Poetry 3

    Poetry 3

    blue is the magic number

    by Joseph Powell


    though I’m not one to adhere to,
    or be defined by, labels;
    nor inclined to be fitted into certain parameters;
    if you were to press me,
    or choose to dig down,
    to my very essence,
    to the core of who I am–
    you would find
    that blue
    is my favorite color;

    the color 
    that inspired rhapsodies
    and baseball teams;
    it is the signifier of a particular mood,
    the foundation 
    of nearly every musical genre
    on this planet,
    if the pictures from space 
    are to be believed,
    is also blue;

    it is the color of harmony–
    if you don’t believe me,
    imagine our country’s flag without it;
    could be one of the reasons,
    why we’re called the United States
    (could you imagine if we
    were only made up of 
    only red states?);

    is the color of life;
    it is
    the color of God’s glory,
    one of the primary colors
    in His divine palette;

    is the color of this poem,
    if its words
    could be enveloped 
    in any particular color,
    each letter,
    a different shade
    or variation
    of indigo,
    even those words
    make blue sound beautiful,
    which it is.

    I give you
    which is,
    in a sense,
    giving of myself;
    and I hope,
    that you will accept it,
    in the spirit 
    of which it was given,
    which is also




    Beware — Nostalgia

    by D.L Hume


    There is no flame.

    No explosive ignition.

    No crackling spark,

    or giggling combustion.

    No beginning no end.

    It tumbles like fairy fluff.

    Flickers like wind blown embers,

    unannounced into the light

    to trap you in knitted northern Decembers.

    As the beginning sneaks closer to the end.

    With the hushed breath of dust disturbed

    from Bangkok to Beijing, London to Paris,

    along familiar lanes, boulevards and railway tracks

    it clouds your thought so you cannot tell what is.

    Until the beginning feels much like the end.

    In a fug, of old photographs, a musty aroma

    rises from ticket stubs, posters, newspaper clippings,

    unearthed from suitcases, worn out backpacks,

    to drag you back to forgotten beginnings.

    Beginnings that seem closer than the end.

    With warm hooks beneath the skin

    and peppered kisses it holds and suffocates.

    Like a sun warmed feather pillow

    Held firm across your face.

    And the beginning really is the end.



    Downsizing – A short story in ten poems

    by D.L Hume



    The Window to the City


    The glass through which they stared

    out to the decking

    with its creaky boards

    and sun twisted railing

    had never been so clean.

    The crust of ten summers

    washed away.

    As too the finger smears

    of those that lived

    and had lived there,

    lifted the view

    across the river.

    It gleamed shyly

    in the dull dusk of Autumn.

    The lights of the city

    flicked on is spasms,

    emerging from the gloom.

    Then fell away

    in topographic sequence,

    to the one square monolith

    that marked the CBD.

    To call it a city was a stretch.

    More a big country town.

    That’s what someone

    important once said

    and everyone agreed.

    Others spoke of it as a big heavy coat.

    Warm and insulating

    against the cold west wind

    that wheezed

    and rattled down the organ pipe face

    of the mountain.

    A coat that looked

    just as handsome

    and unimposing

    hung on the peg.


    for the two or three months

    that the sun shone

    and the flat top

    hung up its own fleecy cape.



    Saying Goodbye


    The house was empty.

    Bar a dozen big heavy boxes

    bound and gagged

    in the front room.

    And the flopping flesh of a bed

    in the room opposite.

    The scent of fresh paint

    Had almost vanished,

    hanging only vaguely

    beneath the must

    of twenty year old

    single malt whisky.

    That the spirit survived

    from the day they moved in

    was a near miracle.

    They caressed the glasses

    and snorted the peaty fumes.

    “I swear, if I had to give up alcohol

    I’d keep a bottle of this just to sniff.”

    He said,

    as he had been saying

    for the last twenty years.

    They raised their glasses

    To the house that had sheltered them.


    to do the same

    To the city that had nourished them,

    when a small raptor

    Alighted on the railing.

    Beneath one yellow talon

    a daggerd carcass,

    skull intact.

    “Sparrowhawk” he said.

    “Goshawk” she said.

    Without another sound

    they watched

    as the hook beaked bird,

    wearing the same colour suit

    as the real estate agent

    that sold their house,

    ripped stringy strips

    from the breast of an ex pigeon.

    Dark feathers

    fell onto

    and we’re blown along the deck,

    becoming snagged

    in the skeletal

    plum tree

    that had,

    over the years,

    become entwined in the railing.

    They feasted their eyes.

    drained their glasses.

    Then drained the bottle

    of the last dram.

    With the final fall of light

    the hawk departed

    almost vertically,

    for a more wild eyrie.

    Its takeaway prey

    clasped tight in its claws.


    They rinsed the glasses,

    wrapped them in bubble wrap,

    and slipped them into the corner of a box

    marked “glasses.”

    The tape dispenser

    broke the quiet,

    ripping orange tape

    across the box.

    “That’s it, we’ve done it.” He said

    and wrapped her

    in his arms.

    She smiled,

    stood back,

    took a breath

    “Excited” she said

    “You bet, can’t wait.”



    The Promise


    They had promised each other

    that when the children were off hand

    they would return

    to the bush.

    Off grid






    Shitting in bucket.

    Time to fish.

    Time to write.

    Time to live.

    Time to be.

    The demands of teenagers

    dragged them from the bush,

    from the almost fifty acres

    of thin soiled

    dry forest.

    On an island

    an hour from town.





    There would be no kidults in this family.

    Inter race relationships,

    homosexual, lesbian, bi,

    or any other,

    so called, deviation.

    No problem.

