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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Highly Commended Poet – Polly Richardson

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Sometimes

I don’t want to take my clothes off.

Sometimes I want to pitch a tent to new moon

but I can’t glide.

I don’t want to take my clothes off,

Sometimes I look to river depths deeper than sea

I don’t want to take my clothes off

sometimes,

keep the layers stitched, knit you

fondle fabric, stroll fingers as if curvature of spine,

Sometimes.

I don’t want to take my clothes off.

I want to tap dance to bowing tree, rest on leaf

pillows already soaked,

fly, jumping vibrations from the sleeping

hold rain -drop cupping oceans.

Sometimes I want to walk bare into you leaving

foot prints on yesterday’s sands

Sometimes.

 

Apple

To the core of nothing and everything
Divinity of ingest cidering bees, non -angelic in waggle,
Unlike moon-shine bootlegged, no peels fermented
After the pulp revealed in revealing itself.
Eve didn’t bite, Adam swallowed choking swollen pride
Denying themselves  true calling
Needs of blossoming to bear fruit,

to stuff skin crackled
to toffee fest, dripping on lips before hardening,
to bake to perfection in heated silence in
bitter-sweet nocturnal juice, and gorged

 

And So

I snatch these moments

keep them

on the hill, the imprints.

Each tree, circling

will bear witness to this

Chinese whisper, mere ramblings

stretching to distant blue mountains

further than the edge of edges,

 

I will breathe them out

with bovine song,

 

Tumble down this rolling eminence

waved by butter- cup

dancing meadow,

The thousand smiles’ embanked,

this spot,

in each grass blade bursting to seed,

time to release

time to release

yet I want to hold

interlock as if fingers – like before,

bare, devour,

unawares of decaying root.

 

Beach

Polished toes crusted from

morning castles, lost factor

flying frisbee melting skin to lobster overdone,

 

Spread

sink under rolling water-break

in hailing tomorrows,

 

Eyes blink in floating cotton balls

shaping evening descent,

duelling warmth and dusking skies,

 

last rays kiss skin, wrapping hugs

supping summer wine

coursing through each pore,

 

stretched to finger tips.

And that one plucked from sands

for the memory box.

 

Fragments 

Mondays stubble left its mark

in between folds,

Still lingering

in moon- light parting silk,

kissing breast

catching reflection on cold tile

 

longing,

 

savouring taste touched, stolen

fragmented moments

in the aftermath of his fragrance

Under ribs sang sweetly

fondling time,

shadows fall as rotating earth

moved seconds licking lips

skimming stones.

                                           

                                                                   Black boots

…………………………………………………….I don’t like black boots

…………………………………………………….I don’t know why, two pairs

…………………………………………………….of brown leather ones sit in

……………………………………………………….the corner waiting- holding

………………………………………………………..breath. Dung embedded soles,

……………………………………………………ferment away creating god knows

……………………………………………………what – culturing, perhaps new life.

…………………………………………………Smells waft, mix with rose air and

……………………………………………hints of orange- balm, sending me float-

……………………………………ting, perhaps high! Each crease molded

…………………………….to exacted muscle curve freckled with chestnut

…………………………..hair, the night before the night before muscles

……………flexed-held. Something quiet alluring, the stillness,

…………of it, left to right left away right, days dust settles

slight only their buffness still tease. What awaits those

zips once undone, spreading wide to take what comes

…………………………………………………..No time for gentle. Firm grip, yank up, close,

………………………………………………………………………………..Heels down, squeeze

 

 

I’ve never told you this before

Inside

I am dragon. I am fire. I am stealth

Dream of gorging throats

Crawling out of mouths

Mothing skin

Moult you,

Around around, screeching wildly

smudging,

And to river you go

Clap 123

Heron squawk in arrogant annoyance

I am. I am.

I am,

Flight.

 

Closure   

From grasping nude

to barely sun,

Moon -dreams jump.

I held you inside

despite wrenching sting. I carry.

Faulting only when you

blind my stride, spiting razor

so, it pierces just enough

for your pus to fill. I lance,

drain you before the rot and

stench.

And I

And I see rain drop, hear its worlds

replace my hat splashing

Spit mirage.

 

Said the Bed

Down holes, credos to wall,

indentations of you remain

in echoes of thunderous grumble,

 

I – still,

 

Fold mummers to four corners;

absorb gasping fist- fall

dampness over moon –catching tears,

sink foetal roll

gestating time

 

the mother

the child, the woman

 

Howl,

the anguish,

the poetry dent- lost loves

contentment hushed,

 

Stripped

 

bare

 

Pages turn, pages turn,

that dance

of staggering giggles

Bridget jones killing springs,

Vertical notes strum to

falling whispers and lighten bolts- greased.

 

Far cry from Oklahoma

that man from Snowy River,

 

sunsets rising glows

foetal roll, blink yesterdays-

that butterfly basking

Dandelions open, some ready seed

to the breeze

and that dog hair,

I hold

in memory foam.

 

Breath

Defining life and finality

we are nothing,

 

nothing

 

without rhythmic ins and outs.

 

Arriving starkers,

slipping,

in to vast wonderment

from primal pant pushing.

 

Pure without sabotage

our inner amazon gifting sustenance

and summer rains

and yet

like grains of sand,

it slips away

blackened.

 

No matter the hands that tries to hold it.

 

Breath

The last raspy note gurgled;

 

The

final rise

and fall.

 

 

 

 

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Stephen House

Stephen House: has had many plays commissioned and produced. He’s won two Awgie Awards (Australian Writers Guild), The Rhonda Jancovic Poetry Award for Social Justice,

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