Welcome to Eureka Street

back to site

Home, alone and stoned




My family poem

My nephew takes a one arm mark
they can see it from melbourne's tallest building
my grandpa takes a fall and breaks his teeth and glasses
my father walks down highways lost
my sister buys little bottles of duty free perfume
my mother always worrys and it makes me sorry
my brother fights fires
my aunties are handmade teddybears
if my family ring now it will go to message bank

Saturday night lights

of thunder and lightning
The rain like a baby's first steps
I'm home, alone and stoned,
while the lovers are mending their bones
Who wants to be on the rubber band rebound relationship
Who wants a ride on the mothership?
You are worth recovery, she said
You're a rose tree that needs pruning
You're everything you learnt that needs learning
In the rain my heart wears gumboots.
In the pain I pull the doona over my head and forget what I look like.
Love like it's window shopping never interested me.

I've run out of dope.
This is my last ever toke of synthetic pot I hope
There's synthetic people,
but my heart drops like a coin into a homeless man's hat.
The eternal night isn't very maternal.
Of all those people sleeping on a concrete mattress under a black sky doona.
I wish Jesus would come sooner rather than later,
as the trams go past like green alligators.

I catch a peak hour tram.
People are ripe like juicy apples in the morning light.
Business men make their bread and butter,
the drugs turn good men into nutters,
it's a beautiful day to suffer.
The homeless have faces like empty spaces.
No solution to their heads in the pollution,
and their feet in the gutter.
The poor gather on the banks of the flowing street.

The rain hits the roof in pain,
I didn't ask to be gay.
The lion eats the antelope,
but there's still hope.

The 690 bus

no-one without any money on the bus.
People with dreams like me,
staring out the window,
licking lollipop ladies
buses are rough, but trains dance with us
At Blackburn station,
women in black get on.
At Box Hill ticket inspectors see if we're paying our taxes,
wait to catch us.
On a tram I'm sitting backwards.

I'm heading to an AA meeting
with the lined faces of the old timers like lost treasure maps to help find us.
Today I've got clean, pink eyes like when I get shampoo in them,
and it makes me cry.
Hello is the colour of a yellow sun.
I'm not normal though I was born from a mother who was hormonal.
A gram is the size of a postage stamp.
Addiction gets under my skin, like the mark where a bandaid's been,
or a childhood scar from falling off a bike or out of a tree.
Addiction never made rich men.
When I thought my addiction was zen buddhism,
I soon found out it was ten out of ten bullshit.
That my peace was in pieces, and God was not pleased.
I always pigged out on the sweet things.


time is slow.
Time is growth.
Time is a tin toy on tracks.
Time is digital.
Time is exploding.
Who knows when your time is up.
Time is God's gold wristwatch.
Time is travelling.
Time is unravelling.
Time is shining.
The timing is everything.
Time is a tossed coin.
Time is a lost loved one.
Time is rich and poor.
Time leaves by the back door.
Time can be uncomfortable.
Time is a pair of tight blue jeans.
Time is a moonlight walk.
Time is a teenager.
Time is watched.
Time is the truth.
Time hurts like a loose tooth.
Time is a woman getting ready.
Time is in the art gallery.
Time is tasteless like celery.

Annie's show

where they throw money to be up close.
A dose of honey,
but all I've got is the sweetness of the lonely.
Annie turns away,
and I see the side of her face.
An avalanche sliding down her cheekbones,
eyes of ice I fall through.


Peta Edmonds headshotPeta Edmonds is studying a diploma in professional writing and editing. She came first in her novel writing class with a novel she is working on called Tramspotting.

Topic tags: Peta Edmonds, poetry



submit a comment

Existing comments

Enjoyed your poems thanks .Good luck with your novel.

Mary Walsh | 08 March 2016  

Glorious. Best poetry I've read by a young person in yonks. Keep writing, you are needed.

Peter Goers | 08 March 2016  

I love ordinary things and places and activities made extraordinary by beautifully constructed words and phrases. You can do that PETA. I'll have to watch my behavior on the 109 tram. You may be Tramspotting. Good luck and keep writing.

Celia | 08 March 2016  

Beautiful heart felt words that dance off the page. well done.

luke | 08 March 2016  

Today my "heart dropped like a coin into a homeless mans hat" I'm glad I had your prose to steady me thru the mire !

PHIL Thomas | 08 March 2016  

Great stuff, Peta. Stay with it.

Ian Fraser | 09 March 2016  

Excellent. Your words threw me back into Melbourne, after so many years away. Thank you.

Deena Bennett | 09 March 2016  

Similar Articles

Great white filmmakers can't dismiss diversity

  • Tim Kroenert
  • 10 March 2016

When questioned about diversity in his films recently, Joel Coen replied: 'You don't sit down and say, "I'm going to write a story that involves four black people, three Jews, and a dog".' The answer is disingenuous at best. Filmmakers choose what stories to tell and how; with a few exceptions, the Coens tell stories about white men. Just as Quentin Tarantino ought to continue discussing the role violence and misogyny play in his films, the Coens should engage meaningfully with questions of diversity.


Humanity found in ritual amid death camp horror

  • Tim Kroenert
  • 03 March 2016

In the history of the Second World War and the deathly screed of the Final Solution, the Sonderkommando cuts a pitiable figure. These Jewish prisoners at Auschwitz and other death camps who were forced to perform the logistics surrounding mass murder - the carting and disposal of dead flesh - though patently victims, were viewed by some as collaborators. Son of Saul provides an immersive and impressionistic extrapolation of this ethical and actual horror.