The Bulletin’s Poetry Page is for everyone who likes to read and/or write poetry. Feel free to submit your poetry to 

The Bulletin values diversity and respect for others; we strive to avoid offending our readers and request that content is non-discriminatory and non-political with tolerance for all.

Poetry Definition

  • Carefully chosen and arranged language for its meaning, sound, and rhythm;
  • Usually has figurative language, written in separate lines, often with a repeated rhythm;
  • Expressions of feelings and ideas given intensity by particular attention to diction, rhythm and imagery.

Cat Dancing
Suzsi Mandeville

Outside, the cat is dancing, prancing.
Leaves fall fast and she is pouncing.
Each leaf falling, curling swirling
prompts her leaping, whirling, twirling.
She crouches, pauses, waiting ’til
she gets the chance to catch and kill
each leaf that tumbles; that’s her prey
and she can play this way all day.
Inside, I settle in my chair
And watch the cat dance in the air
My old eyes flicker with delight
As I behold this joyful sight.
The cat leaps high, and with each prance
my heart leaps too and joins the dance.

Submitted via email 1 April 2021

A Work in Progress
Margaret Crutch

I am a woman
I am a mother
I am a friend
I am a gardener
I am a cook
I am a neighbour

I was a wife
I was a daughter
I was a sister
I was an employee
I was an artist
I was a traveller

I am a grandmother
I am a friend
I am a musician
I still am a mother
I am a walker

I am always a shopper
I am always a cook
I am always a listener
I am always a gardener
I am always safe
I am always around
I am always a work in progress.

Submitted via email 29 March 2021

Sonnet from Yellow
Joel Andrews

When last I walked along the golden paths of childhood
Saw the azure fields that memory calls home,
I felt the heartbeat quicken to the tide of life aborning
Played again games lost now to a world long better known.

When last I reached towards the sun in hope of gaining wisdom
Then with a burst surrounded me fresh images of light,
And rediscovered wonder lifted up a tired pilgrim
Swift borne away on velvet from a soul-embracing night.

When last I walked along the golden paths of childhood
What might have been
Once more became new hope for things to come.

As appeared in issue #146.

In a Melbourne Fridge
Joan Bungar

Aoli made a zoosh face at Fermented Garlic Cloves
pickling in a soy-and-vinegar-based brine.
Fearful of taint, Condensed Milk hunkered further down
in its can, pulling away from the twin punctures in its top.

Coriander-infused Sweet Chilli simpered.
Haughty Harissa smouldered.
The already deep and mysterious Kasundi plumbed even greater depths,
her mustard seed oil penetrating the endosperm of her fenugreek seeds.

Ensconced under a heavy glass dome, Brie
observed quietly these goings on, noting the Feta Cubes
step-step-stepping in a stately dance draped in bright green basil shreds,
beaded with dark balsamic vinegar drops,
zested with the unmellow-yellow of lemon rind twists,
aflush in pink Himalayan salt crystals, speckled with black pepper flecks,
suspended in golden EVOO.

Once-white Boiled Eggs
blushed pink, sinking deeper into their
ice-cold salty soak as Kim Chi
chuckled and bubbled
in spite of her blazing bath.

In a final flourish, Ginger Beer fizzed to flatness,
grinning sheepishly as Soy Milk turned away
in consternation
in unison
with Dairy Milk.

Passed-over Mustard
was disgusted
when unvarying generic
Tomato Sauce, feeling ignored,
pouted at the invading exotics.

Observed one Sunday morning in February 2017
As appeared in issue #145.

A Day in a Life at School
Brooke Getley

I jump off the tram and head into school.
It’s Friday morning and the weather’s pretty cool.
The library warmth embraces me as I see the gang.
We plan the weekend in our usual teenage slang.
Ring, Ring, Ring it’s time to learn.
I forgot my science homework – my stomach churns.
English is fun, but recess is ace
Heading out to the yard a smile on my face.
Now I can relax and I can think.
I hear the next bell and my heart sinks.
Italian has me asking, what does that mean?
History is a mystery to the average teen.
Lunch is busy with lots going on.
Music theory, band or choir singing a song.
Ugh, maths! Not my favourite class.
I have a trumpet lesson so I get to pass.
Drama is the best class to attend.
Ring, ring, ring. Yay it’s the weekend!

As appeared in issue #137.

W.R. Cover

Give me a sandy hollow in a lonely vale,
Some overhanging shade of native tree.
A stream of crystal water none will fail
A scooped-out fireplace for my reverie.

A beach of gleaming granite sand
Washed smooth – the ocean’s strand –
Some guardian mountains circling all around;
A blue-green bay now quiet.
Now stirring as the wind blows free;
A heart untrammelled by all worldly cares of loss and gain.

A prospect rising like a cumulus cloud
That bodes the advent of approaching rain.
May this new vision clear the soul of pain
And flood the inner being’s old disdain.

As appeared in issue #112, autumn 2009.

The Shearer
Keith Smith

I’m back at the old woolshed just sitting on the floor
Thinking of my life that’s past on the other side of that door
My mate Fred was no Gun; we worked stands one and two
Our quota came easily and we never had a blue.

Didn’t chase the country girls when hit the local town
A couple of Mac’s pies we’d try and some beers to wash them down.
I can see the fleeces fly over the sorter’s table
Hear the grunt of the wool press, the boy paints on the label.

When the owner’s Missus goes by, Fred always gets a smile
Once a man with family, city life was more a trial.
I thought I’d try some droving with Vesteys on the Palmer
Never could make up my mind, maybe down south, a farmer.

Wonder where the time has gone, all those years without my mark
Daylight fading on the window, hills blending in the dark.
If only I could start again or turn some pages back
Look out across the bluestone yard; see Fred walking along the track.

As appeared in issues #70, Aug 1998; #125 winter 2012; #144 autumn 2017.