Sunset On Al Dera – 29th December 2025

photo: Ibrahem Nabeel/Google Maps

I walked down the old, sandy wooden steps
to the beach
I had been here decades before
everything looked different
but the smell was the same

a salt that cleared the nose
and spits in your face
time
and time again

I remembered the flashing lights
reflected on the water
all the good cheer
the dream that this day will never end
up before the sun
patiently impatient
the horizons are soon to reveal the truth

…but
this Christmas
I wanna die
I’ve seen Satan and Jesus
in a crimson-bloodied sky

angel wings pummeling the city to dust

Shared with an AllPoetry.com contest by Bad Jonny, who gave us the italicised lines as starters. I decided to use both and link them.
30th Jan 2026 – Shared with dVerse OLN #400

Thirty Kilometres Per Second – 28th December 2025

Self-hate is trending, depression the prize,


Addiction and angst in a modern disguise.



The world we make believe in, soon forgotten,

This beautiful cage, become foul and rotten.



The beast, denied, grows restless in its cell,

Feasts upon the host it was designed to quell.



Things are moving faster and faster

Towards an absolute disaster.

The title here is a reference to the speed at which Earth is moving through space.

This Earth Keeps the Memory of Gadigal Footsteps Through Fire, Silence, Survival, and Unbroken Song Across Two Centuries of Dispossession and Resistance – 27th December 2025

Warrane’s children watched the tall ships come; now towers rise where the songlines hum, unbroken
This scarred earth breathes beneath the city’s beat: a heart they couldn’t silence, slow, deep and true
This earth remembers every footfall: songs of Gadigal sorrow and steel unspoken
Lasting months or more, a communal, visible crying, the place always bound by grief

Two centuries of silence could not bury their song; they still sing their harbour home
Images and names, kept memories – unseen, unsaid – the spirit safely travels through
All these years of bleeding, the harbour knows; the rocks remember the cry of every stone
Unresolved collective and intergenerational mourning, still seeking relief

Grief continues because the causes have never been fully acknowledged or repaired
Death manifests through mass dispossession, disease, violence, and murder malevolent
All the sorries are never finished, the deeper losses are continuously shared
Peoples excluded from decision-making about their culture, heritage and land

Deep historical culture, reduced to plaques, acknowledgements, and museum displays
Bulldozed by infrastructure and development; damaged or erased without consent
The least I owe is attention, some respect; The least I owe is to not look away
Protection laws weaker than commercial interests; consultation, a token hand

What my ancestors named discovery, the land remembers as interruption still
I inherit the language of arrival without having paid the cost of entry
I stand here in admiration, aware that the ground knows more than I ever will
Just two centuries is but a heartbeat to a people who measure time undeclared
Grief, which demands absolution, is only another way of asking to be spared

This poem has broken my brain! This challenging form was created by Catherin J Pascal Dunk with insane rules, that my insane brain chose to follow and even expand on slightly.

For a longette:
The theme is social commentary (usually critical of the status quo and reaching towards a better/longer future)
The title of a longette is long; 40 syllables
The poem consists of 21 long lines—of 20 syllables each
A longette has an ACAB rhyme scheme, with a final rhyming couplet:
ACAB/acab/a’c’a’b’/A-C-A-B-/A’C’A’B’B’
The poem can be separated into 4 stanzas of 4 lines each, with a final stanza of 5 lines, or set without stanza breaks, at the poet’s discretion.
Use of emojis is encouraged. The same emoji may be repeated throughout the poem, but if you want to use more than one emoji or symbol, you must conform to a 1312 scheme
Emojis and other symbols are not counted as syllables.
Collaboration is encouraged.

I couldn’t comprehend using emojis in a poem, though Catherin’s sample poem uses them well. And on re-reading the rules, I see that I actually used 21-syllable lines instead of 20! Perhaps I can claim to be the creator of this form now! Either way, I don’t think that I will be attempting it again soon!

I initially struggled to find a topic but as I discovered that Catherin is based near Sydney, a place I became very familiar with for 20 years, my mind kept coming back to Gadigal country. The Gadigal people being part of the Aboriginal owners of the land on which Sydney is built. The only problem? I knew next to nothing about the topic beyond the fact that my ancestors have completely fucked them over time and time again.

