83. Jake Dennis's Garden Haiku invitation for S. E. Dennis

Thank you Kit for the invitation to this garden and to Cathy Stirling for the prompt to contribute. On the theme of gardens and childhood, my haiku from Steliana Voicu's Enchanted Garden: 

after school she finds

the frog in the garden

no longer there

- Jake Dennis @PoetOfJazz

First published as “Haiku” in Right Way Down and Other Poems, edited by Sally Murphy and Rebecca M. Newman, Alphabet Soup Books and Fremantle Press, Australia, 2024, 108. Reprinted as “after school she finds” in Enchanted Garden, edited by Steliana Voicu, Issue 7: Moments in the Garden, Romania, April 2024. Republished in Dennis, Jake. ‘Gone’ QPoetry, edited by Sandra Makaresz, #20, Queensland Writers Centre, South Brisbane, 2024. 

S. E. Dennis you create beautiful artworks and poetry that make me smile. I am always excited to read your latest poem or see your newest painting. Let's meet in the garden :). 

BUTTERFLY'S FLIGHT.... Michael Brown

BUTTERFLY’S FLIGHT

-For Jen

There it is, almost on cue

Scratching a flight path  

Like an angry signature

It’s former self discarded

It’s tissued-wings beating 

Like my heart

When thoughts of you 

Will not settle 

When I unpick stitches between us

Let roam the predators

Through the turnstiles of chaos 

Until, almost on cue 

The garden sings it’s lullaby

In blades and shades of green 

Every note sidling-up

Lingering after-touch 

Easing the butterfly’s flight

To the buddleia, where it settles

It’s wings lightly pressed together 

Like a pair of hands in pray

81. Kit Kelen's 'in the dell' -- inviting Debbie Lim into the garden

 

in the dell

 

wilted summer where

 

leaf and landing

twig, whiff

 

and damp

with which falls were

 

it’s puddle to a pond

when rain has had its days

 

shelter in the daylight

 

trod grass

with lemon

and another

 

just breathe in

let the eyes breathe

 

in days of creek

the dell gush

a week beyond still

singing high

 

music is made of wings there

 

all of a world is edge to dell

 

every word spoken led

 

that’s where the green is brightest

that’s where your bird sings

80. Catherin J Pascal Dunk's "forlorn", inviting Catia Castrucci with flowers

forlorn

forlorn, like those dead roses Coles
daren’t discount.

forlorn. the very word is like a bell.¹
a wandering
between worlds.²

Photo by Catherin J Pascal Dunk 2025.

1. The second stanza is cento-esque. This line is from John Keats' Ode to a Nightingale (1820, stanza 8):
   
   Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
            To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
    ↩︎
2. I'm referring here to Matthew Arnold's Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse (1855, lines 82/83):
   
   Wandering between two worlds, one dead
   one powerless to be born.
   
   Line 85 includes the word 'forlorn'.  

79. Mimmalisa's 'Escape' invites Neen Ramos to the Garden

 

Escape 

from the frantic pace

family friction

pressure to perform

freedom from festivities

I plonk myself

on the edge of clarity

the coursing creek converses

with exuberant birds in the distance

the wind awakens the gums

the leaves sway in response

passersby oblivious to the call

a moment held

within the trunks

limbs suspended over passing time

curved up towards the sun

blue sky ahead

grey heron lands

near the makeshift basalt bridge

of stepping stones

Heading to the South

the water continues to the bay

its persistent motion

defined by obstacles in its path

snaking its way down and around

through this small stretch

slap bang in the middle 

of inner west Melbourne

78. Catherin J Pascal Dunk's "The Most Beloved", inviting Shruti Khrishna Sareen to write in the garden

I envisage a moment
in which your Goddess
meets mine.

They are crossing Talkatora Gardens,
one from each side,
along shaded walks.

High noon swelters.
At fifteen paces, they lock eyes.
Each Goddess tilts her chin.

My Goddess sports a glowing crown
of white Thai orchids; pitch-black lingerie.
Your Goddess—

77. Housesitting for Jake Dennis

 

Housesitting 

I step outside barefoot.

Before sunrise.

The grass is wet from the night, 

cool blades pressing my skin

I breath deeper. 

Tomorrow I'm back home

to thirty square metres.

no grass. 

I close my eyes. 

The smell, sharp,

cut grass,

pulls me back

to childhood lawns,

full of bindeyes,

before fences.

I walk slowly

counting every step

toward the lake.

The sun shows off.

A baby kookaburra 

practices laughing.

I stay.