Writing 201; Poetry: Day Ten: Future, Sonnet, Chiasmus



Setting off to the city in search of a better life
albeit fuelled by thine raging inner turmoil.
Disregarding all duties of mother and wife
abandoning three young for others to toil.

After many years the result of your departure
emerged in frightening horrendous fashion.
Broken trust bespoke the depth of the rupture
irreparable after such an emotional bludgeon.

The battle raging over fifteen years and ten
inducing enlightenment and understanding.
Harmony executed a physiological Zen
cause continuance henceforth concluding.

Without love, trust signifies highest regard.
Without trust, love is an illusionist’s façade.


Writing 201: Poetry; Day 9: Landscape, Found Poetry, Enumeratio


 Just a load of codswollip


G’day mate!

Ya look like a stunned mullet,
chucking a sickie ?

Came a bit of a gutser there
jobs down the gurgler
I’m buggered, broke and bewildered
was sprung gabbin on the dog and bone
in my bag of fruit

fits like a bum in a bucket
me face full of fungus
was as welcome as a beer in Kindergarten

the mug boss was full as a goog
chucked a fair dinkum wobbly
did his bloody block
gave me the bloody bullet

Bugger me dead!
what a load of old cobblers
ya got the rough end of the pineapple cobber
ya bloods worth bottling mate

Talk about the lucky country
we’re stuck in the middle of bloody Woop-Woop
dry as a bulls bum going up a hill backwards
dig a hole and bury me mate, it just don’t get better than this!

Wanta wet ya whistle?

Na, better hit the frog ‘n toad
go home to the ball and chain and billy lids
between you me and the gatepost..
she’s in the pudding club again

Strewth; fair suck of the sav
don’t come the raw prawn with me mate!
yer gotta be pulling me chain

Na ridgy-didge

What do you think it is, Bushweek?

Get off yer bloody high horse mate
I need this like a motorbike needs a bloody ashtray

You’ve got two chances in hell mate: Buckley’s and none

Fair dinkum mate a bloke’s buggered
ya can’t have one foot either side of the fence if it’s made from barbed wire.

hooroo I’m off like a bucket of prawns in the hot sun

Hooroo mate good luck.

Writing 201; Day Eight: Drawer, Ode, Apostrophe


So where are the socks kept now?


Would you mind getting the baby for me it’s time for his feed?

being the first time for a cuddle, I happily agreed

For the moment he’s in our room near the far side of the bed

oddly I find him not in a cot but a sock draw instead

giving him a cuddle while whispering in his shell pink ear

“Oh you little sweetheart let Aunt Wendy get you out of here”

Handing him to his mum amid her giggling explanation

until the cot gets delivered ‘twas their one real option

Writing 201, poetry: Day Seven: Fingers, Prose Poem, Assonanc


Nerve damage


The intense searing heat of nerve end damage

causing loss of sensation in fingers,

would engage a certain encumbrance,

albeit not entirely encroaching on independence.

Item identification must then depend on the

vision of eyesight still enabled, when endlessly

wending through a purse without any sense of


Writing 201: Day Six: Hero(ine), Ballad, Epistrophe


He’s a good boy

I have a little puppy and oh what a joy,
Does everything he can think of to hear he’s a good boy.
Good boy, oh … you’re such a good boy,

Utilising all the tricks I know he will enjoy,
because at the completion he’s assured he’s a good boy
Good boy, oh … you’re such a good boy.

He loves running off with his squeaking toy
Come Here! he returns trying to look coy, he’s a good boy
Come Here! Good boy, oh … you’re such a good boy