Category Archives: MOVE ALONG

Life is not always fair. Sometimes you get a splinter even sliding down a rainbow.

2 The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 29 August 1936,

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You slip the latch
and come to me across the ice.
A mouth is a circle lit
up, tapped out, departed.
Electrical haloes, we are
clairvoyant as soft gods,
sliding in boots, red stars on our soles.
We beckon dampness
into our woollens, swoop
in an inner corona to the sheet iron.


The memorial clock has no carillon.
There’s a thread of you
on my collar when the nightwatchman
appears at the edge of the ice
to shout: off, off,
it won’t hold you.

Pinetorch, by Ainslee Meredith

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“The pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of the leaves was almost hushed. All about them it was still and shadowy and sweet. It was that wonderful moment when, for lack of a visible horizon, the not yet darkened world seems infinitely greater—a moment when anything can happen, anything be believed in.” 

― Olivia Howard DunbarThe Shell of Sense

“When a man gives his opinion, he’s a man. When a woman gives her opinion, she’s a bitch.” ― Bette Davis



Chagrah v’oz motneiha vat’ametz zro’oteiha

She girds her loins in strength, and makes her arms strong.
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The Women of the West

by George Essex Evans

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:
For love, they faced the wilderness – the Women of the West.

The roar, the rush, and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces – they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains,
O’er the everlasting sameness of the everlasting plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run,
In the tent beside the bankment of the railway just begun,
In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man’s unrest,
On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain,
The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;
And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say-
The nearest woman’s face may be a hundred miles away

The wide Bush holds the secrets of their longings and desires,
When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar-fires,
And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast-
Perchance He hears and understands, the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts-
They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.
But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above-
The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father’s creed. No call has passed us by.
We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.
And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o’er all the rest,
The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.


Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened. Thomas Hardy

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Tess Driver

Climb inside, comfort me
with lush imaginings as I
walk the tightrope of your lines.

I caress the lips of your knowing.
Read to me poet, soothe my imaginings,
massage my longing with thoughts
that cling to every pore.

I shiver at your rhyme;
it is dark outside, poet,
fill me with light and laughter
so the moon grows full and stars
caress the nippled dawn.

Poet, lust after me
with your singing verse:
wash the sharp word edges,
drown me in the flesh of your verse.

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“Love is a possible strength in an actual weakness.”
― Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd

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Party Dress

Fragile as the truth
it hangs on a crocheted hook
covered in white blossom,
a gossamer memory.

All that time,
season to season
green embroidered petals
now pale and frayed,
danced on cream silk,
styled with tucks for secrets.

So slim, two large hands
could fit around the waist.
Kisses flutter moth-like
from the neck-line
once softly curved
over quivering breasts.

A million silken threads
to create a dream.
Touch it gently
or it will unravel
in your hands.

From Blue: Friendly Street No. 27



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Belbela, you live by the movements of others.

 Belbela, the paddy bird of India; it is always seen  near cattle  and feeds off the ticks. 1 1 1  11 1 d2ancingforstreng00scot_0262

If the owner of a goat is not afraid to travel by 

night, why should the owner of a hyena 
be ?
(seeing that night is the usual time for 
a hyena to move about)?

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Movement never lies.  It is a barometer telling the state of the soul’s weather to all who can read it.  

Martha Graham

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Motherhood dragging a doll by the foot. Alan Beck


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Emma Jones

The Doll Who Died

A Fairytale

It had been forgotten in a world of fantastic moons.
That doll I saw, nub of a head with its life peeling off
like a caul or a bandage, lay between rivers that dirtied and danced. The legs beside it were like cloudbank, and the doll
didn’t dangle like a marionette would but slid like a mermaid
stunned by a rudder down a red rock that cried on Sundays.

