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James Court Apr 2018
There once was a man from Sydney
who said, 'That man stole my sheep, didn' 'e!'
He chased him to Illawong,
pushed him in a billabong,
and stabbed him twelve times in the kidney.
Journey of Days Nov 2017
...and the party continues
a conga line of ants
balance crumbs at jaunty angles
drunken cocktail waitresses
taking the scenic route across the kitchen bench
around the cooktop
skirting the kitchen sink where the spider and fly detente appears to continue
over the countertop
carefully avoiding the cockroaches playing five card draw
…. to the ***** next to the door

@journeyofdays
summer in Sydney means the bugs move in
you can wipe spray clean vacuum
and they will all be back partying in your house again
the very next day
Journey of Days Sep 2017
pittosporum undulatum
such a beautiful name
it speaks summer and warmer winds
that drift in from my garden

@journeyofdays
ok Sydney folks I know it is a bit of a **** but how divine does is smell on the breeze late afternoon just as the weather is starting to warm up?
Laura Enright Feb 2017
I told my big brother that I hated him
because he threw sand in my face on the beach in Sydney
it stung and made me cry. He was seven, I was five.

Later we raced from the top of the beach where our mother lay
on a polka dot beach towel, sun-browned as a berry,
to the fringe of the shore where the sea foam was a bubble bath
–  the sky looks like a Greek flag, it’s so blue and white.
splashed me, shouting
–  do you still hate me?
I laughed
– yes!

When he rose in one big gulp from under the surface of water
his lips and raisin-wrinkled finger tips were tinged  blue
rosy streaks slashed across his belly
like he was ******* with poisoned red string.

