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Chloe M Teng Oct 2016
Under the clocks there was a man
Whom I saw beside the ticket machine.

Passengers of the train
Come and go
Towards a destination of their own,
But he seems already at home
Under the clocks, below the railways;
Or is the station his only find?
Dressed in confusion and mental
Isolation from the sight of
Busy Melbournians.

Left to be sold to
First impressions and
Entertainment for the passersby,
But he receives none
Of their trampling feet
And their questioning eyes:

For when he shouted mumbling
Words at men with
Badges and gun machines,
As they did their inspection
In and out of his clothes and his
Bare feet,
He knows one thing and
One thing only -

He has a place to go,
But where?
kk Jul 2013
I went to a party on Saturday night,
one of those inane get-togethers
for so-and-so who came back from
that place that they went.
Though of course,
it's only an excuse to get drunk since
someone scored some cheap, ******
beer from an older sibling or whoever.

I spent about 45 minutes leaning
against some sticky couch before
I saw you standing in a corner, stupidly
close to the speakers and you were
wearing a hessian scarf that had to be
scraping your blemished neck, but
you didn't seem fazed by it at all.

It's probably the new trend like last
week it was platform sneakers that only
the Flinders Street Steps would ever
wear. Sometimes I imagine a conversation
with one of those kids, though it never
gets past them glaring at me.

I nodded, you nodded
(this means we're now friends)
and passed you a cup of some
****-beer that I'm sure you didn't want but
you probably just took it to avoid saying
no and making this more awkward.

I asked you what school you went to and
you replied with some made-up name
that was probably indigenous or something
since a bunch of old, white preachers
didn't want to offend anyone.

You shrugged.

You asked me a question and I countered
it until it became some kind of 20
questions tennis, minus the ***** secrets
but still adequately laced with teenage
awkward. You told me you wrote poetry
and I laughed saying, "Doesn't everybody?"

I realise now that I'm a little hypocritical.

Prodigies, poets, peacemakers:
These are the names we were given before
Avery or Jaxson or Ahlivea
(because ***** the traditional names).
Why couldn't Ruth or Peter or Hester
fulfil these standards for us? I asked you this.

You just shrugged again.

I looked around the stupidly cramped room,
watched some girls pull down their skirts
(for decency, of course),
watched some boys light up their spliffs and
fall over their post-pubescent yeti feet.
I pointed this out; you just nodded and drank.

I noticed the school captain from last year
passed out on the sticky couch.
We talked about him for a little and you said
he got into law at that fancy university in the city
but he shows up to all of his classes completely
hammered. He still manages to hold a 3.5 GPA.

Eventually, we descended into silence
and turned to our phones,
as is the apparent course of action and the
easiest out to a conversation with someone,

Since none of us know better.
***If you aren't from or haven't visited Melbourne, Australia then you may not understand some of the references
Beau Scorgie Apr 2018
Time moved through me
forgetting to carry me
with her.

And I waited.

Like the businessman
at Flinders Street Station
- stagnant -
while the world passed him by,
and time moved through him,
in fast motion;
forgetting to whisper past
his cheek
and sweep the petals
from his eyes.

For he carries a garden inside,
but all gardens
need time.
Michael Mar 2019
The Ninth Battalion (Australia)

By Sun-filled day and frosty night,
O’er rugged hills and desert sand,
We learned to work as teams, to fight
In jungles of another land.

From every city, State and town,
All the lovely countryside,
Impelled by grim war’s cold, bleak frown,
Gathered we at fair Woodside.

And some of us were volunteers,
But mostly we young conscripts were,
With youthful hopes, ambitions, fears;
Young men’s dreams of love were there.

And lusts, for we weren’t choir boys,
Nor simpering wowser, nor old maid.
We searched for brawling, drinking joys
And chased the girls of Adelaide.

Oh Adelaide, what wondrous pubs,
The Rundle, Gresham (Mind you Roy?),
The Western, Finden, all were hubs
Of social, sinful, youthful joy.

But scarce the city trips sublime.
Beneath the awesome stars our home.
And Sun-bronzed we became with time,
Leigh Creek, Cultana, ours to roam.

At Murray Bridge we fired our weapons, honed our drills;
Formed Section and Platoon at Humbug Scrub, and that was fun.
We dug-dug-dug to prove to them that be our skills,
And by night stood freezing piquet on the gun.

Canungra’s forest, where chilled to bone
We learned to ambush and by sudden flare to ****.
The Flinders Range, those hills of stone.
Shoalwater Bay did prove our skill.

And at the last and having passed our nation’s test,
(for some a final accolade)
And to that question answered yes,
We made farewell to Adelaide.