It wasn’t an original doll. I had seen a similar one, years before,
floating in the China Sea. Face-up and plastic, it blew among the coral as our boat made wings under water. Both dolls were hairless and eyeless with no knowledge of numbers.
The doll that died came from a land whose signpost said “here is the beginning of bones”. The other swam to the Bay of Bengal.

No, those are two lies. There were no destinations. When I was a kid
I liked to sit on the landings of staircases. No top, no bottom,
just movement and steps like the rickety ladders in stockings.
I preferred things that way. Beginnings and ends unnerve me. Getting up,
and the blank wait for sleep. I think of Alpha and Omega, two untwisted yings and yangs torn from their womb, like the doll who died.

Two petulant children hatching strings and secrets between them!
Ladies walk on that tightrope with their wombs full of calendars.
Who puts those two to bed and wipes their faces? Not history, who is dirty
and tired like a man in a raincoat, and forgets things, and likes
the movies. The doll who died lived in a secret room papered
with pink tumuli, overblown roses and organs that swelled and waned

like the moon, or chords that rise from cathedral pipes. History put it there and forgot it. But it cleaved like a glove
and never forgot itself, because it had never remembered itself,
because it never knew itself. It had its own little brackish red sea for paddling, and in the end I fancied it small and biblical,
because one day those seas would part and it could cross.

Could it happen? A date was found and written somewhere.
The doll, although it never knew it, kept arranging itself.
In its small sea-garden it had grown a heart. They measured
its morse code with delicate instruments and made calculations.
I wished a mermaid would adopt it, or that it could live off dithyrambs. As it was, the doll who died, like its big Bengalese

cousin, had no fingers to feel the Braille of its skin’s calligraphy.
It had no liver, so left off the wine at its last supper.
The absent latch to its eyelids meant that it couldn’t see its stem
frail as a jonquils’ in thawed soil, or the blue balloon
on a viscous string that nourished its maritime
sleep. When the world flew out, the doll who died

folded its birthday and its death-day into the one pill-box of its heartbeat and followed its metronome steps out of the building.
It left a gap. It had no grave to haunt or horrors to
Instead it sat square in the slat of afternoon sun
that slid around the cab, and wasn’t there, and was, and said
“I am small as your thumb” and “I saw you do that”.

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If men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed; but the cleverest, the acutest men are often under an illusion about women: they do not read them in a true light: they misapprehend them, both for good and evil: their good woman is a queer thing, half doll, half angel; their bad woman almost always a fiend.

Charlotte Brontë, Shirley

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Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?” ― Terry Pratchett, Going Postal



The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 13 February 1926


The morning spits up the sun
Below my bed my lips peels
Yo our childs Hullabaloo over
Keeping our first abo culture good
Clean shaven back lands
And we sunstruck by a colourless talk by Americanos
The afternoon spits up the starred night
Below my head lays eyes looking
At the noses arse-end of this world
A first fella said I want to be oblivious
‘what for?’ cos midday squinting toward
a trespassive on Murri land
Rumour field the house of every Peoples Spirits of;
‘how come a sickle moon kisses earth and found out what heart’
Toned cry sitting love makes
So fuck love for yesterdays dump
So lullaby away dreams that don’t come true
Those Murri skills remain are
Future clumsy flinch with business
Those Murri hobnailed on naming
Each other cabs calm in drawer for a bit of money
The rituals gentle Murri sorcery
Gives ancient weathered faces
Stout to taut the looter?
Awake now readers and seed basic
Eternal life humble shipped out
Of man’s sorrow affairs
Murri old commanded us us
Murri young commanded us us
The morning wings me to supreme sacrifice
According to the perished
© 2010, Lionel Fogarty

Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations. – Cyril Connolly

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Brian Dunnett & Mark Gregory . . . research archive

The Northern Mail

The Northern Mail is moving fast
With seven hundred souls;
Though many vow this ride’s their last,
The fireman shovels coal.

Who knows the drama buried here
Within this lurching throng?
Who knows what tales of love and fear—
Who knows who’s right—or wrong?

