Yunus Emre (1238 – 1320). True Speech is the Fruit of Not Speaking True speech is the fruit of not speaking. Too much talking clouds the heart.



Gathutha konagia mundu njira

A little, contemptible path is sometimes the one that leads you to the highway.


sites 2c

foto – fruit in summer 09 ulmarra

in the distance on the verandah having said yes too many times and become loaded, i believe you, “all doors lead to busy rooms”, the darkness can roll in while you’re not looking. JILL JONES.

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Imagine, if you will, a hallway so long that it takes weeks to traverse. Imagine a labyrinth that rearranges itself in the dark, a maze of shifting walls and below freezing temperatures, whose staircases descend endlessly and whose windows open into the vacuum of non-existence. Pretty creepy, isn’t it?

Now imagine that this labyrinth is in your living room.

House of Leaves

The Reverend Seth Ethan Carey


sites 2c

foto – hallway in  ulmarra

You can’t think your way into a new way of living…you have to live your way into a new way of thinking


for example
you know Dransfield’s line, that once you become a junkie
you’ll never want to be anything else?
                    well, I think he died too soon,
as if he thought drugs were an old-fashioned teacher
& he was the teacher’s pet, who just put up his hand
                                        & said quietly, ‘Sir, sir’
                    & heroin let him leave the room.

John Forbes a pastoral


sites 2c

foto – lynne sanders 1972 belmore 27 paxton avenue

Sabır acıdır, meyvesi tatlıdır. Translation: Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. Turkish.



peaches? Beaches. A peach of a beach.
Gracetown in summer. A soft fur of heat
over bodies. The water, icy. Exploding
gently on legs as fruit in the mouth.
Sand the texture of peach stone: gritty,
rough. China, a memory refracted
through tropics: small fat god, white beard,
riding a deer. A Chinese Santa Claus.
In his hand, the fruit of which we speak:
everything peachy

Australia- Poetry International Web

foto – summer fruit in ulmarra dec 09

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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I’ll wait here for a while
between breaths
spanning tides

“Night, Connelly’s Marsh”

Louise Oxley

site 2c –

foto – izzy foreal at iluka dec 09