Hopefully the following micro poems will trigger creative writing of your own.

Baseballs turns black in the twilight.
Earthward bound they overtake eagles.

Stockings as ornate as Versailles chandeliers
cling to her like a lover.

The ink cartridge is an ocean of potential.
Her diary is a temple of dreams.

The sun’s farewell
is painted on the shallows
of a windswept beach.

Santa’s sleigh zooms across
a ten thousand dollar TV.
Elf size viewers
scrape mould from their breakfast.

Rotten watermelons carpet the yard.
Pranked basement prisoners
collapse from thirst.

Politicians in chains,
staring at the bloated corpses
of forgotten political prisoners.

Enough Wikileaks t-shirts
to cause a cotton shortage in Texas
bury the Christmas tree.

A sinker for every Clinton and Trump lie.
Not enough fisherman in the USA
to stop them burying the streets.

Forest fire embers
descend on a climate change deniers essay,
like a hawk on a rodent.

Wapengo Lake

Mum saw reflections of the landscape in the dams.
I saw a subterranean world
and vowed not to fall in.

Later, I watched in awe
as a goanna stole dad’s bream
from the frying pan.

I burst into the tent.
“Mummy, daddy, a giant lizard has tooken our fish”

“Yes Rod, they said in chorus,
assuming it was like the crow
who flew through the sun
and dived into the dam in time,
to save its feathers from melting.

The next day,
I scraped a dog in the sand,
by the oyster racks,
venturing beyond scribble for the first time.
Alas, I haven’t come much closer
to rivalling Rembrandt since.

The year the Olympics headed to L.A,
a fallen tree beside the creek
became a spaceship.
Neil and I, aimed our laser cannons
at the pack of wolves
dad convinced him roamed the bush,
on the Tathra side of the lake.

During my primary school years,
we spot lighted for rabbits.
I thought it was cool
how dad blew those cute vermin apart,
with a shotgun.
My cousin thought urinating on the scattered remains
was the ultimate comedy act.

Recently, I walked
through Mimosa National Park,
shining my spotlight on the eighties.
I emerged from the trees,
as the sun set over the lake.
While gazing down at the stockyard,
I relived speeding down the hillside,
in the back of Roland’s ancient ute.
That long dead Toyota,
is now an archaeological site.

I strolled past the clueless gaze
of a soon to be gutted cow
and rewound to more idyllic thoughts,
of a cute little blonde,
in a feathered Akubra hat,
more at home on horseback
than I was on my feet.

I returned to the moment.
Mighty waves battered the distant headland.
Fish aimed for the gleaming moon.
As I lay cocooned on rural turf,
I was soothed to sleep by distant surf.


Perched on a crowded veranda,
I ink ‘Fruit bats disturb the flight
of cherry blossoms falling
beneath soothing moonlight’

On an empty veranda,
I contemplate forests stretching to coastal cauldrons.
The annihilation of foaming crests,
on towering cliff faces,
is as precise as a master craftsmen’s chisel.
In this dimension every molecule is mindful;
Michelangelo is reborn as the ocean.


Trees shields the river from civilization.
Stress vanishes
in the sun caressed shallows
of a Jurassic lake.
Urban chaos
feels as distant as the Oort Cloud.

A lone hut looms
on a desolate, windswept horizon.
Within its mud brick walls,
blazing fires
suck the swamp from our boots.
The midnight gale
howls like a dingo.
Tibetan singing bowls
complement distant thunder.

My eyelids are as heavy
as oars
in the vastest ocean
and my dreams as psychedelic
as the sixties.

Miles deeper than sunlight can penetrate,
luminescent seaweed jungles innovate.
Their symphonic hues spread as they vibrate.
These orchestral visions we cannot recreate.

It’s the purest paradise Earthlings have seen,

viewed from the boudoir of your submarine.
Only the euphoric expression on your face,
outshines mysteries enshrined in this place.


Ebenezer Scrooge’s First Flight

The airport travellator is fascinating,
if you’re the sort whose eyes are ablaze with excitement
over the latest developments in detergent technology.
Gwendolyn is such a person.
The deranged bitch
is acting like a teenager on a roller coaster.
They say the world needs to
halve its population and half it again.
Oh how I’d love to start with Grandma Gwen.
The waiting room is as drab as a medical centre.
There isn’t even any chitchat
about the dodgy bowels and brain infections
of peasants soon to rid the earth
of their intolerable presence.

It’s boarding time,
time to say goodbye to the quaint,
ridiculous puppets in this Thunderbirds re-run.
The sweetly smiling twit of a stewardess
expects me to return her good cheer,
how wonderful to see her shrink away
in the face of my evil laughter.
“In business class I’d be as happy
as a pick pocket in a casino” they said.
I’m not sacrificing compound interest
for fleeting luxuries.
The plane is taxiing across the tarmac now.
Perhaps this experience will soon be more riveting
than watching thrush grow on the tongue
of a Z grade whoremonger.

The disembodied safety demonstration voice
sounds thrilled at the prospect
of wearing a safety light,
while thrashing around in choppy seas,
and watching the plane begin its journey
to the floor of the Pacific.
I brought my own life jacket,
I’m wearing it now.
I’m contemplating destroying my spare,
in case some urchin gets hold of it.

The poet beside me is raving about
how quickly his gaze extends
from Botany to Bundeena to Wollongong,
in the most dreadful flowery language.

The scowling billionaire beside me
is attempting to frighten me to death
with his glowering demonic eyes.
Infants experiment with sound
as we approach the speed of sound.
Miles into atmospheric blue
sea and cloud are smoky marble.

Distant land vanishes in grey haze.
The obscuring vapour
is the wintry exhalations of Poseidon,
strolling between Melbourne and Van-Diemens Land,
in Kosciusko humbling gumboots.
King and Flinders Islands are stepping stones
to the God of the ocean’s backyard.
Ocean precipitation was his perspiration.

Descending into Launceston – ocean, beaches,
forests, patchwork of paddocks, pine plantations,
clear felled sample of Armageddon,
open cut mines, urban sprawl, country manor,
vast treeless acreage; descending rapidly,
Launceston grows to Cockington Green proportions.


Lone Swimmer

Waterlogged driftwood sinks beneath the swell.
The swimmer seeks shelter
on the summit
of a glorified boulder.
He explores guano fed gardens
in search of fresh water ponds.
All but one is a glorified puddle.

Giant crabs lurk in the caves below.
Their pincers have the power
to launch frying pans into the ocean.
They challenge seals to bloody brawls.

There’s enough skeletons
to keep the fire burning until spring.
The swimmer boils algae
in the remnants of the storm.
Will the moonlit beaches he dreams of
be stolen by the waves?

The swimming season is nigh.
How far beyond the horizon
to the next islet?
Sailors wave and smile politely
as they tack westward
in search of distressed canoeists.

Thirty nautical years to the continent,
reads a rust ravaged sign
peeking above the high water mark.