:
your iris
it has depth and dimension that leaves my tongue
dry as a desert
Speech has no sound in your place of creation
but a crescendo
through this glittery gossamer dragonfly
Christopher Konrad
there are galaxies
millions of suns
squeezed into paint
your fingers
absorbing rhythms
some days
the whirl of earth
barely contains your skin
dancing across canvas
suns twirling irises
Deanne Leber
- Emma Tamblyn
Crossroads
A confusion of options –
which way to go?
you could take the road ahead
but what about the others
where do they go
what might they lead to
…indecision…
you have to make a choice
It’s just like life, really.
Val Neubecker
Great grandmother’s quilt
stitched up births marriages
deaths and other misfortunes
poverty war homecomings,
poetry made from life’s scraps
to wrap around our limbs.
Sue Clennell
Intersecting
A tanka for Emma Tamblyn
I like to know where
the road to the road leading
to my house (our house)
is to be found. For only
when I know that, am I ‘found’.
Glen Phillips
- Emma Biasin
Sun, rain, sand and surf
I prefer staying on the turf.
We need our dose of winter rain
otherwise the water will go down the drain.
They’re like a bunch of precious jewels –
if we lost them we’d be a mob of fools.
Caroline Sambridge
Desiderata
I sing songs of summer. My soul stretches, sighs
for beaches, river walks in flaming evening skies.
I have learned to love winters of wild weather,
trees weaving in majestic dance, the snow of hail.
I have not yet learned the stillness of the seas.
Waters always moving, always fed by rain
or river, they seem calm as a sated lover.
What is this trick of duality,
this transmuting of opposites into a unified whole?
Flora Smith
For me the clouds
all have silver linings,
with raindrops as big
as blue rubies.
For me the sun
tosses its curls
and the sea bows
whitely.
Sue Clennell
- Emma Biasin
Smiling leaves embrace me
while flowers
dance around my feet.
Earth sings
with those who love.
Trisha Kotai-Ewers
sunshine brings blossoms
winds beat fruit to the ground
is nature crazy
Michael Williams
- Raymond Thomas
Symphony
Music plays my brush
conducting symphonies
with erratic strokes.
A splosh here, a cymbal there
strings weave and wind
blows pure notes of gold.
The colours music play
make me smile.
Gary Colombo De Piazzi
duplicity to the
a ray on in blue
crayon. i shall
tumble & trail
, i shall star as
mango snails a
curl of the chin
. i am everything
, at the same time
.
Scott-Patrick Mitchell
- Craig Essler
Longing For Second Sight
Unbeknown to me, as a four-year-old,
I must have been terribly short-sighted.
My own world then so much tinier
that the next farm seemed about three
miles away instead of less than one.
I could see every bristle on dad’s face
and the print big as billboards in picture books.
But now, as the joke of old age proceeds
I hold books at arm’s length, seeking second sight.
Glen Phillips
Some people collect shells but
I seek mermaids’ tales.
Where ships with spillage cannot go
and the water still bubbles and breathes,
scales wink behind the seaweed.
Sue Clennell
Final Preparations
Sunset kissed clouds
make their preparations
before going out.
In warm hues cloaked
against sky’s blue
madly scramble
and rush to night’s
pleasures.
Gary Colombo De Piazzi
- Joanne Schoenfeld
My Land is the sea
My land is the red clay
My land is the rugged bush
and the creek that runs through it
My land covers the four points
North, South, East, West
My land is the animal tracks
and the roads that lead anywhere
Here anything is possible
Paula Jones
My roads lead to mangroves
desert wattle banksia.
I skim the Australian skin,
swallow chunks of land
through my eyes,
map it out
cut it into edible slices,
for those of you
who come after.
