Weekly Poem: Oz Poetic Society

My poem “Sounds of Summer” has been elected this week for the Weekly Poem on the Oz Poetic Society site. This is the third poem (also “Jacaranda” and “Lorikeets“) that has been posted there and I’m thrilled.  “Jacaranda” was also placed on the 2012 Roll of Honour. Thank you Oz Poetic Society!

Sounds of Summer

Animated crickets sing away silence;
kookaburras laugh at the day.
Lorikeets whip round in wondrous brilliance
screeching, announcing dusk.
A cool breeze rustles through full-leaved bushes
while wind chimes clang tinny tunes.
Workers hurry home booming and hooning
like an orchestra producing a cacophony.
The storm bird is out coo-eeing again –
geez I wish it would rain.
Hungry mosquitos buzz about
intent on causing pain.
Steaks stop sizzling – just in time.
Dinner on the table.

Copyright © December 2012 Norma Martiri

Form: Free Verse


The Concert

Erasure Poetry

Bright light,
plentiful mirrors
the long sweep of lace curtains.
Faces scattered,
She played a running melody.
Swollen fingers
her wrists and hands
The room
seemed full of people;
stupid people who made her play.
She played
through trembling limbs
and burning eyes;
played and sung
hoping to discover the secret.
she laughed
and thrilled out
into the air –
the day before the tennis tournament.

Copyright © January 2013 Norma Martiri

Created from Pointed Roofs by Dorothy Miller Richardson

The Concert

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The Day


This poem was written for dVerse Poets Pub. We were asked to write a poem in a different language so I chose Italian because it is my heritage and I love the language. I wrote a short love poem because it happens to be our 34th wedding anniversary today. To me the poem sounds very romantic in Italian and corny in English. Funny how it can sound so different.

La giornata è stata piena di promesse.
I ricordi in corso,
nuove avventure in programma.
La luna splendeva.

Tu mi hai amato
come nessun altro –
ancora la luna splende.


The day was full of promises.
Memories were made,
new adventures planned.
The moon shone.

You have loved me
like no other –
still the moon shines.

Copyright © 20th January 2013 Norma Martiri

Cambodian Flower

I’m reposting this poem for Human Trafficking Awareness month. This was written in 2011 for the problem in Cambodia but it is a worldwide issue.

white lotus

©Bahman Farzad / lotusflowerimages.com

Falling petals brush her face,
fantasies fill time and space.
Mae’s soft kisses touch her cheeks,
a kind whisper softly speaks.
Desperation tugs and bays,
darkness fills the longest days.
Sweaty faces, frenzied hands,
sunny beaches, waves and sands.
Dirty kisses lick her neck,
torture keeps rebels in check.
Childhood dreams, childhood friends,
heavy breathing, soon it ends.
Lotuses float overhead,
how she wishes she were dead.

Copyright © 2011 Norma Martiri

Form: Couplet

(Mae = mother in Khmer)

Please help educate and empower these beautiful children by donating:

Destiny Rescue
New Hope Cambodia
She Rescue Home
Somaly Mam Foundation

Playtime Echoes

Flickr Image by M. Ribeiro

Flickr Image by M. Ribeiro

I drove past a playground the other day and was saddened as I noticed that there were no children playing. It was a beautiful day and there was not a child in sight, not even on a bike. It may have been the timing but it made me think of the contrast of my childhood. The first part of this poem are some of my wonderful childhood memories. I don’t really believe the last line of my poem but I do worry about future generations.

Heavy wooden swings
sailed above trampled dirt,
and thick metal chains twisted into spirally thrills.
Long silver slides latched on to
Jack and the Bean Stalk ladders
while fearless children climbed to castles in the air.
Cold grey jungle gyms amused monkey kids.
There we viewed our world upside down
and entertained kaleidoscope dreams.
Dragsters wore streamers and colourful flags
as pegged cardboard roared above road noise.
Big brothers revelled in building impressive billy carts
from scraps he’d collected at the local dump
while little ones watched on in anticipation.
On a good day he’d let you drive his masterwork down the hill
with its wobbly wheels and Fred Flintstone brakes.
Tonka trucks dug up back yards
and Matchbox cars drove on dirt roads made by small hands
as neighbourhood kids joined in.
Long ropes skipped over chants and rhymes
as swift feet mastered hot pepper rhythms.
Hopscotch and stones,
broken bones,
skinned knees.
Cops caught dirty robbers
with wooden guns.
What’s the time Mr Wolf
and what did Simon say when
Barbie and Ken threw hip parties
on the latest cardboard furniture?
Miniature houses with black and white chequered tiles
accommodated miniature dolls.
Baby dolls slept quietly in pretty cradles
as mothers drank sugared water
in tiny pink floral China tea sets.
Home-made mud cakes were a delectable treat
that fed innocent fantasies.
Board games ruled and property overlords were born.
Twisted manoeuvres sent everyone reeling
until we nearly peed our pants.
A ball and a wall entertained a child,
and the adventures of The Secret Seven
occupied young minds on a rainy day.

Lonely swings sway
in the quiet breeze,
like an apocalypse has changed the world.
Unsunned kids sprawl on unmade beds
experiencing life through a screen;
sharing a soulless future.

Copyright © January 2013 Norma Martiri

Linked to OpenLinkNight – Week 78 at dVerse Poets Pub

dragster bike

I loved my dragster bike