WRITING GALLERY - SEPTEMBER 2026
WRITING GALLERY - SEPTEMBER 2026
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POETRY
This time around we were tasked with either writing a poem or making a reference to poetry.
BUNDLED
by Melinda
BUNDLED
by Melinda
Helen put down the David Hume volume she had been reading and pondered his words. She summarised them as ‘things come bundled.’ So true. She looked down at the next book in her ‘to read’ stack. Louisa Lawson, The Lonely Crossing. The yellow cover and well-thumbed pages didn’t entice her, but her neighbour had recommended it as a ‘must read.’ A book of poems.
Looking at the jacket, she read that Louisa Lawson was an Australian feminist - writing at the turn of the 20th Century. Sipping her tea, Helen nestled into her armchair and contemplated feminism. ‘Things come bundled’ - the idea played over in her mind. She thought about how since the early 1900s women had obtained the right to vote, the right to equal pay and the ability to live without having to be beholden to a man. Contrasted with that was the rest of ‘the bundle’ – today women ‘have to’ work to help the family make ends meet. Women today are granted ‘child support’ after a marriage break up, but they may have to interact with a sometimes-volatile ex in order to try to get those payments. Many give up out of fear. Only by demonstrating ‘impossible circumstances’ can an exes’ wages be garnished. Another part of ‘the bundle’ is those stupid G-string things young women have now normalised wearing on the beach in public - with butt cheeks clearly on display. Helen smiled as she exhaled thinking about her parents’ reaction to mini-skirts back in the 1960s. Putting down her cup, she began flipping through the Louisa Lawson book, and read …
We turn the sod, we stir the pool,
We point the way to those who rule.
We cheek the rogue, we chide the fool,
We point the way to those who rule.
Louisa Lawson, an early suffragette in NSW, was instrumental in women in Australia obtaining the vote 1902 with the passing of the Commonwealth Franchise Act – twenty-six years before their peers in Britain.
Helen’s mind turned to the wildly exciting times of the late 1960s and 70s in Melbourne. Despite regrets at her own fear to participate in some events, her heart warmed as she remembered the day in 1969 when her older friend, Zelda D’Aprano, chained herself to the doors of the Commonwealth Building in Spring Street in a bid to highlight that women received just 75% of the wages of a man doing the same job. Zelda ‘point[ed] the way to those who rule.’ She ‘stirred the pool.’ Helen thought of several friends who, just days later, followed suit and chained themselves to the doors of the Arbitration Building. Helen had joined many marches for equal rights and equal pay for women and even took part in the much-publicised Trams Protest where women refused to pay more than 75% of the fare.
Helen exhaled, an easy smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she remembered the camaraderie and the achievements of that era. It was 1972 when women were finally granted equal pay for equal work. However, prominent news outlets, TV channels and papers, The Age and The Sun, Channel 7, characterised the women’s movement as ‘chains and bra burning’. Bundled!
SANDMAN
by Paul
SANDMAN
by Paul
“While Egypt has the famed Bedouin Sands and Japan its geo-thermal black sands of Ibsuki, up to now, Australia’s vast red Simpson Desert hasn’t been on the checklist of
psammotherapy enthusiasts. Or Sand blathing…bathing, ah crap.”
I tug the mike off.
Mike lowers the camera, with a derisive snort at my mumble-fumble.
‘What? My tongue feels too big for my mouth. I mean look at me,’ I hold up my arms to reveal the circular sweatbands creeping down my new linen dress. ‘I’m drenched.’
‘Wait until they cover you with super-hot sand.’
I glance at the body-sized hole that Gerald, the new Resort’s Manager had dug earlier.
‘It looks like a grave,’ Mike says.
‘That’s not helpful. You know I have claustrophpobia.’
Mike tosses me one of the lukewarm water bottles and I gulp it dry. ‘Tell me again, why we’re here, Jess.’
‘Money. I don’t have any since I went freelance and you’re the only cameraman crazy enough to work on tick until I get paid for this commercial. And I’m grateful, which is one reason why you get to stay here, with me, for free.’
‘You never mentioned it was in middle of the bloody desert.’
‘I believe I said come for a weekend of sun, sand and luxury. It’s not my fault you heard beach with a breeze.’
‘Right now I’d settle just for the breeze … Oh, don’t look now, but here comes Gerald with his ceremonial shovel.’
‘Behave.’
‘It’s time,’ Gerald singsongs in a tone that reminds me of every horror movie I’ve ever screamed my way through. Mike prepares the angle for the shoot while I climb into the body-sized hole.I watch while Gerald drapes a thick woollen blanket over my body. ‘In case I get cold?’
‘It’s so the hot sand won’t scorch you.’
‘Better and better,’ I mumble.
Gerard then begins shovelling hot– no, really hot – sand on top of my legs and torso while I try and keep up a cheerful babble about the therapeutic value of cooking myself. Soon
the only body part showing is my head. Everything below my neck is in the red zone.