There’s cutters, shearers, spielers, thugs,
Commercials with cigars
With town-men, bushmen, bad men, mugs,
They jostle through the cars.

The Northern Mail goes roaring on,
A comet through the night;
The sun goes down, the bush has gone,
The farm-lamps fly from sight.

And some arrange, with weary hand,
A bundle in the rack;
Only the bush can understand
Their fate—along the track….

And some for health and pleasure go,
And some go riding free,
And some sleep now who do not know
Where their next bed will be.

God knows what’s in those trunks and ports,
Or where they’ve been—and why;
The whistle screams, the head-lamp glows,
The Northern Mail flies by.

There are sleepers restless of the roar,
But few of them recall,
For some can sleep upon the floor;
And some don’t sleep at all.

Some day, perhaps, I’ll put down roots,
Hear no more ‘Tickets please’
And bid farewell to smoke and soot,
Farewell to cramp and fleas.

The Northern Mail comes panting by,
We rattle round the bend;
For some, new roads of life begin,
For others, old ones end.

Leprechauns, castles, good luck and laughter.Lullabies, dreams and love ever after. Poems and songs with pipes and drums. A thousand welcomes when anyone comes… That’s the Irish for you!

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And her red lips he fondly kissed
    Beside the castle door,
And he rode away in the morning mist,
    And he never saw her more!


The Feud: A Border Ballad

by Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833 – 1870)

“We don’t see many fat men walking on stilts.” Bud Miller

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When I was twenty-one, I wrote in
‘The Problem of Evil’ of how the partisans
always rather feared an odd
irrelevance of farce – and that today
a thin dog like a sphinx on stilts
would follow them forever aimlessly.
Jennifer Maiden

I once started out to walk around the world but ended up in Brooklyn, that Bridge was too much for me.”

― Lawrence Ferlinghetti, A Coney Island of the Mind

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My father worked at Coney Island. He had a concession on the boardwalk, where you knock over milk bottles with baseballs, which I could never do for my entire childhood. There was a tidal wave at Coney Island when I was a child. Ripped up the boardwalk and did about a million dollars worth of damage, houses and everything. The only thing left standing was those little milk bottles.

There were happy days, with watermelon, and sad days of whiskey.”

― Lewis Nordan

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How old do you think I am he said I said well I didn’t know
He said I turned sixty five about eleven months ago
I was sittin’ in Miami pourin’ blended whiskey down
When this old grey black gentleman was cleanin’ up the lounge
There wasn’t anyone around ‘cept this old man and me
The guy who ran the bar was watching Ironsides on TV
Uninvited he sat down and opened up his mind
On old dogs and children and watermelon wine
Ever had a drink of watermelon wine he asked
He told me all about it though I didn’t answer back
Ain’t but three things in this world that’s worth a solitary dime
But old dogs and children and watermelon wine
He said women think about theyselves when menfolk ain’t around
And friends are hard to find when they discover that you’re down
He said I tried it all when I was young and in my natural prime
Now it’s old dogs and children and watermelon wine
Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes
God bless little children while they’re still too young to hate
When he moved away I found my pen and copied down that line
‘Bout old dogs and children and watermelon wine
[ harmonica ]
I had to catch a plane up to Atlanta that next day
As I left for my room I saw him pickin’ up my change
That night I dreamed in peaceful sleep of shady summertime
Of old dogs and children and watermelon wine.

widening each day the winter river rushes over hidden rocks if you asked me to return I could no longer cross it – Moonset 2, 2005. Beverley George.

Simply Haiku: A Quarterly Journal of Japanese Short Form Poetry

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God saves the moon from the wolves. French.


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foto – new year blue moon 2010

Eva Young: To think too long about doing a thing often becomes its undoing.

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All change is not growth; as all movement is not forward.

Ellen Glasgow


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foto – izzy foreal mowing ulmarrian lawns dec 09