Sue Clennell
- Avril-Jo Copping
crossing the night
the stars are raindrops
glass pearls of the sky, night a dome of yellow
and the wind arrives on horseback
we wonder about the woman waving her umbrella
is that her steed, harnessed and pulling her along?
the woman dabbing each raindrop
bluing the night
as if each sway of indigo, purple, cobalt
might leave a mark
where she has been
Helen Hagemann
your dreaming
your dreaming is done in water-
a jaundiced sky, daubs of cloud
sucking at blue to wrestle with
bushfired yesterdays, tomorrow’s
blood sunsets, then you,
surfacing, blinking, screaming
Kevin Gillam
- Tony Santoro
Hidden biography
And there you were
as suddenly as I could imagine
Your painting stood before me like a prediction
The colours of your art dreamt me and
I could not hide under your vision
I taste bubbles:
on their convex my visage is realised
This, my hidden biography
Christopher Konrad
Under a marzipan
sky on the night
of ten fat full moons,
a solitary strawberry
on my tongue, oh,
my hot hearted secret.
Jaya Penelope
- Tony Santoro
Chinese lanterns
illuminate shishkebabs
skewered on the barbecue,
red peppers, yellow squash.
sweet-tooths wait for fruit salad,
strawberries, watermelon
pineapple and mango,
served with butterfly ice-cream.
Sally Clarke
Indulgence
I usually restrain myself,
Today I had a lapse,
I purchased an assortment
And removed the outer wraps.
Some barley sugar, raspberry jubes
And mini licorice straps,
It’s far too much for one to eat,
I’ll share them out – perhaps!
Val Neubecker
- Trevor Mitchell
Mila, the Sea Canary
Did you cluck and whistle, squeak and
squeal when you sensed the diver was
drowning? Were you tempted, for a brief
moment to let her die? Hunted by humans
I wouldn’t have blamed you.
But not you, magical creature, gentle white
whale, not you. Play now in this ice blue
water while you still can. Let me watch you,
while I still can.
Maureen Sexton
Multiples of Melville’s albino beast
sport dive spout.
Great tails smack blue into spray
as these flukes of nature
proclaim their presence.
Jan Napier
a white canvas cannot
escape this sheer blue –
this art has flown from the hand,
and purchased its empty space,
(shapes he didn’t paint
grow wings and fly
terribly far
Nathan Hondros
- Tony Pedrochi
spaghetti
ties itself in
loops and swirls
meatballs
chase cheese
green herbs
decorate
our laughter
folded into napkins
wriggling free
Deanne Leber
definition
peel this all back. find the point that
paints first kisses, stipulates &
bristles the rush of colour
. i am not an artist, i am an
instigator
.
Scott-Patrick Mitchell
Mediterranean Vista
This is true Italian.
I can almost taste
tomatoes, red wine
parsley, artichokes
mozzarella cheese.
The flag is flying
above the olive tree.
Maureen Sexton
- Tony Pedrochi
Mexicans say butterflies
are the souls of children
flying to heaven.
God smiles on all
their colours.
Sue Clennell
Memories
i Dolomiti lo convocano
(the Dolomites summon me)
The cool, brisk mountain air
enlivens as nothing else.
From my vantage point
the world unfolds. Conifer and
chestnut splashed with primula
negritella and sparviera.
Freedom is a breath of fresh air
on a mountain in Italy.
tongue tingles
caught in kaleidoscope colours-
gelato
Gary Colombo De Piazzi
The Dolomites are a mountain range on the Swiss/Italian border. Primula, negritella and sparviera are alpine flowers
Emergence
Beauty yearns to be visible
in gentle mirrors, leans towards
stillness that like water will hold
its image tenderly, colour
reflections transparent and trace
veins delicate as petals just
unfurled, their scent ephemeral.
All brilliance seeks its light, splits
the chrysalis, parts the clouds.
Annamaria Weldon
- Graham Hoffman
A joyous hose
puddles lawn beyond
the bluestone wall
sprays Billy’s yellow ball
a bounce upon the path.
Colour it fun.
Jan Napier
A shape shore dreams
Looking back from this far out at sea
the city seems a dream shore shaped
between waking and sleep.
Sun dance on water, sky and wind.
All belong, red waves breaking
in the foreground, a distant steadiness
of green beyond fragile walls
we hide behind or hang pictures on
to live inside.
Annamaria Weldon
- Graham Hoffman
Soft eyes
On days of yellow
sky, when bright leaves float
like shoals of fish, soft
eyes are all we need
to see infinite possibilities.
On days of yellow sky, the hidden world
shakes its cloak like shards of jewel-coloured
glass, spins its random orbit like a dance.
