• Dorothy Walker

    our street
    awash with rain...
    how I wish
    I were brave enough
    to jump in the puddles

    your arms encircle me
    as we watch sunlight
    flood our room ---
    the passion of youth
    rekindled with the dawn

  • Ellen Weston

    the years roll on
    emotional cross-currents
    the bag-piper's kilt
    defies gravity

  • Ellen Weston

    to go or stay ---
    I spin a coin high
    in the air
    watching it spin, I
    decide what to do

  • Epic tale

    We had a pet budgie, that belonged to my brother John. It flew free in the house and we all loved it. But it took sick. John snuggled it into a shoebox with some chook feathers and we put it near the coal range to keep warm. But that night it died.
    I had this book about taxidermy, so Mum and I decided to give John the gift of his Bobby to be near him forever.

    Ahem. It didn't work. The skinning went OK, and the curing of alum, that was way too brief. We took its brains out with a teaspoon. It was awful.
    We stuffed its little body with cotton wool and sewed it up.

    Now, when we took the skin off, the incisions were across the chest and down the middle to the vent. But we sewed it up straight down the middle. Result, one long bird.

    So. Quick unpick. Restuffed with sawdust.

    But. The feather shafts, sticking though the skin, got disrupted. They went all scruffy, thither and yon, this way and that.
    Mum suggested giving the neighbour's cat a fright. We had to laugh, being kind to each other and ourselves. It was a nightmare.

    We tried to set it in the fridge, but the next morning the legs were straight out behind it and it was just as we'd left it.

    We popped it back in the shoebox before John got up, and when he did, he came straight out and said, " How's Bobby?"
    Mum said, " I'm sorry son, but he's dead."
    "No he's not! He's NOT!" cried John, rushing to the shoebox, where he dropped to his knees, hunched over, gentle hands down to the box.
    We held our breath, waiting for my brother's reaction. At last he said,
    " Oh boy, he SURE IS!"

    a child kneels
    by this cross of sticks
    with violets

  • Gerry Jacobson

    dusk creeps
    over the interchange...
    stray leaves blow
    in the wind... stray people
    wait for the bus home

    it's a long night
    at thirty thousand feet
    time zoned out
    packed in a tin
    of flying sardines

    the campus hums
    this summer Sunday
    cicadas busy
    with lectures and tutorials

  • Gerry Jacobson

    on the edge
    of my comfort zone...
    trying to move
    in the space between us

    it's late
    it's cold...I'm tired...
    need sleep
    but the fire still glows
    my friends still linger

  • Haibun for Jude

    sky wide
    paperbark in bloom –
    a feather falls

    Her funeral today. At this hour those who love her meet to say goodbye. Not only there in Dubbo, with her family, but in quiet places right around the world.
    We knew her on the internet and so it’s fitting that together, far apart, we hold her in our hearts here in this Sky-Wide Church.

    A bird drops a long feather. It spirals, wafts, settles without a sound. I remember how I wrote a note to her on paperbark, using a sharpened quill, because she loved all of life and birds especially.
    She still had it last month.

    That’s when we met for the first time. She was as I knew her. On the internet, via poetry, knowing comes from a deeper level.

    sky wide
    and back again –
    the sea

    I think about the way the sea reflects the sky, so it goes right to the edge of it and back, and then exchanges itself with it, in a cycle. Sea to sky, as evaporation, back again as rainfall, round and round, like the tides, like life.... some say that there is reincarnation too.
    Goodbye my friend. Like the ocean to the shore, I will return here, as my memories turn and turn again.

  • Hanson, Simon


    post op bright clatter of synaesthesia


    starting to roll floor tiles edged in fluoro


    hypnagogia jade statues veiled in mist


    dew point black sky glitter domes


    mattermindtimespace one two three or four words



  • Hanson, Simon

    tinkles of ice
    the things memory
    attaches too


    church visit
    Mary’s face brightens
    to another candle 


    star gazing
    deep space
    looking back at us


  • Hanson, Simon

    blessing the fleet
    over the bay

    window breeze
    a little dance
    of candle flames

    bonfire blaze
    how radiant we were
    bathed in its glow

  • Hazel Hall

    peat straw spread
    neatly in the garden
    a feather left
    as if in payment —
    beginnings of a nest


    last sheafs
    of sunshine slip
    behind the silos
    this celebration
    of harvest in my heart

  • Hazel Hall

    keeping a kangaroo hop away social distance


    1984 movies thrown down the memory hole


  • Helen Davison


    Even with thongs, I hobble into the water, glad when I can lift my poor feet from the pebbles. These lakes are cruel. I swim quickly, willing my body to adjust to the cold, working to stay on the surface, and gasping with the effort. I tuck the thongs under the straps of my swimmers. 

    All is blue—mountains, hills, trees, lake and sky…

    Towelling dry to warm myself, I smile across at my husband. We are amused by our German friends who undress immediately into dry swimmers, only to put their wet swimmers back on each time they re-enter the water. Nearby, a naked man climbs into his boat. "He's always naked," say our friends. 

    Ducks swim effortlessly towards us—two adult birds with several half grown babies. With ease, their webs walk herringbone steps from the water’s edge. It's tough terrain here, but they waddle right through between us, to the grass behind. This is their territory. A ferry, so small in the distance, has crossed the far side and disappeared. Who would have expected its wash would kiss our feet? 

    sunny patch—
    coffee and conversation
    lost in translation


    Helen Davison belongs to the haiku group Cloudcatchers in Northern NSW. The Japanese forms are a challenge for her, for she is not sure she can emulate all those who've gone before her. Such a high standard to meet. However, a recent trip to Japan has inspired her to keep trying. 

  • Hopewell, Louise

    buttress roots
    the myth
    of family

    Creatrix Haiku Issue 41

  • Hopewell, Louise

    silver dew
    the crisscrossing
    of a spider’s thread

    Moth Creek
    water trickles through
    light and shadow

    dappled sunlight
    through the elms
    monarch butterfly

    skyscrapers vanish
    into thick fog
    corporate memory


  • Jan Foster

    a millipede
    trundles past the pantry
    I try to remember
    where I left my shoes

  • Jan Foster

    beneath your gaze
    my face remains
    shuttered ---
    a searchlight sweeps
    across darkened seas

    an old homestead
    floats down the flooded river
    its walls askew ---
    my daughter tells me
    it's time to retire

    honeymoon quarrel ---
    she paddles the lagoon
    in deeper water
    the shadow of a shark

  • Jane Williams

  • Jay, Bee

    my bad temper—
    wind rips blossoms
    from the tree


    cold shoulder
    frost sparkles on a blade
    of grass


    a final leaf trembles
    on the oak


    bare trees
    at the orphanage
    dead end road


    a shadow
    slides into shadows
    sudden chill


    he cannot recall
    his mother's face
    tangled seaweed


  • Judy Kendall

    our laughter
    as the pup chased its tail...
    now able
    to open the album
    I find you on every page