At Murray Bridge we fired our weapons, honed our drills;
Formed Section and Platoon at Humbug Scrub, and that was fun.
We dug-dug-dug to prove to them that be our skills,
And by night stood freezing piquet on the gun.
Elise Turnedge Sep 2019
The many natural wonders
That Australia has to show
Mysteriously appearing
So many years ago

Looking up onto the Snowy’s
From the lakes of Jindabyne
You appreciate the beauty
That will stand the test of time

From Katoomba falls to Orphan Rock
The three sisters standing tall
The beautiful Blue Mountains
Where Mother Nature gave her all

Down south of the border
Along the coastline you will see
The apostles and the Loch Ard Gorge
Formed by limestone naturally

The Grampian to the Dandenong’s
Buchan Caves to Wilsons Prom
It makes you wonder when and where
This great beauty came from

Travelling further West
You will wonder what you’ve found
The Blue Lake of Mt Gambier
The colourful Wilpena Pound

Over the Nullarbor you’ll go
Cross the Great Australian Bight
Flinders Ranges far behind you
Slowly fading out of sight

On through the Sterling Ranges
Where the wildflowers abound
Jagged peaks of Granite
Shooting upward from the ground

Then to the Red Centre
The most wondrous place of all
Its colours ever changing
With every day’s nightfall

The Olgas up to Arnhem Land
Devils Marbles, Uluru
Katherine Gorge to Mataranka
Standley Chasm, Kakadu

Over to the Sunshine State
The holiday makers dream
The Barrier Reef, The Daintree
The National Parks of Tambourine

The South Pacific Islands
Blue Waters and white Sands
To the tropical rainforests
Which are further north, inland


Then down to the Apple Isle
With its historic convict past
Cradle Mountain, Derwent Valley
Russell Falls and Tasman’s Arch

The many natural wonders
So majestic and so grand
Make it easy to appreciate
This great Australian Land

Elise L Turnedge
1997
Dr Peter Lim Feb 2018
Swanston Street--Piccadilly of Melbourne
on the third floor of a decrepit building-
along its dark deserted corridor I went
in search of that my favourite boyhood bookstore-
the bald old man looked at me and said:
' Who could you be?'  He was half-blind
thick glasses hanging on his nose-- was he 100?
reading Rilke-piles of books beside--a pale light
flickered and half of the room was semi-dark
(Sign read:  Beware of your steps--don't step
on the books on the floor--they are precious)--

What are you looking for?'

Nothing in particular---poetry books, mainly

Over there, second shelf on your left

music from an old CD player filled the room--
Mahler's 'Resurrection' No 2 in C minor...

Young man, do you listen to this music? Mahler--my favourite!

Yes,  his melancholy makes me cry.  Brahms is also among my loves. Mahler- a romantic to excess-obsessed with brevity of life and loss of beauty....also with death. His music seems to say:
Mankind, do not be too happy--everything is ephemeral....

Here's a book on Mahler by Norman Brecht--you can have it--a gift from me.

Oh, no.   I said

We share great music and you have paid me.

But the book costs $40 as marked.

Take it.  How many people these days come here?  I was the number one book-man in Melbourne 50 years ago--I owned four shops.  Even the Governor and PM came here--look at the pictures on the wall....

I'm closing in December 2018.  My wife Dorothy died last year--she wrote beautiful love-poetry and wonderful books for kids--won a national prize.  She graduated from Cambridge--I'm just an ordinary person who finished high school but I loved books--so much did I learn from her.  It was she who urged me to venture into the book-trade.
I can't manage on my own.  Genug ist genug.  It's time to let go.

That's really sad.

And who could you be?  Coming to this ghost-of-a-shop?

I remember your wife so well, and you too. You are Tom.
I'm Peter. I came here as a boy to purchase a Latin primer from you.
Yes, published by Longmans--blue colour.  It was marked $2.
But you said:  Boy, it's a gift from me--after all, no one would buy it.
Aussie kids can't even manage their English and Latin would make them cry!

And your wife interjected--I had to do Latin at O Level as Cambridge and Oxford insisted on that before I could be accepted.
I did Caesar and Virgil.

You  remember me and dear Dorothy?
Forgive me,  that was so long ago and I had met thousands of school-boys and girls..... You are a gift!

What do you do for a living?

I teach dyslexic and intellectually-disadvantaged kids in rural Victoria.

(Two customers walked in and Tom had to attend to them).

Peter, here's my phone.  Please phone me. Come over for dinner.
I live in Brighton.... Maybe I could persuade you to take over this shop! (chuckle)

I left and a strange sense of sadness descended on me.

