I thought to write a poem about the town where I do live,
a brief poetic description is what I had hoped to give.

I thought it would take but a minute, so very little time,
but I ran into a problem because Whyalla has no rhyme.

I thought to tell its history of ships and iron and steel,
but Whyalla hasn't got a rhyme at least not a word that's real.

There is an old story told of how Whyalla got its name,
it tells of two Afghan's asking their god why they even came.

I could have told of the bush that surrounds the whole of town,
But Whyalla not having any rhymes just really let me down.

There is nature in abundance and some very scenic coast,
but you cant rhyme Whyalla so I didn't stand a ghost.

It isn't everyone's idea of a cultural oasis or a hidden jewel,
I could have told you good things if poems had no rhyming rule.

I would encourage you to visit Whyalla, if you have the time,
it is really quite an amazing place, even if it doesn't rhyme.

It's just a small country town just part of South Australia,
but to sell its attraction via a poem can only end in... failure.

i wanna touch your hands
and dance with you tonight
our feet touch the ground
dance around through city and lights
now i look at the stars
to keep you in my life
i'm frighten now
without you here tonight

He knows me by my first name

The boy who works at the drugstore

near the end of the street.

When I shovel out the crumbled twenty from my left pocket
he doesn’t even bother to say


Will that be all-
Or
Which pump are you at -


His simple smile spreads across his face,

And he calls me by my first name-

I am no longer the girl at the drugstore

near the end of the street.

I stand at
the last divided capital in the world and it confuses me how the land I am from is still being owned by greed and discrimination
we sit at the cusp of the border and an elderly man sells us ice cream
I sit in your lap on the metal chairs,
admiring the history that lived before me
this man was watching knowing his life was in an echo of a torn country

complacency

he moved boxes around, cluttered in old ornaments and memory
the other side of us there were  children in a violin lesson
so unaware
of the wall
their parents wait for them in small conversations
an officer in blue parols with eyes that are hungry and glowing like a fox in the strangeness of night, preying,  feral, searching.

the cowboy slowly enters town riding high on his horse
the town had no name, he just knew he would find what he was after
townsfolk seemed to stop in time and stare at his rugged face
the desert had stolen his youth and good looks
he was a renegade cowboy looking for what seemed, a friendly face
not sure this town had such a person
this town was not real
this town was a ghost
these folks were in the wind waiting for departure into the next
he had found Middletown
was he real, was his horse real, where is he
he thought he knew

Brian Hill - 2020 # 281

Let's take a dive through my home estate,
a place I've tried to escape since my first brainwave.
I'll show you flat roofs and wayward avenues,
shopping trolleys that become steeds at two in the morning
next to mowed down greenery lying abandoned due to overuse.
I used to deliver newspapers along this route.
This spot, right here, has a great Wrekin view.
Back in my youth, it reminded me of you -
new roads, new horizons, new people to meet.
Let's keep moving to the end of the street
where a house is sent letters from the wicked government,
asking a mother if she's recovered from her own ill head.
Like her bed is four-poster when she can barely pay rent.
Her pathway displays a name written in cement.
Our descent continues with the drop-offs at Maccies.
A clock towers over us while we're waiting for taxis
to take us out of this place and onto higher plains
with house party nights and endless summer days.
But our dreams remain chained like bicycle frames,
The keys are locked away, we pray
in cars under stars, they say
we can be anything we want to be.
Such as royalty, or prime minister of this great country,
if we work as hard as anyone who's born into money.
So we hunt for hidden weaponry, hoping they see our cannon fire
and where spirits only fade, there will one day be a parade.