Take Ten Issue 5

48 label disclaimer 270smallmmm

Artwork By Jane Burn

Edited By Catherine Ayres


I’d like to tell you
…………but you don’t exist yet.
So far there’s only me
…………mixed together with a few caraway seeds
…………on the kitchen table
and you will be
…………a splodge of spilled coffee
…………taking your shape from my clumsy gesture
I’d like to tell you
…………that I’m looking forward to that messy breakfast.

By Renata Connors


Mollusc Mephisto

In darkness
the lowest of the low
….gather
………..to dance.

Silk and silver
….grace the path,
ghost traces
….we can only see
…………in a certain light.

By Jill Sharp


Conch

Brutal backyard
years of railroad
sleepers oozing
coal-tar creosote
across your cracked
mouth never silenced
your secret ocean.

By Randi Ward

Heather

Weathered, anxious, wearied of winds.
Scorched by a star. Blown tender.
Gusts flute her flowers ragged
like a siren plays funereal
on slivered seaside shells.

Bend into the gale, soldier;
tighten fatigues against the blast
and just keep walking. Purple your way
across this wasted moor. For the sun
will set on this day too.

By Harry Gallagher


Broken Pinocchio 

To regard the invisible man you
Have to close your eyes to see, but you’d daren’t
Look too long just incase you catch a sea
Shaking with a raw untamed malady,
Tangled with ill fitting hospital gowns.
To regard the invisible man you
Have to confront your own mortality,
Clawing at your palms soft flesh tasting of
Salt. To regard the invisible man
You have to look past this callow parade
Of Victorian caricatures of
Cripples. It’s hard to make your way round them,
Bandaged into a bed eternally
These bones of a broken Pinocchio.

By Grant Tabard


The Infirmary
 
i.m. Doreen
 
All that I could think to give her then
was the loved rain, and from the narrow window
they didn’t want us to open, here were
my hands, my remarkable
arms reaching out for the soft beginnings
of a summer storm accumulating over the city.
By Joan Johnston


Daylight (At the station)

Daylight. At the station, lives are bound,
to the ticking clocks relentless hand.
Some are quiet, not making a sound.
Others are hurried/nothing can withstand
The dizzy rush to get to where –
They need to go/but do not want
to be. Or to live, in sombre unrest.
Sorrow eats into their souls laid bare,
The rest ponder ‘here’ and ‘there’. Nonchalant.
Not content to be. Or to live at someone’s behest.

By Dominic Mason

Genesis

Write what you will
It is easy to tell
yourself sweet
little lies.

Wonder not
that you have
time to waste,
but that you waste it
without guilt
yet feel

guilty still.

When a humming bird
writes the last line,

says nothing,
the sun will rise less high
and wind will be more chill.
Out of every creature’s
voice the chorus;
Remember
your birth.
 
By Emily Pittman Newberry


what is it that is important?

Maori saying:
He aha te mea nui o te ao? He tangata! He tangata! He tangata!
what is it that is important? it is people, it is people, it is people

after the surviving seeds go mouldy
after the last kumara is pulled
after we get that we’re disconnecting
after diesel reaches rocket fuel
after the kids have left for the city
after the snow refuses to fall
we must set stone faces to the sun
we, the important ones, after all

By Liz Breslin

 

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