Annamaria Weldon
Colours in relief. As though leaves or mouths are against the yellow glass, he’s come through with the colour and direction of things, as though taken by the weather’s strength. All this gropes out the blond sun. We alone see the cold day warming in light, none of us above the autumn wind. This language cannot be exact, the way that he speaks it across the page, but I grope out its paths, thinking of a day I remember – cold, then warm, the leafy autumn colours running through it. (Somewhere else I speak as though on a telephone, getting down the blue and green any way I can
Nathan Hondros
- name withheld
Bowerbird
Bowerbird wanders through
a field of scattered jewels,
rakes aside the fire-red rubies
and emeralds of jungle green.
Closing his eyes against
the dazzle of sun gold,
he flies blue-skywards
with a harvest of sapphires.
Mardi May
a speckled galaxy
of broken egg shell
& one wet winged bird
walking this trembling
grey world.
Jaya Penelope
- name withheld
Strawberries
Now, in winter down-under,
blustered by winds
and drenched by rain,
I dream, in the occasional periods
of warm July sunshine,
of last summer’s strawberries;
only one dollar a punnet.
Served, in small glass bowls,
with a liberal sprinkle of sugar
and a pouring of cream…of course.
Michael Williams
my guitar gently sings
in this sea of green
a concert springs to life
there are yellow submarines
and i say it’s all right
‘cos i can see the sky of blue
now the walrus gave me wings
goo goo gajoob to you
as my guitar gently sings
Maureen Sexton
- Graham Soulsby
Supporters
The rain won’t keep them away
they have scarves
beanies
ponchos
the gates open
and they rush forward
into the stadium
eyes as intense as
the club colours.
Val Neubecker
Have you seen a snowflake
floating in the blue blue day?
Have you made a snowball
and tossed it into the wide open sky?
Have you watched the way snow
falls like feathers to the ground?
No, not me, either.
I live on the sand by the sea.
I paint myself a snow-scene
so we may imagine it together.
Paula Jones
- Graham Soulsby
A thought is formed (3 haiku)
In the birth of a
thought in the shadowy cor-
ners of mind, clouded
the epicentre
modulates while the run-off
is forgotten soon.
Clarity will come
With direction and purpose:
a shining pure thought.
Jeremy Balius
Stories of Me
Harry Potter’s tree
magic
explodes on the canvas
the wonder of Me
roots of stories
and listening trees
freefalling me into
stories of Me
on the script of my canvas
of all of the Mes
Saz Campbell
- Kathy Adair
Not the white album
Forget the white album
this impassioned impasto conjures Sgt Peppers
crowded flowers, hours filled with music
from before the fall
In a Gadda da Vida
this iron butterfly knows her mind
is wise enough to assert the primal
colours of paradise
Liana Joy Christensen
Many Hands….
Sun rays lazily stretch
golden arms
Yellow light spills and runs
over the orchard
Mothers, Fathers, Sisters, Brothers
Friends and Family gather
She claps her hands and rubs them together
Let’s make a start!
Natasha L Adams
- Kathy Adair
Songs For Kathy
In my garden of music
I plant songs I can sing,
old tunes, perennial
as wildflowers in spring.
They are songs everlasting
with words that I know
and they brighten my life,
these tunes that I sow.
Mardi May
in the greenwoods
we shed our shame, dance
in the soft pink animals
of our skin,
Jaya Penelope
- Alfie Campbell
Coral
Shafts of sunlight
dive into the depths
to illuminate
the lollypop kingdom
of the underwater world
while the tide
wriggles
its way through.
Val Neubecker
The breeze engaged with autumn leaves
Played on the toes and into twirls
Wonderful sounds heard in the trees
Wonderful sights seen in my world
The sun, the grass, the cool fresh air
Be there true, or stories told
These moments bring a wealth of life
More precious than a box of gold
Julienne Juschke
- Alfie Campbell
Can You See Him?
He sits there watching them come and go
Like the tide, they ebb & flow
Peak hour rush and crush in the train
No one notices him at the station
The homeless man
Natasha L Adams
Irises and daffodils
Dance in syncopated harmony
Boldly, brightly
Colour my world
Memory of
Butterflies in spring.