I walked into the crowded and bustling Swanton Street which seemed to me a world apart from where I came from.

I looked at my watch. It was past five.  Evening set in early, this being late autumn.  Vesper songs from St Paul's drifted through the air amidst the clanging of punk music.  A mother was pushing a pram.  A beggar begged outside Bank of Melbourne. The same blind man, an Asian, was trying to walk across the road to Flinders Station--every Melburnian knew him--he always refused any assistance offered by passersby  A horse-carriage passed by. Singing voices  were heard from Young & Jackson, the oldest pub.
A woman shouted for help:  I lost my dog!  He's called Brownie!
Did anyone see him?

I was turning to Flinders Lane where the City Library was located.

Someone called my name:  Peter, I'm Sandra! Buona sera!
She was my Italian teacher.

Do I call this an ordinary day in Melbourne?
* based on my experience yesterday---bears some truth
Tansy Roake Jul 2017
I’ve felt like I was in a bubble,

For the last coupple of days,

My mind has turned to flinders,

Starting to show its age.


http://tansyroake.weebly.com/
Chuck Kean Dec 2020
Forest Of Death
(This poem is based on truth)

     As the Sun rises to kiss the day
The darkness promises to stay
The people live a life mundane
Nothing inside to strengthen or sustain

A London fog forever lingers
In the hearts the chard’s of flinders
Their souls damaged and minds anguished
For so many lives have vanished

In every language the words are burning
And they repeat the same warning
The forest has a power of constraining
Known to be literally life draining

It’s worse than that of cyanide
It whispers to the ear and convinces suicide
Yet many for reasons unknown why
Disregard the signs and walk right on by

The mystery of the forest remains concealed
Theories vary, some say it’s a magnetic field
Some  say it’s the Devil and his evil way
Just another game he loves to play

They come from all around to see its wonder
As if it’s a spell that they’re under
Knowing they could take their last breath
If they enter the forest of death

Written By:Charles Kean
Copyright 12/15/2020
All rights reserved
Note:—This is a real Forest
Located in Japan—Suicide forest
Aokigahara. —fascinating strange and true
Research—Japans Suicide forest
Marshal Gebbie Sep 2022
Abruptly rearing up a thousand feet out of a thousand miles of flat South Australian desert, a massive plateau with near vertical flanks. Rich red coloration of the abrupt cliffs which separate it as a different world from the surrounding terrain and topped with a mantle of dense, pale green eucalyptus gumtrees.

Unbelievable to approach, seemingly impossible to perceive, like a rearing giant brontosaurus amid the sands of a vast hot flat swamp.

A part of the Flinders ranges in South Australia, it is populated by huge, solitary grey kangaroos, screaming flocks of pink breasted galah's and a *** pouri of rapacious and venomous snakes and spiders plus clouds of ******* blowflies the like of which you would never wish to encounter again.

Hike on the narrow switchback trails and you will sweat a river of perspiration, the incessant heat of a burning overhead sun will have you running from sparse shade to shade. Precious little cover afforded by the spindly gum trees, the ascent is steep and the reflected glare and heat off the burning red earth will have you visualizing the instantaneous relief of a tankard of chilled frothy ale in no time flat!

The Wilpena Pound is a genuine wonder to behold. In a country of scores of vast geographical and geological wonders, Wilpena is unique in that it is a complete surprise to come upon and spectacular, beyond words. Not to be approached lightly or ill equipped it is reminiscent of Arthur Conan Doyle's fabulous  "Lost World". This giant uplifted plateau is uncomprehendingly isolated, challenging and massive.
A truely incredibly monolith, this vast structure is indeed unique and brutally rewarding to those few who venture forth seeking adventure in the challenge that is WILPENA.
One of a multitude of wild wonders of inland Australia.

M.
December 1998
Prompted by John Wiley's many colourful poems about the  remote Flinders Ranges north of Adelaide in South Australia.
Dr Peter Lim Nov 17
Swanson Street is yawning
  the pubs are closed
  street-lamps flicker
   cabs are waiting in rows-

  some revellers are drunk
to  Flinders Station how they struggle
a woman is singing La vie en rose
a bird is chirping on a church steeple-

a sudden gust descends from nowhere
it sweeps discarded papers and debris into the crispy air-

a hungry and mangy dog scrounges at the bin
it's pitiful and finds but a banana-skin-

under the lights of Princes Bridge
a few tramps and vagabonds are asleep-

at this sombre hour why am I still wandering?
Time I've lost count of, sitting on a bench in poetry-writing

— The End —