NaPoWriMo Day 26: medial cartilage









Recent knee problems had me thinking about the last operation.


medial cartilage


first sedation

then the back of hand jab

backward counting

metal in the mouth

like sucking washers

or oysters with reisling

classical music as doctor &


discuss a new bose sound system in the

white room


you wake elsewhere

armchaired with waiting cup of tea

wondering how they spent the two hours

you lost.




photo credit.

A tribute to Ern Malley

Malley Telegram






Thanks to Spoken Word SA for last night’s Dead Poets  Society tribute to Ern Malley at Dymocks in Adelaide. We had Malley readings and work by Amelia Walker, David Mortimer, Daniel Watson, Khail Juredini, Jennifer Liston, Dick Dale, Ian Gibbins and me. I read the letter I sent  to Cordite in 2005 (as Ethel Malley), Ethel Malley’s sonnet and Registrar of Births and Deaths (unpublished.)

The whole issue of hoaxes and plagiarism is an interesting one – as relevant in literature today as ever!

Thanks Spoken Word SA & Dymocks for organizing.

NaPoWriMo Day24: Bubbles of reality



Back at Day 18 we were challenged to write a ruba’i which is a Persian form (multiple stanzas in the ruba’i form are a rubaiyat, like The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.) Basically, a ruba’i is a four-line stanza, with a rhyme scheme of AABA and has been often used in English such as Robert Frost’s famous poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening . I’ve been working on this for a few days. It began as a half-conceived idea from 2008!


Bubbles of reality


So here I am, a front-row seat

in Amsterdam, a cool-jazz beat

Modern Jazz Quartet they’re called

It’s ’57. Urbane. Sweet.


Chamber music’s Modern Age,

John Lewis piano-playing sage.

Lost in music’s interplay

my seat jerks roughly towards the stage


My earplugs and my iPod fall

I realise I’m not there at all

but on a bus with windows fogged

and in Japan, I now recall.


It’s hot in here but not outside

Commuters sleep all through the ride

We pass Himeji Castle, snow,

My reverie’s abruptly died.


I wonder if I’m really here

an Alien Resident for a year

or back at Home still sound asleep,

alarm about to ring out clear…


And so it goes, banality,

the bubbles of reality

like Russian dolls each bubble pops

I doubt my person-ality.


And when I die will I be less

than all a bubble can compress?

And will the final burst reveal

a mere sphere of nothingness?