Catherine Szathmary
proving the struggle of colour,
his form collides on the canvas;
we both know perhaps that art will not always
follow the hand’s intentions,
no matter how precisely
executed in the mind,
(none of this matters,
only that the page is covered in words,
that the empty canvas
is burdened with colour.
Nathan Hondros
- Kristen Cameron
Forever Yours
Steven Hawking says there are 11 Universes
Stacked upon each other
I wonder which one we are in?
Take my hand and come with me
‘Til the end of time, my love
Natasha L Adams
I’d love to dance
in strawberry fields
squeeze pulp between toes
leave traces on canvas
a sweet path to follow
framed and pinned to a wall
I would dance that distance
for you.
Deanne Leber
- Kristen Cameron
Where We Are
This lithograph form you cast
this image you weave
speaks of people
of sweet embrace
it tells the story of nests and homes
where stone is a hearth and
our reach is like threads to one another
a weave through which we are bound in the everyday
This print is a wild thing
it is the heart of where we are
Christopher Konrad
The Dance
There is a dance floor
Behind my eyes
and a mirror ball
that spins
to the sound of
a Viennese waltz.
One, two, three
stepping, turning and
moving to the music,
my mind is never still.
Christina Gammon
- Michael Hoey
ImagiNation
Close your eyes and come with me
to the night garden in my mind
A full moon is the illumination of my imagination
Wisps of clouds float past on star light
Moon flowers smile in full bloom
A galaxy of dreaming here in my mind
Natasha L Adams
Luigi Russolo Writes A Song
while sitting at his purple desk with
enharmonic notation strewn ab-
out, the objet trouvé state of feel
conswirbled the SCENE of micro-
tonal stars and quarks: resem’ling
rrrumbles and whissspers. he
murmursss “my purple horizon creak-
rustles and crackle-screeches and
my sun has scatter-buzz wheezed!”
the touch is the sound is the sight.
Jeremy Balius
A Place of My Own
gooey marshmallow flows
past chills of silky water
‘round a wisp of rabbit tail
through gleams of warm-gold sun
aside the jolt of electric jewels
and rising up, the caress
of a cheerful, bulbous sunflower
Maureen Sexton
- Peter Layton
Flowers for Gran
Rose is for her sweetest smile
Yellow is her happiness
Blue is for her smooth hands
White is for her softest skin
A rainbow from the earth
A rainbow for my Gran
Smell the flower rainbow
I picked it just for you
Paula Jones
my Gran loves flowers.
I’ve painted this nosegay,
her favourites,
all the colours I could find.
smell the freshness.
you can’t have this painting,
I’ve created it,
especially for Gran,
her present, for Christmas.
do you think she’ll like it?
Sally Clarke
- Jodie Leuba
Creation
In the beginning,
a brush tip, tentative, across
an empty canvas landscape.
The creator’s hand, filled
with primary colours,
paints life cell by cell;
a simplicity of form
vibrant with promise,
waiting for breath.
Mardi May
The rain outside falls like colourful strings
An Indian curtain of shimmering beads
Beads, so gently, nudged to the side
On a slide of a warm morning breeze
Julienne Juschke
- Lisa Bernic
Red and blue and purple too,
Hydrangea blooms
Cool and inviting
Cast your eye upon my majesty
And tell me again how you don’t believe
Catherine Szathmary
My favourite colours are blue and red.
I also like purple and black.
When I’ve finished painting I’ll rest my head.
I’ll turn the light off and hit the sack.
Caroline Sambridge
- Meryl Harris
You smile
and
fireflies whirl around our heads
cherry blossom
rains upon our shoulders.
All that was broken
mends itself anew
and everything
bursts out
singing.
Trisha Kotai-Ewers
A single black shoe
among the confetti.
What has passed –
tragedy or comedy?
Sue Clennell
Beach Picnics
An englyn for Meryl Harris
Is it not strange beachgoers wear bright clothes—
Bare faced, bare chested here?
Are they sea worshippers, near
To god and hoping good cheer?
Glen Phillips
- Lisa Williams
Two Little Vegemites
Dear Lisa, I hope they call you a ‘little vegemite’
Because I think I’m one too. You’ve painted something
Good enough to eat, and you ask me what I see.
