The Poem of the Month for June 2026, selected by 2026 Anthology editors Elizabeth Salna and Erica Jolly, is Where are they now? by Avalanche. The commended poems are I take nothing away by Geoffrey Aitken, After the Revolution by Steve Evans, My Father’s Zen (For my father) by Leon Ferrante, The Poetry Club by Nigel Ford and His Moment by phil saunders.
Where are they now?
Avalanche
I often wonder,
where are they now?
I hear Cinderella’s running dance classes
and Rapunzel’s got a hair salon,
Snow White’s got an apple orchard
specializing in dwarf varieties –
but the Little Mermaid’s had no luck
at all with her singing classes,
Little Red Riding Hood’s running
a bed-and -breakfast for seniors nowadays,
linked in with Pewter Pan’s adventures holidays
for the young-at-heart …
apparently Hansel and Gretel are in the gingerbread
architecture business, doing well,
Prometheus does a great trade
with his tanning studio,
Mary Poppins runs a travel agency
with a side line in umbrellas …
and Dr Faust? For roof repair, he’s your man!
The Golem is in the earth-moving trade,
Sméagol still has his Precious,
Oedipus sells footwear and counsels on
troubled relationships, mother issues,
and Darth Vader’s a radio – host who
Speaks on emphysema management,
Puss-in-boots runs a pole-dancing outfit,
Pinocchio’s got wood …
Rumpelstiltskin’s a private eye
And the Snow Queen’s no queen,
turned into a wardrobe republican…
It’s a good thing none of these are real
I take nothing away
Geoffrey Aitken
the poet
who transports me
beyond daily turmoil,
has my admiration.
senses my struggling belief ?
takes me past city footpath
rough sleepers
and safe houses, protecting
society’s unwanted spaces
where children
cannot reimagine
not being responsible.
without warning,
circumstances changed ?
another foster home
placement
fails to secure
picture books
or nursery rhymes
for the youngest sister
After the Revolution
Steve Evans
After the revolution,
the poets will sit in high office
writing odes and signing orders
for executions without reprieve,
crueller than the monsters
they overthrew.
Their judgements arrive by sonnet,
or villanelle if written when drunk,
but never by haiku unless
showing off more than usual.
First, they will hang the critics,
and then the squabbles will really start,
poets turning on other poets.
It could be worse.
There was the time of the novelists,
anarchic and bitter,
especially the unpublished ones
playing to ancient grudges
who were finally put out
to paperwork and idle dreaming.
The real bureaucrats, the non-fiction authors,
will tidy up the mess once more,
consigning the flightier elements
to distant literature camps.
They will write the official history,
though the true story will live underground
performed by a new wave of poets—
untidy, rambling, glorious,
spurious, disputed, inspired,
and badly in need of editing.
My Father’s Zen (For my father)
Leon Ferrante
My father used to
Shrug his shoulders a lot
I don’t think it was
Because he was
Non committal
I think it was just
Some kind of reflex
To the world
To people
To things
I think
Somehow
He had developed
His own form of Zen
While my mother
Zoomed and hovered about
Doing dishes
Cooking
Talking
Gesticulating
Organising
He would just sit
Inside the eye
Of her cyclone
And look around
Quietly with his blue eyes
Just taking it all in
Take a breath here and there
Respond placidly|
To something coming his way
And when asked a question
He would look at you gently
And just shrug
I think it infuriated my mother
Being a control freak
She was always doing
Preparing
Setting up
Making sure things were done
Properly
Her way
Not in a bad way
That was just her style
And dad had his style
He just looked on
While she did things
He knew too well
From years of experience
That if he offered to help
He would invariably
Do it wrong
So there was no point
But she would still ask him
To do something
I could sense
His internal sigh
As his Zen came into play
It obviously worked
For many years
As I saw him
Being a happy man
Despite his trials
And tribulations
The war
He never talked about
And all the problems
Of the world
Swirling around him
Trying to settle
On his little shoulders
To load him up
With tension and stress
So he would just
Shrug it all off
And keep smiling
That was
My father’s Zen.
The Poetry Club
Nigel Ford
At a funeral for one of their members, the Celebrant referred to The Edwards Crossing Writers Group as “The Poetry Club”.
Sitting with members of the poetry club
Sipping
Nibbling on Arnott’s biscuits
Meeting friends
Running exercises
Sharing tips
Discussing themes
Writing poems
Reading them out
Giving feedback
Commending books
Reading reviews
Telling stories
Chatting idly
Sharing time
Talking with friends and acquaintances
A morning gathering for the local poets of Murray Bridge
Every bit as ritual as a tea ceremony in Tokyo
His Moment
phil saunders
even in those lost years
greatest pop group of their generation
silenced in nervousness in his presence for first time
knew they would not be there if not for him
for Elvis