I tugged on my mother’s sun dress, anxious
– Is he going to die?
– No it was only a baby one, it will do him no harm
–Am I allowed to see him?
–He’ll be out before the sun goes down
–Will you tell him I don’t hate him and it’s okay that he threw sand in my face?
Sydney Queen May 2016
Our bare feet
in a carpet of yellow flowers.
You,
nearly asleep in the back of the jeep,
letting me slide your glasses off in the dark.
You are beautiful in your happiness,
for your naivety,
for your wit,
because of the way you make tea.
Every day you are kinder,
gentler,
and more magnificent.
Your sharp eyes
and your soft hands--
the quiet clink of your rings against each other.
I want you to kiss me and leave.
I want you to kiss me and stay.
I don't care if you're late.
I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.
So I learned how to live like this,
how to drink in a desert,
constantly on the cusp of summer.
Those restless, humid nights.
The whole sky is talking.
A long stairway,
a quiet glance.
A king, at sunrise.
The entire world thinks softly of you.
You are the love of everyone’s life.
George Krokos Dec 2010
Aborigines and kangaroos
boomerangs and didjeridoos.
Leafy gum tree branch and koala bear
black stump in the middle of nowhere.
Jolly swagman camped by a billabong
in 'Waltzing Matilda' a favourite song.
The wild brumbies roaming free in the outback
a scruffy hobo living alone in a country shack.
Aboriginal myths called their dreamtime
the native Australians regard as sublime.
Ring-tailed possum and wombat
aussie bloke wearing akubra hat.
Alice Springs and Ayers Rock
outback stations and livestock.
Ned Kelly bushranger and his law brushes
the Eureka stockade during the gold rushes.
Laughing kookaburra and old man emu
platypus swimming in underwater view.
Banjo Patterson’s poem ‘The Man from Snowy River’
who went riding down mountain side without a quiver.
Surfers paradise and the Great Barrier reef
sixties rock ‘n roll legend: Johnny O’Keefe.
Anzac marches and the land of the Southern cross
old Cobb & Co. stagecoach used to travel across.
Glorious summer sunshine and winter rains
severe country drought and the desert plains.
Eucalyptus scent and Tea-tree oil
good health remedies from the soil.
Fresh water yabbies and the witchety grub
all make good tucker in the bush or scrub.
Crocodiles in the Kakadu national park
Burrumundi and the great white shark.
Sydney harbour bridge and the Opera House
Daintree rain forest and the kangaroo mouse.
Sheep wool farming and old shearing sheds
Melbourne Cup horse race for thoroughbreds.
Riverboat cruising up and down the Murray
passing border country towns not in a hurry.
Cradle mountain and the Tasmanian Devil
saying ‘fair dinkum’ means it’s on the level.
AFL rules football and big crowds at the MCG
playing one day cricket there is exciting to see.
The Fitzroy Gardens and Captain Cook’s cottage
are there for all to see as symbols of our heritage.
The Twelve Apostles standing along a rugged stretch of coast
a Ninety-Mile beach is something about which we can also boast.
The Glass House mountains are a sight to see and even to climb
by those who consider themselves fit enough and in their prime.
The great Australian Bight and the road on the Nullarbor plain
is a great feat to drive across and be able to come back again.
The local native wild dog known by name as the Dingo
has nothing to do with a game people play called Bingo.
There’s also a game called two-up that some people play
by which they gamble most of their weeks wages away.
Luna Park in St.Kilda and the annual Royal Melbourne Show
are places where you can take the kids to have fun people know.
There’s the local pub where you can go and have a drink with your mates
and is what many do all day long having a few too many in all the States.
This great southern land of Australia has so much to see and to offer
it would be a ****** shame if one didn’t give a **** or was a scoffer.
_________
Private Collection - written in 2002
Sydney Queen Dec 2015
Pulling your blanket back on when it falls off in the night.
***** feet
and raspberry stained hands.
You, chewing on ice.
Me, sipping lemonade through red straws.
Moths that haunt the street lamps.
Dancing home alone,
ghosts that sing you to sleep,
old records on the table.
Riding your bike as the sun sinks sleepily at your back.
Being pressed up against the back door.
The seasons.
Winter.
Freedom.
*****, terrible beauty.
Watching your back receding down the long, sunlit hall.
The two of us,
always running away from eachother.
????
Sydney Queen Sep 2015
Time stops when you're running away from me.
We are rising with the sun,
singing the moon to sleep.
Your voice is an aubade to the meadow.
We don lopsided crowns
to go out and **** kings.
The seasons turns before I wonder
if the wind ever won your war.
You tip your head back and smile,
easy and teeth bared,
watch the way I let go of my handlebars.
We have never looked so young.
You say my name like a hymn.
We leave peaches on the windowsill
and mint leaves on the porch.
Our own kind of magic.
Not even the earth has enough hands
to hold us hostage.
We lay down in the flowers
just to say something terrible.
It might be the first time I've spoken in years,
the way the words scrape my throat.
You dont need a reason to be free.
I will stop writing about summer when it is no longer summer. Maybe. Probably not.
Sydney Queen Aug 2015
I run not on earth,
but on blood alone.
By salt,
by sand,
by sea.
I can feel your wake from the other side of the bay,
pulling on me like a riptide.
I am looking at you
and you are looking back,
and the wind carries the smell of thunder and oncoming rain.
The sea things to us both,
but you always come home to me.
You are all kinds of too brave for this,
but I'm in the mood to be terrifying.
"Are you afraid?"
you say.
I don't know what I am,
but its not afraid.
It's everything, if your lucky.
I've got this memory of you,
throwing something foul into the ocean.
A wish,
a curse.
Standing on the white cliffs
looking like a sacrifice.
You told yourself that I would never be your weakness.
Love, its a little late for that.
This land will take you,
if you let it.
There is no such thing as faith, here.
All there is
is me loving you
and the changing of the tides.
The wind has its nimble fingers in your fine,
fair hair,
and the waves crash like applause.
You look absolutely godless.
I love you bloodhungry and harsh.
Striking, predatory,
fever pitched and unknowable.
I love you dead.

God,
I remember when I used to be afraid of the ocean.
i have no idea what Im doing
Sydney Queen Jul 2015
I lose my first life to lightning,
of all things.
I spend the next day
racing through a field of camellias
while golden hour twists the sky yellow.
They are redder than red,
like the crests of your cheekbones
and the tips of your ears-
even your blushes are incredibly focused.
I'm so happy I dont know what to do with myself.
I wait for you as you stand in the middle of the street
watching the sun sink into a kaleidoscope of orange.
Your back is to me
though I feel like I have never seen you more clearly.
You smile radiantly into the distance.
I want to care about things like that.
I want to love things, too.
My second life is stolen by fire.
In the whirlwind of my return,
I find you waiting for me
with an umbrella and a smile
underneath the willow tree.
When I was younger
I thought there was a piece of the puzzle missing.
You make me feel like there wasnt even a puzzle to begin with.
I want to keep you
but I refuse to own a cage.
I trip on my way to take your hands
in the willow-broken light of the afternoon.
You laugh with your entire body.
It's like I have never truly understood poetry until right now.
You are the embodiment
of that peculiar space in between the seasons.
With you goes all things bold and brave and beautiful.
I've got 25 lives
but I love you like I hardly have one.
I intended originally to write this as prose but then I decided to stick to my habit of writing excessively long poetry.
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