I see worming around some wriggly spaghetti,
And though the Italians eat it with pomidori,
If we eat it with vegemite and give lots to others,
I am sure we can export it like vegemite jars,
To Italy and certainly to China,
where their iron chefs will say there is nothing finer
than “Spaghetti Australie a la two little vegemites.”
Peter Jeffery
Coco pops
chocolate powder
sugar highs
loving mother
vegemite tick-tack-toe
salty tongue
six o’clock shadow
playful father.
Sue Clennell
- Vivienne Sharp, Lisa Williams, Graham Soulsby & Kristen Cameron
What do you see? Me? Paint
is no mirror glass. There is
a moment I was
here, a human doing,
another becoming,
never the same
Now, do you see?
Andrew Burke
We Only Ever
We don’t ever listen to the weatherman’s speeches
We only ever skip flat stones on the lake whatever the season
We don’t ever borrow silhouettes from dark thrillers
We only ever collect glimpses of colour-seas for our memories
We don’t ever cross-examine the narrator or characters
We only ever set sail at night and let the wind decide direction
We don’t ever let the subject matter harangue the experience
We only ever rattle the shackles and manacles of our languages
We don’t ever masquerade as the talk of the shadow-towns
We only ever descend into evening with alert eyes and hope
Jeremy Balius
- Peter Iland
Rivers Of Space
It is the rivers of space that define me
as much as the palette of this world
as much as all the reification the senses have to offer
The realm of colour can, at times, leave me dry
like an island in the moisture of imagination
My poems are a pointillist portrait
where the dots are all gone
nothing left but an empty hologram
This is not my concern
this is my new, wild freedom
Christopher Konrad
An artist’s palette full of colours
or an artist’s plate full of pies –
rhubarb, apple, blueberry
beef, chicken, spinach –
which colour shall I choose?
Maureen Sexton
- Ken Reedy
The dark beast bows his head
brings a tribute of lesser blooms
to lay before Apollo’s rose.
Feels all sunshiny inside.
Jan Napier
We all look for
the ultimate,
the golden fleece,
I think I have found it,
in people’s smiles.
Sue Clennell
Pure Bull
I am Blue Ribbon, Best in Show,
my head held high, my testes low.
Reliabull, dependabull and infinitely capabull
of impregnating any old cow
from paddock runt to well-bred dam.
I show those cockies what I am
and when and where and how!
Adaptabull and sociabull, I charm them all;
so affabull, so truly incomparabull!
Flora Smith
- Terry Cousins
While the world’s asleep
let’s spatter sunflowers over
the eyelids of the sleeping
or send scarlet sombreros
spinning. Let’s paint this night
the wild colour of our dreaming.
While the world’s asleep
I paint the night with wild
colours of my dreaming
Jaya Penelope
At night time my mind comes alive.
I’d love to go out for a drive.
I’d love to go and see the sights.
I’d like to see the colour of the night.
Caroline Sambridge
- Mark Peacock
flying east
its a bird, a yellowish bird
flying east,
east across the scribbles of suburbia,
across red blemishes
we call prosperity
a yellowish bird, a bird flying
Kevin Gillam
muddy puddles
sloshing swirling
summer-blue to winter-grey
finger squishing
splodging slurping
the blossoms from the trees
yellow red blue
sit upon
the brown-muddied mess
floats upon the mud
Paula Jones
- Keith Meakins
Music of the Spheres
this god of small things is a landscape gardener
of the miniature
spare, particular, precise
the palette mutely invites
take the time to look twice, take the time to hear
the music of the spheres ringing truly in the night
no commandments say you must choose
to revere such exactitude, yet if you do
you may glimpse this god of small things
smiling quietly in the day
Liana Joy Christensen
From My H/Art to Yours
Palette of my h/art
makes music of Ireland
enticing engaging
Celtic circles of life
charm me, excite me
exposing my h/art
my desire to sculpt you
the palette of my h/art
Saz Campbell
- Keith Meakins
Nana’s Patchwork
My Nana made me patch work
She sat up every night sewing
Before I was born
Perfection in cloth
Made to wrap me in and keep me warm
She thought I’d be a girl!
Natasha L Adams
Harbour lights.
