The Poem of the Month for December 2025, selected by 2025 Anthology editors Val Braendler and Ben Adams, is North Yelta by Steve Evans. The commended poems are Jacaranda, Advent’s flower by Dawn Colsey, Big-hearted Joe by Elizabeth Salna and Slammed by Jill Wherry.
North Yelta
Steve Evans
Before you wake
I sit at the table in the derelict house
that was your home
and watch the grey feathered sky.
If we could dismantle it,
we would take away the bed
on which you sleep a last time,
that bed you lay on first at ten
and have brought me to
at thirty five.
The unwatered garden
is dust and litter,
fragments of bone and shell,
broken mother-of-pearl.
On the last day
we will stop at the beach,
place the key under a rock
and drive away.
Some things you go back to
just once.
Jacaranda, Advent’s flower
Dawn Colsey
A mist gathers, a haze.
On bare branches purple
becomes bells.
A carillon pealing
announces a coming, a birth.
Each flower,
a five-petalled trumpet,
opens its mouth in praise.
Stamens fine as silk threads,
anthers a minute feathered star.
Big-hearted Joe
Elizabeth Salna
Big hearted Joe sits outside the bank, on a bench
Watches the door open and close, for other customers
Head sometimes nodding to an internal rhythm
Shoulders stooped
Mind gone blank
Before –
Great lover of his wife and boys, loyal to his friends
Life, one great feast, at which he ate and drank generously and freely
Dealing with matters of the mind, fascinated by the science of change
Assisting families in need, consummate problem solver
Then –
His mind became a matter of concern, noticed by others
Losses accumulated: marriage, family, friendships, all collapsing
Piling up, an impenetrable barrier, blocking him out
Now –
He mutters, incessantly paces, sometimes drools
Side effect of medication
Or too much silent dedication to looping and convoluted thoughts
The TV speaking in thought waves, messages only he can decode
Embroiled in outgrown commands from parents in their graves
Madness eventually saluted
Sometimes the battle is too hard or the world too harsh, for
Beings with a fierce intellect and a soft centre
Up goes the white flag … and they are gone
Slammed
Jill Wherry
In search of inspiration, there are times I need to roam ?
to strange and scary places nowhere near my comfort zone.
One day my pride was shattered and my life no longer calm.
I faced the stern, wise judges in a local poetry slam.
I strode into the venue; my fear I vowed to hide.
Dressed to impress – of course I was, but scared as hell inside.
‘Have you just come to watch, Ma’am, or intending to compete?’
‘I’ve brought a poem, young man,’ I said. ‘Write my name on the sheet.’
He called me Ma’am; I felt my age; they’re babes compared with me.
Should I race home to the grand-kids and bounce them on my knee?
I’d driven far; my name was down; I bravely vowed to stay.
Champagne would flow here later and I’d handle that ok.
My nightie poem was trivial, the judges unimpressed
looked down academic noses and left me quite distressed.
I rocked up at another slam, refused to face defeat
for failures not an option and mistakes I won’t repeat.
I met bare-footed poets and a few with strange tattoos.
Some even sported tummy studs; a few had hit the booze!
I’d picked a poem so serious on struggling through a drought.
I’ll pull those judges heart-strings and I’ll win without a doubt.
I relaxed deep in an arm-chair and everything seemed fine
till I saw one of the judges was a girl of barely nine.
This youngster judging poets was a restless little thing,
completely fascinated by a bloke with nipple ring.
My outfit was conservative; my body was unpierced.
My poem, too deep and meaningful, I wished could be replaced.
The microphone was squeaking as my poem I stammered through.
The crowd all clapped politely; thank the Lord they didn’t boo.
Forgot my words and as you know pride comes before a fall.
I won’t divulge the scores but I assure you, mine were small.
So, I slunk out from that venue back into my world of calm.
A disillusioned victim of a local – poetry – slam.