Poetry

My grandfather’s right eye was a frozen slab
of milk-white ice that light never thawed
and when he slept, the lid didn’t drown
the curse of its constant stare.

I’m stiff as a board, bored stiff
with living like this, with this
being half-crippled and adrift
like the ancients in the hospice.

VQR hosts a panel to discuss the emerging medium of multimedia poetry.

They stitched their lives into the days,
Hawkesbury fishermen, with a smoke
stuck to their bottom-lips, bent

[…]

After his friends
rigged a pulley
and lowered the pack

With nothing but time
and the light of the Singer,
and no one to come now forever

Tailing Dam stands tall, Mine Lake hangs high.
At dike’s end stand a few grasses, snake-like.

Something in a locomotive, that black-clad traffic’s rush,
            something in the silver-tinted background: always
that tally of progress & catastrophe, engines wrecked