‘Everything good?’ Gerald asks, positioning another blanket over my head. ‘For heatstroke,’ he whispers.
I’ve never experienced makeup sliding down my face before and I can’t do a thing about it because my arms are buried under a ton of hot sand. ‘Mike. You need to get all this before I turn into a puddle and drain away.’
‘Got it. Zooming in.’
This is the part where I’m supposed to smile-lie and coo about how this is the most relaxing, wonderful, resort experience, immediately followed by a still of the hotel’s 1300 call to action. Filming done, colour me paid.
Not quite. I begin the final spiel six times, but each time a battalion of small black flies lands on my face for a hydration break which Gerald has to swipe away.. We almost have it in the can on the seventh take, but I lose it completely when Mike begins quietly singing, “Oh, Mr Sandman*, bring me some spray, I want to keep all these flies away!”
I’m hopeful for a cool change tomorrow.
*Sung to the tune of Mr Sandman -
THE MIDNIGHT RATTLER
by Trevor
THE MIDNIGHT RATTLER
by Trevor
The local hall was bulging, as the dancers glided ‘round.
Miss Banana Shire, for the year, was to be crowned -
an annual coveted event, celebrated with a ball.
Goovigen was the host town, attracting quite a thrall.
Typical of country, shire communities had pitched in.
Each entrant brought along a group, to party should she win.
The decorated venue was a sight for all to see.
The ambiance was splendid – fit for Royalty.
A highlight for the social set, it was a great affair:
flamboyant frocks, bow-tied males headed by the mayor;
five-piece band; little cuties dressed as flower girls;
ladies in their finery: diamonds, gold and pearls;
page boys in their dancing pumps, matching suits and ties;
entrants in all their splendour, each yearning for the prize;
totally exhilarated by the possibility that looms;
partners looking their very best, resembling future grooms.
Across the street, the Royal, enjoyed a whopping trade:
beer, wine and spirits, once the well-earned had been paid.
Menfolk reuniting, shouting pleasantries afar;
a cacophony of noises emanating from the bar.
Father time was ticking and, adding to the din,
came the whistle of a steam train, slowly chuffing in.
Friday night, the Midnight Rattler halted right on time:
nine o’clock on the dot, with its coal-dust, grit and grime.
There’s a QR regulation that a train has to be manned.
This was circumvented, by this evening’s little band
consisting of the driver, the fireman and guard,
who joined the rowdy pub throng. Unstaffed train sat in the yard.
Observers of their entry was my Dad and Uncle Nick:
a nasty combination that was always in the thick
of episodes of mischief and numerous “harmless” jokes.
Opportunity knocked, for this scoundrel pair of blokes.
They left the pub verandah, quickly made it to the train,
and conjured up some left field plans, to cause the trio pain.
They thought to shunt the engine, but erased this stupid scheme,
for everyone in town would have heard them building steam.
They found a can of grease, so they coated the two rails
of the railway crossing, obliterating trails.
They greased the lever handles, to annoy the operators.
Rejoicing, when they opened up the stock of detonators.
They strapped a dozen to the tracks, past where they’d put the grease,
and chuckled at their efforts, for comical release.
Back to the pub to clean themselves, then make it to the ball,
with bottled expectations of reactions, in the hall.
Meanwhile, the railway men had finished off a round
of shouts, and feeling well imbibed, trapsed across the ground.
As censorship precludes recording language that was used,
a precis of the context confirms that they were not amused.
Steam was built. The whistle blew. The train was set in motion.
Patrons in the pub and hall had not a single notion
of what would be ensuing, as the big wheels lost their traction,
spinning on greasy railway tracks, to hardly move a fraction.
Chuff, chuff, chuff and chu-a-lug-a-lug and chug-a-lug again.
Slowly. Very slowly, built the momentum of the train.
A miniscule of joy for the crew … away at last …
was hit for six, as they jumped in fear, of a detonator blast.
Chuff, chuff, BOOM!!! Chuff, chuff, BOOM!!! Ditto, to a dozen.
The bar and hall were emptied. I calmed a frantic cousin.
“The Russians have attacked,” was yelled. “The world’s come to an end.”
As the Rattler disappeared, the incident was condemned.
It took some time to restore the night. Formalities took place.
Miss Banana Shire was crowned, accepted with pride and grace.
Dad and Uncle Nick were spared. “ ‘Twas a harmless spot of fun.”
The crew remained tight-lipped and mute. Didn’t tell anyone!
I FEAR POETRY
by Cindi
I FEAR POETRY
by Cindi
Words in a different dimension
Providing confusion and tension
Sherds from a past I don’t want to visit
The pain of that knowledge, disgusting, exquisite.