Six PM sunset crowns us with red light that is there in pools around our ankles as well; suburban hymns sound across the harbour. This is the memory this painting evokes of the waterside approach of evening, but these red spears are not all sun and receding illumination, they are also the capital bold poetry of resistance, an impression of something possible.
Nathan Hondros
- Keith Meakins
Saurian and sabre tooth
settle down
sink their differences
in La Brea’s tarpits.
Bone idyll.
Jan Napier
Guess what’s hidden inside this pic?
It will really make your brain go tick.
It looks just like a stormy night.
That would be a brilliant sight.
Caroline Sambridge
- Keith Meakins
Before Rain
Paint me a treasure map, guide
back to this bright ground, keepsake
shapes and colours for fading
hours to come. While warm winds loop
clear sky, capture the sunlight
before rain blurs the lines. Then
we’ll divide the page, taking
a piece each and find our way
back here some day, separate
halves joined, the picture complete.
Annamaria Weldon
Dancing
In shades of green she stared at me.
Oblivious, I danced the river.
Hands on hips, feet swift
tempo rapid and hard.
On I danced, resplendent in blue
till the floor reverberated.
I danced to her, took her hand
and together, colleen and boyo
we tapped the floor to the
beat of our hearts.
Gary Colombo De Piazzi
Back to top
- Robbie Wiltshire
Pitcher of Woe
They kneel pick up the potsherds.
Mother skims eyes skywards
watches tears well
wishes her favourites
weren’t so fragile.
Jan Napier
My heart bleeds blue
for the tuskless elephants,
lost whales white bears
disappearing frogs,
and for all of you out there
alone.
Sue Clennell
- Barry Tonkin
Tibetan temple
a worn rattan mat welcomes
the bleeding sandals
Helen Hagemann
When The Fields Stand Up And March
When the fields stand up and march,
The billowing dust clouds exhale and
Exhume the buried rays of sunlight.
When the fields stand up and march,
The trees and valleys scheme and con-
Spire; raising their fists and stamping.
When the fields stand up and march,
The red-hatted farmers dance circles
Singing: “Hurrah, hurrah, let the harp
Of the wind carry our parade home.”
Jeremy Balius
- Cheryl Ham
A garden blooms
In summer hues
Red roses nod in drowsy haze
Bring on sunny summer days!
Catherine Szathmary
There’s nothing like a Subi game
Opponents wearing away-game stripes
A well-played field on muddy ground
With hopeful teams who’ll lose the fight
Where stormy days of rain and Eagles
Leave stripes all covered with mud and grass
West Coast Eagles all the way
Our Subi guests must rank in last!
Julienne Juschke
- Millie D’Rozario
Imprisoned
I watched it from the window,
as it bloomed
from fresh green bud
to sea of crimson waves.
I wondered at nature’s radiance,
and could not help seizing it
to hold it close.
Now, on this side of the window
it only looks
imprisoned.
Christina Gammon
This hieroglyph is
History drying.
Only emotion endures.
We are on the
Cutting room floor
Unspooling as they edit
The evening news.
Andrew Burke
- Millie D’Rozario
your salt inside me
liquidity makes the seascape
sway. i breathe through imaginary
gills, am shadow in a bed. here
, coral splays, plays to create
shapes, is a garden for my octopi &
- they are orange to my indigo. we
both flow. we don’t know where the
water ends & the salt begins, only that
we contain both, are the machine’s dream
.
Scott-Patrick Mitchell
mustard souls
a man in tails doffs his hat and
reminds himself of his adages –
seek out the green and chafed sea,
walk in bare feet across the
relief map of red soil,
make time for mustard souls
Kevin Gillam
- John Tilbrook
in deep water,
broad-leaved weeds
swing, sway,
sunlight illuminating
beneath surfaces—
shifting, silent, sensory place.
swirling greens, yellows,
I create a dreamy,
underwater world,
visit secretly.
Sally Clarke
A sinuosity of dragon slinks
through succulents.
Her first birthing.
Other nests are warm
with squirm and squeak.
She watches broods
curls around cold eggs.