    But kidultery:

    adult size creatures,

    lolling around the house.

    footless and feckless.

    Emptying the pantry.

    Not bloody likely



    First Born


    They left one by one.

    The eldest to her family.

    The bright lights

    and sunshine

    of the harbour city.

    Like his father and mother

    he rejected

    the chosen lifestyle

    of his parents,

    No frugal

    do it yourself

    anti establishment


    social conscious

    half baked hippy

    punk attitude

    for him.

    Money would satisfy

    his every desire.

    He would go on

    to imagine himself

    a poor boy from the country,

    deprived of the luxuries of suburbia.



    Second Son


    Or middle child,

    as he prefers to be known,

    departed a year later.

    A one way ticket

    had been promised

    upon academic success.

    If uni was an option

    it could wait.


    they always said,

    should be followed.

    No half measures for him.


    to his father’s family.

    The land of fish and chips,

    where a cuppa solved everything.

    He would come to realize

    and reject

    the numbing pain

    of the treadmill.

    On high peaks

    and in the jungles of Brazil

    he would find his prize.





    The last

    was more difficult

    to dislodge.

    She sought a challenge

    in study.

    She would remain

    at home

    another four years.

    Plodding through books

    at her own sweet,

    enigmatic pace.

    He saw in her

    his own

    unhinged curiosity.

    Floating on the waves,

    buoyant enough

    to be beached in the morning

    and catch a riptide

    at night.





    Faced with the prospect of parenting

    for four more years

    they packed their bags,

    abandoned the baby

    and took to the road.

    They flitted between

    a dozen apartments,

    over nearly as many years.

    Almost equivalent

    to the contracts

    they had taken,

    that took them to

    African snows

    and troglodyte caves.

    They hacked through

    rattan jungles

    to colonial ruins.

    Cycled walled cities

    and encroaching forests.

    Ventured into triangles

    once golden.

    Trekked to seated icons

    and where rivers

    carved gorges

    through the highest ranges.

    And lost themselves

    in the hutongs

    of unmapped towns

    There was no intention

    To stay away so long.

    But there was

    always another bend,

    another corner

    to look around.

    There they learned

    about transience.

    There they learned

    how to leave.





    Over the winter

    they had fixed the house

    on the inside.

    Wide floor boards,



    Gone were the bright colours,


    personal touches.

    In their place

    all neutral



    and off whites.

    No foot scuffs

    or gadges

    from out of control

    pets and toys.

    They had replaced

    the taped and broken pane.

    The result of high spirited


    They had,

    with a grudge,

    for the last month,

    been living

    in a show house.

    Even purchased a couch

    to set it off.

    That with its coat

    of shiny pinstripe satin

    lent a refined

    elegant note.

    But creaked its legs

    and sagged

    and groaned when sat in.


    their mark persisted.

    The salmon pink

    with sky blue trim

    they lavished upon

    old weatherboards

    when first moved in


    A stubborn marker

    of daring

    to be different,

    among creams and greens

    and strict red brick.





    Would they miss the place?


    Ten years

    they’d been away.

    Long enough

    for the dream of returning

    to a simple life

    to take root.

    To become



    was another corner.


    D L Hume lives off grid in the south of Tasmania. As well as poetry he contributes to the critique of ceramic art and has many years teaching and travelling. Many of his papers and other works can be found at https://www.davidlhume.com



    Oh! mother Nature

    by Kapardeli Eftichia


    In contaminated water and air in acid rain
    to the dramatic appeal to a planet
    who “slowly dies” and who irresponsibly
    and indifferently man destroys
    Oh! Mother nature you
    In the cement state the birds were lost
    In the corner of the street and on
    Roots of the pale Eucalyptus, piles of rubbish………

    The apple tree in the garden of an old uninhabited residence
    With fallen leaves and with the roots tightly embraced
    Deserted and naked …… thirsty
    In the arms of the earth
    the Rose underfoot
    Deserted Our villages
    And the city’s children in cements are no longer playing
    But a new garden grows, oh! mother Nature
    In your constant flow, nothing is missing, nothing is left over
    God, you
    A fair protector in the cycle of the Sun
    Human actions will drown
    for fertile and saving rich seasons
    of the color tides


    Dr. Kapardeli Eftichia has a Doctorate from ARTS AND CULTURE WORLD ACADEMY

    Born in Athens and live in Patras

    She writes poetry, stories, short stories, xai-kou , essays

    She studied journalism AKEM (Athenian training center).

    She has many awards in national competitions 

    Her work there is to many national and international anthologies Has a section at the University of Cyprus in Greek culture is a member of the world poets society. The official website is http://world-poets.blogspot. com / is a member of the IWA (international writers and artists Association) chaired by Teresinka Pereira,had from IWA Certify 2017 as the best translation and is a member of the POETAS DEL MUNDO https://www.facebook.com/PPdM.Mundial -https://twitter.com/Poetedumonde 



    B R O K E N

    by Frances J Yule


    in large letters
    scrawled in red crayon
    on the wall
    of his bedroom….
    the last word
    of the young man
    barely 18
    found dead in his car
    engine still running
    parked in a field
    only this morning….
    she stood
    til the weight of her grief
    bore down
    and she sank to the floor….
    she doesn’t know
    how long she wailed
    and raged
    and screamed 
    at the word on the wall
    or the moment 
    she picked up the crayon
    where he’d left it
    and underneath
    YES!!! ME TOO!


    Frances J Yule: Please excuse me for being short on details because as far as I’m concerned my writing tells you everything you will ever need to know about me, my life and inspirations. 

    I began writing poetry while incarcerated in a South Australian mental hospital 1965 and I’m still writing in 2017. 

    People watching is my favourite past time.







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