• McGregor, Marietta

  • McGregor, Marietta

    in the hill
    the hill is
    the hill


    around an ant
    a halo
    of ants


    where the earth
    builds tombs


  • McGregor, Marietta

    yellow eyes
    the moon looks out
    of a wolf

    — Merit Award, International Section, 29th Ito En Oi Ocha Shinhaiku Contest, 2018, Japan

  • McGregor, Marietta

    remembering her...
    a bowl of beets
    left to cool


    suitcase rummage
    I begin to think about
    death cleaning


    autumn alone
    the steel-grey whistle
    of a night train


    nautilus moon
    along the night beach
    cold sand


  • Merle Connolly

    lost miner
    his only company the light
    on his head...
    he talks to it, urges it
    to guide him safely out

    shop windows,
    fashion shoes in a row
    enticing... how I love them
    on feet other than mine

  • Merle Connolly

    he sails his ship
    on a make-believe ocean,
    guides it safely
    through foaming seas
    my grandson, the bathtub sailor

  • Pillai, Madhuri

    the different narratives
    of our childhood

    Tinywords Issue 17.2 Nov.23. 2017

  • Pillai, Madhuri

    pruning roses...
    still holding his grin
    old garden gnome

  • Rome, That Autumn


    bus tickets served
    with morning smoke
    and a sizzle of gossip

    glimpse of a day moon
    through the bell tower

    a cavalry of nuns
    storming the stop signs
    in Piazza Venezia

    high above the king’s legs
    astride a bronze charger

    the big reveal
    of that third espresso
    in a bar’s doorless WC

    an old crone sweeps away
    at one patch of floor

    feeling touched
    on the bus to St Peters
    wallet’s off with angels

    uplifting (g)lances
    of a Swiss Guard

    snow-cold aqua
    from a Roman fountain
    stabs my old teeth

    pizza with a knife and fork
    and waiters’ cheesy grins

    the bidet’s relief
    from top to bottom
    of a footsore tourist


  • Simon Hanson

    beyond the reach of light luminous fish
  • Simon Hanson

    golden amber
    an ancient bee
    bearing ancient pollen

    deep space
    stars in the skies
    of other worlds


    its own image
    wind on the water

  • Stella Damarjati

    clamber over each other
    scraps of bread

  • Taylor, Ben

    summer dusk
    a black dog stares
    from behind the fence

  • Vigil

    I sit and hold her hand as night draws in. Crickets call, a bat lands clumsily outside the window, in the Tulip tree. A siren like a bird laments from far away.

    curlew cry
    an ambulance maps the streets
    with sound.

    She is dying. I watch her journey into the silent land . Her pulse falters.

    Moonlight flickers shadows on the eaves.

    She has a plain gold wedding ring which has worn a little ridge into her finger. Her hand is soft but firm, the nails well tended, the pads on her palm developed from constant work. There is a scar there, by her little finger, the silky tether of it long healed, but drawing up the flesh to a tender pucker.

    Beyond the circle of lamp-light, images form… I see her peeling vegetables, basting roasts on cold winter nights. Light shines along the carving knife. The kitchen is warm, voices swirl around her, plates and people wait for service. Blood spills beneath the tap, spirals around the plughole like a galaxy.

    Children splash in soapy water, their squirming bodies shine. The air is humid, bubbles burst with scents of summer flowers. She hefts each child efficiently, towels them dry with practiced ease, dresses them in fresh pyjamas.

    Now in dappled morning, brushing shiny tangled hair. She fastens ribbons, holds the little head to her chest, then lifts the glowing face to her own, cups rosy cheeks lovingly. Her strong brown hands. They have wiped small noses and bottoms, bandaged hurts, mopped tears from flooding tragedy.

    In this quiet room, her breathing changes. Small sighs are interspersed with long pauses. Blue shadows tint her nails. A chilly wind begins to whisper in the reeds.

    Rain splatters the window, and under another lamp-light a woman knits, the bright wool cascading over nimble fingers, softly growing heavy under them, each row building memory into fabric.

    stratified rock,
    tree-rings, a jersey,
    enfold time.

    There’s a film of sweat on her face. I sponge it gently away.

    She’s washing with a scrubbing board, bent over the sink, her hair damp with steam from the boiler, her face and hands red . There she is, standing tip-toe, her water-wrinkled fingers cool as they hang linen on a prop-held line, and later, she brings it in, tossing pegs into a tin bath, folds each item deftly.

    Her dark hair spills across the pillow. They placed a red rose there.

    Did these hands tend gardens? Did they gather flowers, arrange them carefully and place them where they would bring their stored sunshine to her world?

    And now, beneath my own, winter creeps into her fingers... It is over. Her family couldn’t bear to stay, but they wait, huddled together for warmth, at home.

    autumn leaves
    in the cold wind.

    I rise and call her family. I am so sorry. It’s Mothers’ day.

  • We Rest Our Oars

    river's edge
    starcluster blooms
    in the moonlight

    notes from a banjo
    travel downstream

    purple dusk
    a rainbow of flowers
    in her hair

    picnic for two 
    a mysterious bird call
    as we rest our oars 

    golden droplets sparkle
    on the pussy willows

    a line of turtles
    sun basking

    Ron C. Moss (Aus) &
    Caroline Skanne (UK)

  • Winter Lullaby

    after the storm
    children make snow angels
    that sparkle with grace


    left behind sledge . . .
    a blackbird's footprints

    red mist
    the solstice bonfire
    sizzles with sleet

    trail of pines
    their blue shadows
    stretch into dusk

    native hens skid about
    on the thick lake ice

    winter lullaby
    a hush of wind
    moves the flame


    Ron C. Moss (Aus) &
    Caroline Skanne (UK)