Jan Napier
this is a secret garden
where vines twist and curl
and water, like magic
swirls and twirls, takes
flight through the trees
a woman in a sun hat
holds the world in her hands
and calls to the flowers
to come out and sing and dance
Maureen Sexton
- Jenny Travers
Sweet Fruit
Sun shining on a
squashed strawberry,
wasted and destroyed,
sweet fruit
never to reach lips,
be appreciated or enjoyed.
Hidden seeds however,
deep in dimpled skin
are a promise for the future,
all is not lost.
Christina Gammon
Connections
Beaches of colour
burst onto my page
goldfish crocodiles
sand and sage
connections connect
to family, to sea/see
waterful colourful
bloodlines of me
Saz Campbell
- Reg Mitchell
from Connection
The goanna laughs its yellow delight
Shouting here I am
Here is the highway/Here is my way
Here is the radio up loud and the
campfire down low/The guitar and the soft
Singing the spinifex and the salt
and the sure line of the shoreline
Down on our bellies/Up through our feet
We know the connection to country/This particular country
cannot be cut
Liana Joy Christensen
Journey
Follow the spirit pathway,
its serpentine twists and turns,
a journey mapped in ochre
on the timeless face of rock.
Hand over hand across
a night sky of dreaming,
the long climb to sunrise.
Mardi May
Wandering
hands have chased and caught
the sun, thoughts have gathered tread,
gripped red earth
together they’re wandering,
painting a flag of the land
but leaving black history as a
blinkered, pristine white
Kevin Gillam
- Klyrisa Drane
Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb
A settina for Klyrisa
My dad loved to plant rhubarb
In his backyard garden plots.
Somehow they grew straggly there.
Was it lack of water or was
There not enough manure? Some
Plots did well. Those we pissed in.
Rhubarb in a pie? Oh, my!
Glen Phillips
Mystery world
Beneath the surface
Sea grass writhes
In coral garden
Golden fish
Dart out and in
Tempting fate
Potential bait
What audacity!
Catherine Szathmary
- Elinor Doddrell
Spanish dancers flamenco
on hot purple nights,
pretend to flirt with the bull.
Passion colours the setting.
Sue Clennell
in this pool of pink and
blue, where monkeys leapfrog
over you, this is the place of
let’s believe where golden
ribbons are floating by and
may I stay here for a while?
Maureen Sexton
You are a spiritual warrior
a golden dragon
breathing flames of wisdom and light
transforming
from dragonfly to butterfly
your spirit elevates the paint
and the distance between us
is as nothing
I hold on tight to colours
and fly!
Deanne Leber
- Warren Brass
Storm Clouds Amassing On A Footy Afternoon
Warren, are we going to the footy or not?
From your painting I can see the crowds streaming
Into the oval and wanting their team in the finals,
And then I look again and see higher than the Eagles,
Huge billowy clouds amassing and piling up,
And wonder whether we’ll go to the footy or not.
A long soothing massage in the warm room might
Soothe us, but if there is even a touch of liniment,
We’re off on your wheelchair and when we’re there,
We’ll boot goal after goal through the stormy air.
Peter Jeffery
on the way to the football,
flowers bloom,
soft irises, roses
in autumn gardens.
at the match,
stands fill with fans,
mingling football colours.
on the pitch,
mud and movement.
Sally Clarke
- Odile Frichot
The Day Mare Dances
All spirit and pride the day mare dances
swishes her diaphanous skirts, arches her elegant neck
glances archly back to her would-be partner
catch me if you can, I am the quicksilver girl
the sun glinting on foam
If I dissolve in your arms it will only be to withdraw
and gather my power again and again rolling in
immerse yourself and feel the surging freedom
release all control and ride
fall into the buoyancy of my embrace
Liana Joy Christensen
Dancing in the whistling wind
Dancing to the song in ourselves
The rhythm that beats our hours
Loosens our fingers and our toes
Dancing in silver moonlight.
Andrew Burke
A gentleman and lady
mince and minuet.
She looks for Mr Darcy,
he seeks Elizabeth
or perhaps the milder Jane.
Sue Clennell
- Janelle McMahon
In my garden poets play
and prophets pray among
orchids that think they are bees,
orchids fringed and tattered purple,
Iris flirts saying ‘kiss me quick.’
In my orchard of flowers
you can taste the rain and
violets bleed into the air.
