The Poem of the Month for March 2025, selected by 2025 Anthology editors Val Braendler and Ben Adams, is Cold Case by Helen Hutton. The commended poems are Taking the Master Class by Nigel Ford, 3 x H20 by Bruce Greenhalgh and Ends and Soapbubbles by Avalanche.
Cold Case
Helen Hutton
i
Night is crisp as a nurse’s bib
and the bench seat in the old Holden
cold and narrow like an ambo’s gurney …
there’s me – look – pressed against the passenger door
no handle, no window winder no escape.
He strokes the column shift
sweat glistens on the ginger hairs
on the back of his hand, saliva pools
in the corner of his mouth …
No need to sit over there, city Sheila.
He pats the seat between us.
He floors it up Windy Point Road
the city glistens whispers watches
but he finds a back road
and the electric eyes disappear.
C’mon, city Sheila we’re adults here, me and you.
You can guess what happened …
the night banged raged
slapped clawed
until the thumping on the roof
and the torchlight though the window
made him stop.
Police
but they didn’t care
what he was doing
only that he was doing it
in a public place …
they pulled me out of the car anyway
bundled me into theirs
said I looked a bit the worse for wear …
but they let him go didn’t ask questions
no interview no arrest.
ii
He ditched the station wagon
at Port Wakefield hot-wired a ute
rear window covered with stickers
places he had never seen
windscreen smeared with bugs and dirt
wipers didn’t work but that didn’t stop him
seeing her barefoot in the dust
a little way south of Coober Pedy
her dress the colour of the desert
her raven hair tinged with ochre
taking bush tucker to her Nan
just like that girl in the fairy story
but this time
the wolf is on the road.
iii
He spins a u-turn ute kicks up the dust
hangs his arm out of the window
and strikes
like the snake he is.
iv
His picture’s on the evening news
but he’s gone way way up north …
the coppers know what he has done
they found her basket crushed
and broken on the track …
v
Years on and they say it’s been too long
she’s in the cold case file …
but the mob up there are still looking
they will never let this rest
not while she’s lying somewhere silent on the earth
dress the colour of the desert
covered in the dirt.
Taking the Master Class
Nigel Ford
I’m taking a Master Class in Class Warfare
the Haves have the class covered
there’s no room at the top for the Haves with a little less
and no hope for the Have-nots with almost nothing
there’s no room for reasonable debate
with unreasonable arrogance in the corridors of Canberra
I’m taking a Master Class in Main Stream Media
the Haves have the news covered
there’s nothing positive about poverty
no room to allow the bottom end with a lot less any more
there’s no point shouting above the determined ignorance
about the realities of life for the poor on the ground floor
I’m teaching a Master Class about Political Reality
a Have-not armed with nothing but the truth
all I have is a message of hanging on
of never surrendering or giving up
the Haves must drown me out in fake news
that democracy is alive and well in capitalist countries
I’m teaching a Master Class in Welfare Warfare
a Have-not not satisfied to have so little
the Haves will have to build gated communities
with armed patrols to protect what they’ve amassed
and build bigger prisons
to house the displaced underclass
I am the evolution of the mindset of the masses
I feed the groundswell of outrage and opposition
We are the rising of the unhappy underclass
at the doors of New Babylon screaming for justice
the danger the Haves have always feared would come
the revolution of the underclass over the Master Class
The reign of the Haves over the Haves-nots
and the Haves having it all is over
The classless society uprising
the new world order is here and now
I am Dux of this Class
and mentor to the many
3 x H20
Bruce Greenhalgh
Rain fell
It had no choice,
what with gravity and all that.
Now it lies flattened on the pavement.
How sad.
The human body is 60 per cent water,
which means you can get most of me
from the bottled water section of the refreshment centre at your local servo.
Of course, you could also get most of me
from a tap,
a lot cheaper and probably no different.
Steam rising from a kettle and –
there’s a haiku there,
somewhere.
Isn’t writing a haiku
an exercise in condensation?
Ends and Soapbubbles
Avalanche
(Chapel st, Melbourne)
It’s going to be a quiet night
and the words are all washing
and rinsing the shoreline
out there on Parietal Bay
Alan Marshall runs in his dreams,
Charlie Chaplin’s in glorious technicolour
and Buster Keaton’s all over topology
all that jazz about the difference
between a thousand and a million
my old friend Insomnia stretches and yawns
she’s dreaming on the door tonight,
and the trees rustle in the gully-breeze
as another sleepy bird questions the dark,
Laurel and Hardy demolish the cemetery wall
Harold Lloyd’s safe at ten stories high,
Hemingway lost his manuscript, man overboard,
there’s all that jazz about the difference
between a million and a billion,
there’s cars swimming by, doing
the usual carburettor overarm
and we’re cruising on down
toward that countdown gipsy moon
and Marcel Marceau chatters like a bird,
Harpo Marx plucks the self-taught eyes and ears,
Satchmo just licks his chops in anticipation,
and Rimbaud’s chained the stars and dances!
The baby’s asleep in the pram
and the clouds are dancing wild now,
it’s all suds and soap-bubbles
and this moment is immortal.