The Poem of the Month for November 2025, selected by 2025 Anthology editors Val Braendler and Ben Adams, is gratis is not a liveable wage by Geoff Aitken. The commended poems are 15 seconds by Mandy McPeake, Yellow Moon by Maxine Platt and Semaphore 2025 by Mike Ladd.
gratis is not a liveable wage
Geoff Aitken
he was unable to discuss
additional conditions
over the phone.
did say
caterers would be paid
so too the emcee.
the equipment
leased
and the premises
hired
while he as organiser
warranted a token fee.
my reputation
of course, acknowledged
and writing promoted,
if i agreed to terms.
finally he reminded me of his inability
to discuss approaches made to others.
at this point my enragement confirmed
i never work for free
15 seconds
Mandy McPeake
A thud imprints against the window
portent of life’s end.
The dove lies supine on hard ground
no blood, no broken wing.
Her downy head stirs.
Why do I assume it is female?
Maybe the hapless pose, eyes blank.
Shudders ripple her tiny torso
echoed through my own.
Beguiled by death I cannot look away
persuade myself of a link
a right ordained by chance
to observe another’s passing.
Her oval chest rises
keeps rising impossibly high
iridescent breast feathers lift
display themselves.
Her rose-tipped tail fan stirs,
my close-held breath exhales
a moment’s hope she may recover,
grasp life once more. But no.
Her wings unfurl an angel’s pose
one close-held final breath exhales
her breast feathers sink, lie still,
and I am alone.
Yellow Moon
Maxine Platt
Yellow moon suspended in a dark sky
Black shadows slide along the brick wall
Grey fog crawls slowly over the ocean
Brown trunks of verdant trees stand tall
White boats bob at their moorings
Red flames of fire dance with abandon
Silver clouds scuttle in the gentle breeze
Orange street lights brighten the path
Golden dunes spread for miles
Green moss slumbers upon the rock
Pink roses their fragrance floats in the air
Purple heather radiant upon the hills
Blue is the silence of tranquillity.
Semaphore 2025
Mike Ladd
The sea is waving flags at us
but who will answer?
On the beach, a Port Jackson shark,
teeth bared,
grey, dried-out leather shrinking back
from cartilage skull – suffocated
in algae-slick water,
the warm detergent we made of the waves.
A fog of luxury villas,
strawberries from California,
data centres and server farms,
Canavan and Adani and ‘you have to keep the lights on.’
The gas and the wars and Woodside and Chevron,
Raptors, and Rams, and ‘it’s coal. Don’t be afraid!’
‘Coastal property values’
and ‘will we get prawns for Christmas?’
and ‘What if tourists don’t come?’
Meanwhile, decaying in the weed,
flathead, leatherjacket,
worm eel, fiddler ray,
spotted puffer fish
say the same thing –
couldn’t breathe.
Can’t breathe.
Originally published in Stylus Lit 19