So I turned to AI for help. Here is the process I went through:

Prompt (Deepseek): I want to write a poem about the struggle of the Aboriginal people in Gadigal over time and need a 40-syllable title for it. What can you come up with?

I was hoping that a title would help trigger further ideas, which it did.
I haven’t had much luck with syllable counts with Deepseek but it did come up with a set of phrases that I noted down before switching to Chat-GPT5 from here on out. I soon discovered that Chat-GPT could identify syllables per word correctly but then couldn’t add up the simple math totals correctly. Don’t trust AI with your maths!

Prompt: Can you give me information on how the Gadigal people mourn and also how they still struggle to be recognised?

Prompt: Can you suggest language that avoids appropriation while remaining powerful?

Prompt: What about some ideas around ‘white guilt’ for the deeds of our ancestors and how to think about that in the context of the Aboriginal people?

Prompt: I need to find some more poetic lines that deal with this perspective and issue – they need to be fairly long sentences. Ideas?

Prompt: Tell me more about this: “Many Gadigal people speak of ‘sorry that never finished’ “?

This poem is my selection of phrases taken from the various outputs of these prompts and then manipulated (by myself, not AI) to meet the form requirements. When I had finished, I asked AI to give me feedback on rhythm and flow and did a little more tweaking. At this point, though, I had been working on this poem for more than 5 hours and I know that I could improve it more with another 5 hours but….that’s enough. 5 hours is often 4 hours and 59 minutes longer than it takes me to write some poems!

I learned a lot through doing this exercise but tomorrow I’ll be aiming for something a little simpler!

An Absurd Tail – 26th December 2026

I woke up this morning with a tail
This new appendage has become proof
My centre of gravity shifted
But what can I do with this new truth?

Is this a dream or a cosmic glitch?
My animal instinct manifest?
Checking behind at each errant twitch
It’s such a struggle when getting dressed

Reverting to something once forbidden
The wagging always gives me away
Unable to keep my feelings hidden
A real animal? Well! Who’s to say?

Shared with W3 #191 – improbable

Landline – 23rd December 2025

“Do not touch me…”

“Seriously,” I said.
I’m not just the next generation:
I’m a real survivor.

Hard as old bread.

Quicker than grandma’s slippers
thrown with boomerang precision. 

At the age of five, I could already “read”
my mother’s mood to avoid collision;

At seven, I had a set of keys
and instructions: 

“You can find food in the fridge.”
And, from there, were all deductions.



At nine, I was my own chef,
discovering my own taste.

I knew what I liked, what I was
and exactly the future I faced.



Spending days outside, without a phone, 

with just a well-planned route: 

the hill, the river, returning home at night, 

perhaps minus one mud-stuck boot.

Real maps made of these small battles

that I survived. 

Scratches treated with saliva
and leaves, medicines contrived.


If it hurt, we just laughed
and sought distraction from the pain,
because further adventures beckoned
so there was no reason to complain.

Eating bread with sugar on top,
drinking from the garden hose;

microbiomes that yoghurt would dream of.
Allergies? What are those?



I know fifteen tricks to remove stains 

from grass, fat, blood or ink, 

because we only had one set of clothes
and wore them til they’d stink.



Transistor radios, black and white TV,

gramophones, vinyl and cassettes,

carrying CDs and a Discman,
singing songs no one forgets.



Tightening tapes with a pencil
means little to an MP3

soon with a driver’s license,
there was a wider world to see.

Travelling the country in a rusty old car, 

without hotels, air conditioning or GPS,

just with a tatty, discoloured car atlas

and an old beer mat with a barely legible address

Always arriving safely, 

maybe late, but with a smile. 

The last generation to live without the internet,
and revolution was all about style.

I had no backup batteries, 

or worries of a dead phone. 

The landline hung on the hallway wall,
unanswered if there was no one home.

Believing that any missed calls meant:
“I’m fine, I’ll call you back.”
I read books while I was waiting
or fixed myself a sneaky snack.

I fixed everything with tape or a clip;
I rarely bought anything new.

With only one TV channel to watch
There was always something else to do.



Made of “emotional asbestos,”
flowing easily from the back of the duck.
With the reflexes of an urban ninja
They were the times of making my own luck.

Carrying a menthol candy
older than your child in my pocket. 

I survived without sunscreen and a helmet
Or seatbelts in my rocket.

