Linda M. Walker


Cold wind numbs my head and who one is is who one is and atoms rush south to the orchid under the fern and how things are and aren’t is all memory and matters blue and flat

Leaving fades away staying fades away there’s laughter twinkling stars moonlight on the grass and order matters washing floors and dusting shelves matters speaking and affection matters

And then things turn bad in the blink of an eye like a storm like being tricked into thinking it’s friendship and it’s so shocking it’s gone straight to the brain a deadly arrow and who cares who saw what and what matters and soon there are strangers outlaws elders ghosts sufferers and little bits of sympathy and many denials because arms and legs and heads were blown off and then comes trouble galore like grief and despair and boredom and drunkenness and bashings and then an audience and adventurers wanting minute details and versions and commentary and criticism and costumes and lawyers and art and writing and all the while flesh justsortofdribblesaway

Green & Grey

Very very green green and more green in court of law and white way over on the other bench and good a large high sphere glowing good a model of resistance a broken machine a long low building and a large deep lake then very very grey grey and more grey and whispers and shushes and books shut and wheeled away and fingers tapping on the table with jugs of water and tall glasses and green turns velvet green which is really lovely in the night light

A real good shot of the grassy knoll

On that particular morning what happened was I came downtown and I thought there was going to be a parade and what I did was park my vehicle back here in this parking lot and I intentionally walked to this particular corner because …*

an entirely floral name for instance
the leaf copied for better or worse
the stem of a morning glory
in the name of who awaits
for a slight pressure of the fingers
(on that particular morning)
the voice is broken the throat dry
the play of commas here and there
for the breath breathing
never mind nothing happens no act
no murder nothing
nothing is (nevertheless) soon gone
marveling is rising
and what counts is the outside
(to this particular corner)
the view from behind the fence
has finally been noticed
something or other stilled
(in the end)
as the force of an operation
(and not the other way round)
as the very tip of indecision
sprawled on the ground
between and without reason
(of its own).

(*I don’t know where this part of the poem comes from.)


Don’t I talk with you as they say don’t I talk with
You don’t I don’t I say                       words
Think of the problems                       no less
Even to the extent of withstanding erroneous
Treatment                                             and neglect
And any break in the movement of the reading
Arrests a position
Firstly of you-know-who
Recalling the expression                    on all fronts
Thick fleshy tissue                               settling
Here I am at this very moment always
The fig trees chopped down
It hasn’t all gone swimmingly not at all
Meanwhile the thing to do is slowly
Very slowly dig a pit make a pond just that
Not a flower to be seen
A circular pool a perfect oh
With a narrow rim                                reflected
And olive trees
The relentless doing of it all over again
Planting little succulents

Linda M. Walker is a writer, artist and independent curator. She used to live in Adelaide, now she lives in Mount Gambier.

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