The Problem with Breakfast – a perplexing Outback puzzle

This morning we ponder our breakfast bowls in quiet isolation, another bush camp in the middle of nowhere, away from the road trains, the caravans and crowds, 100km east of nowhere in Outback Queensland... last night's neighbours a passing herd of camels with shining...

Remembering Robeson – a book review

Paul Robeson was a black American man and an important civil rights activist of the early to mid 1900s, but there is so much more to this story. Until hearing Jeff Sparrow's impassioned presentation at his recent Melbourne book promotion, my own knowledge of Robeson...

Welcome to The Badlands – a latenight lullaby

Bodies of children, guns more sacred Lay in heaps on crimson pavement The future dead, the ghosts of hope A shattered nation with prayers will cope . Pagoda beauty, suddenly soured Hateful icons, a new leader's power Crowded camps, no fault their own Despair and...

Ding, Dong, the Blog is Dead – pondering progress

Blogging these days is not like it once was... a fickle, little-read beast at best. And it's hard to believe that just five years back I chose to take a dip in the blogosphere, a late starter, a wandering writer through the once-was maze of Wordpress and Blogger, of...

Faces of Fame – an ode to John Wilson St

A face stares out from my PC screen: a suited-up man about 30yrs old, the boyish face round, the hairline receding. I see a clean face, but for the sparing outline of a beard.  I see a thin mouth, the eyes narrowed and slightly turned, the face of a man who killed...

Versatile Blogger Award 2013 – crikey! a third blog award.

Thanks so much to Melanie (motherofnine9) for thinking of my humble blog for this award, being one of the 1st BC members to touch base with me on  joining this great community. Melanie is well respected in blogging circles, a warm human being, a prolific writer and a...

People and Places – a poem

the place I see is special; a block of stone or wending path built by many hands or feet.   and in my dream, I dream of this: a vibration, scent or residue, from pasts that are long lost.   till when I wake the dream takes shape, wrought of violence, longing or...

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