Mr No Name

Mr No Name sits in his usual spot beside Adelaide Rose Davies. Tonight is quiet, dark, and it smells of half-dead roses from so many fresh graves.
A man who used to have a name is now known as Mr No Name. A man not even worthy of having a first name.
This evening he thinks about the smell of the half-dead roses on the breeze and what he lost. Tired, he lays his head down to sleep with his only friends, the dead in the cemetery.
Homeless and alone, this is the only place he finds peace and quiet to sleep and dream of his painful memories. His memories of a loving wife, two loving daughters, a house full of light, and the day she walked away because he lost his business to a cruel recession.
He dreams about his daughters in colour. Any money he has he spends on his mobile phone to see their faces from time to time.
Sometimes, when he is lucky, he sees his wife holding the arm of that famous person. He sees her, and he falls in love every time.
Laying there, he writes a message to both of his daughters on Messenger. Perhaps they will see it, or they won’t. He writes a forgiveness message of kindness and love to the mother of his children.
There are no pillows anymore, no kisses from his girls, and no feelings of warmth and happiness to mend his broken heart.
He rests his head on Adelaide’s grave, then asks a question he never thought he would ask, “Adelaide, can I please come down there with you? I always feel calm beside you.”
The cemetery remains serene as the night moves along; there is no snoring anymore, for the broken heart stopped beating at 3:15 am. Ten minutes after his girls and the love of his life deleted his messages.

The Riverside Willow

The two of us stood in this place on countless occasions,
as you talked to me about so many unimportant topics.

I listened to your words, not because I cared for them;
I listened to your talk because I knew the hunger
for your flesh and blood would be satisfied soon enough.

The way you looked at, “the big old elegant green one
with unkempt hair like mine” was a woman’s talk to me,
yet it never moved me.

I think of you, and I play your mannerisms, your face,
your voice, your speech; I play them over and over in my
mind so that I will never forget.

The riverside willow of you. The unkempt hair that hung
around your beautiful face, like the weeping willow
branches hang down into the river, is all I have left of you.

I realised too late that your time with me here in this
place was more important than only the hunger, which
is all I knew, for your flesh and your blood.

Your flesh and your blood was my desire for you, yet
your words, your actions, your love, and you,
the unkempt hair you, was the reason for my hunger.

I

I watch you walk into the room;
you are a beautiful masquerade.

A confident air hangs around you,
for you have never known “No”.

I watch you stand and sit so well,
then give me a look of disgust.

The player amongst many players,
you are an amusement to watch.

I sit and wait for the hammer to fall,
it doesn’t, and I wonder when it will.

A fault in that elegant demeanour shows,
for one man sees behind the masquerade.

I see you frown and flinch at his words,
then recede into the shadows tonight.

An entertaining amusement for the sick,
I take no pleasure in seeing you fall.

Tonight I will sit and wait for you to return;
so many lessons to learn, sweet daughter.

Sea of Starlight

In the middle of burnt dirt
with the odd Mulga
lookin’ like unbrushed hair.

We don’t dare fan the flames
of the dead ones
out here in this no law land.

In burning heat, we suffer
through thoughts
muddled into dirt and sky.

We wish for cold grey skies
with kept trees
lookin’ like English Butlers.

In the outback, we wonder
about the dead
as the daylight turns to night.

We stand sipping hot water
with muddled
feelings about this old land.

Outside we look towards the
sea of starlight
in this dark open landscape.

We remove all traces of the
spaces between
us as we finally understand.

One With the Seat

Your fancy porcelain throne
has stood the test of time.

A safe haven from your nagging love,
where a zen calm resets your soul.

You sit upon the throne looking at memes
and giggling uncontrollably.

A knock at the door shatters your zen
calm, and you look startled.

Your love peeks in to remind you there’s
a boring lunch on soon.

You say something pleasant, and the eye
rolling from your love begins.

The door doesn’t close properly, and the
zen moment has passed.

You let the trumpet play a wild tune, then give
your sweet porcelain pot a pat.

The thought of being one with the seat again
makes you smile.