I am the landscape I posses, one hundred and
forty characters at best, the landscape an object to test, when fifteen minutes of fame persist,
leaping onto my gift, makes me a poet I guess,

hope is my landscape today;

all the best.

http://health.ninemsn.com.au/healthnews/8351253/why-giving-up-is-good-for-you

Why giving up is good for you

Joanna Barry

Friday, September 23, 2011

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A strange paradox today's news presents;

The dilemma of looking like a…

Bourke  ‘n  Back.

We’ve just been out to Bourke ‘n back, by train ‘n then by road

to visit with a great ol’ bloke, who once shouldered a heavy load,

makin’ roads ‘n fixin’ them, all around the ol’ Bourke Shire

but now ‘e rests, as is their due, when Tall Tale Tellers retire.

Now Outback Jack, he guided us - ‘round…

Petard is a word that survives in the modern world entirely in the expression hoist with his own petard, which means someone fails because of their own plans or because of their own deviousness. It is usually understood that its literal meaning is to be blown up with your own bomb. But there is a far more comical interpretation.…

Kakoda  

A meter from the sky

Where the water spirit

Runs down mountain slides

Saturating

Men long mudded yearn for

Dry brown land

Turning back the tide

Some said as

Silver snakes pour

From burdened leaves

A ten round bare knuckle

Fight unchosen

All contenders’ champions

On the Owen Stanley’s

The water spirit once…

A Poem in the Afternoon.

My poems emerge from fog

images indistinct.

Piece by painful piece

born of sweat and toil.

Caution stonemason at work.

Each stone measured, fitted,

integral to the whole.

Words come slow.

No whiff of fox just heavy lifting

akin to Leonardo

sketching, shifting,

constantly  changing.

As Charters architects…

Janice Bostok…

Design and production

Jim's Jottings Publications

Topical Rhymes about Aussie Times

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Jim's Jottings

 …

Cool poetry exhibition City Wears 11 is embedded in Newtown as part of the Sydney Fringe.

Artists use the medium of digital art to open up real and imagined spaces where the social, political and the personal can be explored. 11 poets will exhibit their wears along King Street, Newtown.…

My friend Jade just put me on to this..

http://popshotpopshot.com/magazine.html

Poetry and illustration.

x

Birthplace, a memoir.

prologue :

My birth paper says, young Jim is a male, apparently I was - hearty and hale.Very soon after, my family went away - to another town, for just a short stay.Life in the depression, my ensuing years, were a very long session.

Now, Jim is a contraction of a much bigger name.Perhaps, the two my folks chose they thought would bring fame.Well, it never happened. I don’t really care.They’ve all served me well, no need for…

Recently came across this item. Thought it worth sharing.

Suggest you check it out then make your individual decisions -

New Authors Beware!



It has come to our attention that there are a lot of new authors getting burnt out there by self-publishing houses and vanity publishers.

So this article is to help you be aware of a few pitfalls out there.



There are two general rules to keep in mind when it comes to choosing how to publish your…

Strange how one day-an hour-a minute

And a silly old countdown changes the equation:

Growing older by a year I’m not necessarily wiser,

The numerical increase in the count of my anniversaries

Doesn’t necessarily make them sweeter.

My children, though technically older,

Are not necessarily mature or independent.

The leftovers in my fridge

Have crossed the safest use by date.

The unpaid bills for the month of…

Gripped those laden with new age bibles.

The poor and the dying looked on longingly

As bags of rice piled up on the floor.

Beside the door, the missionary van reversed to spill

A thousand free copies of Gideon's bible  near the door.

"Here it is the Word of the Lord!"

She gushed, unable to control her own feverish pitch.

"HE is the ONE that saved all our souls from…

I miss my father too!

I wish when he was alive

He could have told me he always missed me too.

It's a pity that he never heard me drop

the words that hung out of my lips

But evaporated in the heat of the harsh sun.

The past is like an iceberg in the sun,

Chunks of my life have been lost

In unending rivulets that stained and streaked

The shirts of those that understood.

But nothing can…