Five people driving a central west track
A story evolving of times not long back
Exhilarated recalling his hunt and the danger
One unknown, uncaring blood-focused stranger
Fear-blinded emus, thin bony legs pounding
Difficult country, hazards abounding
Prideful, impregnable ute tale he told
Splintered bones, tiny wings, wild emus goaled.
Poetry. Emotive words, memories that hurt my id
I wasn’t there; it didn’t happen. This poem says it did.
WHEN PAULL COMES TO SHOVE
by Robyn
WHEN PAULL COMES TO SHOVE
by Robyn
I gazed sadly at her blandness
The empty words she always spoke
Despaired the boring path of beigeness
That she trudged down when she woke
It was a lifeless world she occupied
Non-descript, no movement there
One void within another
My pen stilled. I grew heavy with despair.
Then the narrative ripped wide open
Untethered, she turned, and spat each word
“I too was at that workshop.
If you listened, you might have heard.”
“Your plot, it is so pedestrian
My character has no voice
You tell, not show, you’re to blame
Mediocracy remains YOUR choice.”
Stay lost in your discordant rhythm
Suffer in the tension that’s not there,
Die without the hope found in unwritten drafts
You have 12 readers. They will not care.
AN ODE TO OUR WRITING GROUP
by AI and an anonymous human
AN ODE TO OUR WRITING GROUP
by AI and an anonymous human
An Ode to Our Writing Group
I like the way you make me think,
of life and things that matter,
you give me time to take up ink,
and rein in words that too often scatter.
I love the stories people share,
the laughter and critique,
the friendship, warmth; the ideas we bare.
I reckon we’re pretty much on fleek!
POET IN ME
by Meryl
POET IN ME
by Meryl
Where is the poet in me?
Maybe up a tree.
I’ll just have to try
To make no one cry.
So what’s a good explanation
For me - no justification
For this assignment dodge
Maybe I’ll make some fudge.
Another weeks gone by
So again I’ll give it a try
Maybe I’ll be inspired
No I must still be tired
I book I have borrowed
Makes me more worried
I’ll never a poet make
So I’ll bake a cake
Time has flown again
Is it time to catch my plane
A Kookaburra is laughing in a tree
Surely not at little old me
I’ve plenty of time in hand
Waiting for the plane to land
A cup of tea is just the thing
To make my heart strings sing
Time is running out
To send this effort about
Tick tock goes my clock
I’ll have to take stock
So on my keyboard I will be
To show that words are key
And for others to see
That a poet is not me.
A CONVOCATION OF CLERIHEWS
by Lesley
A CONVOCATION OF CLERIHEWS
by Lesley
The Cleri …
Vicar of Dibley, Geraldine
Leads the parish council team.
Muddled befuddled chaotic confused
Ever faithful, folk commune.
A murder a week. Poor Father Brown!
Kembleford numbers are going down.
A dowdy habit and black umbrella
A rickety bike and English weather.
Barchester chaplain, Mister Slope
Ambitious, arrogant, grasping hope.
Pale and pushy, vain and greasy
Pompous, feckless, false and weaselly.
The Hews …
I feel annoyed, said Sigmund Freud
That townsfolk act quite paranoid
When I purloin their family cat
To analyse Oedipus. Rats to that!
My merry men, said Robin Hood
Have given up brown ale for good.
Instead of quaffing one more round
They’re chopping Sherwood Forest down.
Note to self, wrote Bridget Jones.
Girls stay single and alone
‘Till they swap their giant pants
For something lacy, brief and scant.
Opa! cried Aesop the Greek
Stop the race! Hear my critique!
Will someone please inform the hare
That Tortoise is already there?
“I’m the greatest,” said Cassius Clay
Heavyweight boxer with plenty to say.
Approach with care – he’s not just ferocious.
The trash-talking puncher is quite braggadocious.
Clerihew: 4-line poem AABB about a person. Format invented by Englishman Edmund Clerihew Bentley.
I'LL MAKE THE DINNER
by Malcolm
I'LL MAKE THE DINNER
by Malcolm
I'll make the dinner tonight dear.
Pour some wine and take a seat.
Forget about the chores for once.
Watch the telly, put up your feet.
Just tell me where the meat is,
and where you keep the pans.
Do we use those frozen vegies?
or get them out of cans?
Don't worry about that smell dear,
I like my chops well done.
I've scraped the mess from the saucepan,
and salvaged enough spud for one.
I've even made some gravy.
it's really come up trumps.
All it need is a strainer,
to squeeze out some of the lumps.
Of course I smell the smoke dear,
Everything is under control.
It’s just that the oven caught fire love,
and the fying pan has a small hole.
Don't use that language with me now;
mistakes are easily made.
So please put down that cleaver,
while I call the fire brigade.
Well if you really feel that strongly,
you can cook your own tea my dear.
If you don't want me here in the kitchen,
I'm off down the pub for a beer.
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