Look, and you too will see
the growth of such sweet sensations.
Sue Clennell
Archibald
Why so serious Archibald?
Is this not a portrait you like?
A painting of her golden curls
and the brightness in her eyes.
Within the soft curves of her face,
don’t tell me you can’t see her smile.
‘Cause I painted her as I saw her Sir,
but I don’t see her with my eyes.
Christina Gammon
- Jeffrey Loh
Great Blossom Blooming
Dear Jeffrey, I can feel you pulling on your gloves,
But are they the soft ones from the sensory room
Or the tough ones for gardening?
Oh, you’ve put one on from each pair,
And just as you dig in the dirt to plant the seeds
That become great blossoms blooming,
You dig the paint on your gloves into the canvas,
But there is no roughness from the toughness of the glove
But amazing fragile gentle colours
And yet another great blossom blooming.
Peter Jeffery
The soft edges of clouds
all texture and air
pink trimmed at dawn
against a sky singing blue.
Today the sun will shine for us
Trisha Kotai-Ewers
- Dennis Tomlinson
Colour my landscape
every shade you know,
sunset sky to beach,
sea blue river running through,
houses on the foreshore,
green forest ceding to red earth,
pink lake reflective,
all my desire is a rainbow.
Sally Clarke
Rugs
The streets seem less hostile, save for the mud. Nothing is left of the artist’s hut, all the doors and walls are missing. In a state of exhaustion, he leaves his worthless home. The road to another town, a battle of wagons. The streets converge. There are more streets than he remembers. The man looks out and all he can see are colourful blues, ochre lines and carmine. His whole perspective changes. He goes down into the richer shades, away from the battle of his life. Inside the brilliant hues of wool and cotton, the rugs soften him, as a child might play in the tunnel of their weave. When he comes up again from his hiding, he is smiling, embraced by the warmth of this beautiful kingdom of rugs.
Helen Hagemann
- Dennis Tomlinson
Lasagna
Life’s a lasagna,
a multi-layered
meal of moments;
high tech,
microwave,
pasta-to-go,
or the slow savouring
of culture and time.
Mardi May
rizon
it is at the point that the sun runs
down behind everything that a slight
cellophane effect kicks in & a
transparency of landscape is hinted
at, is eluded to, can be glimpsed in
that moment yellow transcends
spectrum to set ablaze day
.
Scott-Patrick Mitchell
- Colette Deavin
She looked through her eye
Saw rainbow cake layers
Exploring the bright blue sky
She swam without care
Past marshmallow clouds
Floating on nothing but air
With a brush in her hand
And a song in her heart
She smiled. What a wonderful land
Julienne Juschke
I spy dolphins singing rainbows
whales dancing to colours
and I’m wobbly in my mother’s high heels
lipstick smeared across teeth
I clink her good crockery
have tea parties in the lounge
before she wakes
I share poems with crabs
small cakes with jelly fish swirling
I imagine and it becomes.
Deanne Leber
- Tony Langmaid
Steps stride to and fro
crowd here and there
hustle and bustle
until –
all is still.
I stand enclosed in a space
where leaves hang down —
trees invite communion
and the earth
hums peace.
Trisha Kotai-Ewers
Peak Hour
6pm
Parisians returning home
twelve streets collide
in the maelstrom
at the foot of the
Arc de Triomphe
no traffic lights
just a gendarme
gesticulating
to little effect.
Val Neubecker
- Tony Langmaid
Mid-Winter
Although ‘tis now mid-winter,
there are, from time to time,
warm summer-like days
when disaster can strike;
when, having sought
to replenish my store
of colour wrapped chocolate bars,
I leave my shopping basket
in the sunshine
outside my front door!
Michael Williams
News Item – “The Hard Yards In America”.
These are cars below, new cars, and this small area
that fills our television screens a smaller part
of some ten acre lot that General Motors cannot move.
Each matchbox toy stands for a family that cannot pay
its way or keep its home, intones voice-over commentary.
I am torn – I cheer for the saving of so much fossil fuel,
for carbon off-sets, a cleaner world and greener, smaller cars.
Are my goals so unattainable that if pursued by some of us
it means the loss of jobs and houses for the other sum of us?
Flora Smith