Schooling without computers,
youth without multiple screens.
Encyclopaedias had all the answers
once you’d deciphered what it means.

I had to trust my instincts
and say what I thought aloud.

Now I have more memories
than you have photos in the cloud.

So “Don’t touch me,” I say again
Though I’m not sure you could anyway.

Here’s my number, call my landline
and make sure you’ve got something to say.

An epic poem for me! This one is inspired and paraphrases an article that I, frustratingly, neglected to note the origin. I’m annoyed with myself about that!
I’d also like to add that I don’t particularly agree with much of the thought within this piece. Of course, everyone reminisces about their past, their childhoods, etc, but that doesn’t make it better than now – just different. I’ve never subscribed to the ‘things were better in my day’ philosophy.
Congratulations if you read this poem to the end! I know that I might not have!

Hand In Hand – 21st December 2025

https://www.zameen.com/blog/river-jhelum-pakistan-facts-significance-edited.html

Very much inspired and paraphrased from this delicious article at Think BRICS

As dawn breaks over the snow-capped Pir Panjal mountains,
the Jhelum still in shadow;

two families, divided by the flowing glacial waters
and a simple line on a map,
dangle their clay pots to the nurturing artery.

Far away, the suited make their big decisions;
here, there are only silent prayers


~ may you never run dry
~ may you never become a sword

A winding course through the Kashmir Valley
criss-crossing metaphorical lines of control;

more important than war and upheaval,
a shared humanity in need ignores the partitions.

As shifting monsoon seasons and melting ice
counter past famines with floods,

a civil society builds its trust in amity.

At The End Of Another Busy Day – 20th December 2025

In a quiet, wood-panelled den,
there’s a low fire
crackling in the hearth.
Two leather armchairs

face the flames.
Don and Ben sit

with a small glass
of amber sherry each.

You know, Ben,
a lot of fireplaces….
I’ve known the best of them.
But this…
this one has a good heart to it.

There is a soul in a real fire.
Something

a manufactured flame
can never learn.

Right, exactly.
The phoney ones
spit and hiss.
No respect for the burn.
This wood here…
it’s loyal.
Like good oak.
I have a place,
incredible place,
where the oak burns
like slow gold.

My grandfather’s house
smelled of olive wood.
Old, gnarled branches

that remembered the sun.
The scent was like smoke

and memory mixed.

(Taking a slow sip.)
This sherry…
there’s a story in it.
Some sherries are just vinegar
wearing a fancy coat.
This one speaks up.
You can taste the years.

Spanish, I think, Don.
It has a quiet voice.
A nutty, whispering finish.

Whispering—I like that.
Good phrase.
It doesn’t shout.
It just… sits there,
being excellent.

A log settles,
sending up a shower of embers
that spin and fade.

There.
That little collapse.
When I was young,
I believed each spark
was a tiny story ending.

I like a clean end.
Not a messy one.
Wind, for instance,
is messy.
Whistling through cracks,
no discipline.
A fire like this…
it’s all agreement.
Everything burns on purpose.

Contained, but alive.
There is a dignity in that.

Dignity. Sure.
Look at that flame,
curling up
like it owns the air.
And maybe it does.

It asks for nothing.
Not even our attention.

(Nods, swirling
the last gold
in his glass.)
That’s the real thing.
No asking.
Just being.
We’ll do this again.
With my oak.
Oak that knows
how to hold a flame.

I would like to taste that smoke.

They fall quiet,
two old men
wrapped in warmth
and amber light,
speaking of everything
and nothing
as the fire hums
its slow,
familiar hymn.

Obsolete Wonder – 19th December 2025

Shared with W3 #190 – quoting Wordsworth*

The world clicks by in screens of graphic gain,
each hour refined for either profit, loss, or trend.
Praising the sharpest tools ever made to explain,
yet wondering why these days refuse to bend.

I walk beneath the wires and silent trees
and feel a hunger numbers cannot feed.
Our minds seem full of malaise and disease,
which is surely something none of us need.

I’d trade this clever age, so sure it’s new,
to be a Pagan suckled in a creed outworn*,
to hear a god breathe as the wind blows through,
and see the ocean settle for a new dawn.

These times, obsolete is the wonder, not belief;
The myth awakes where certainty may sleep.