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.

A Foreign Memory

The sound of an Oud moves a foreign memory to the fore of your mind as you walk through the streets of a foreign town as a foreigner.

They look at you with different coloured eyes, yet you look at them with the eyes of a person unseasoned in the ways of the world.

The smell of Rose Water, Orange Blossom, and mint tea reminds you of another memory from before you were whom you appear to be now.

A market tempts you to buy material possessions you thought you would never own, as something about the items takes you back.

The touch of a warm breeze moves your legs towards a place of Olive and Oleander, as the memory becomes a reality and you know

why you came to this place.


Different opinions,
ways of living life;
too much water
under the bridge.

Unable to visit, not
wanting to see him;
he’s not the Father
you idealised, loved.

Years passed, water
passed, life passed;
no time felt right to
go and visit, talk.

You felt it before it
came; a knowing;
a death too quick
for you to digest.

He danced with
death deliberately
on his own; no time
to give anyone time.

You made your peace
with him on the telephone;
he said he has beautiful
children, then the guilt.

Another Ibrat for you to
understand, to learn from;
sitting here looking at
his box filled with ashes.

Australian Landscapes

Big stars burn down from the sky,
the moonlights part of the way.

Bronzed grass lines the streetscape,
this land is crisping under the sun.

Blossoms on the breeze do smell,
as a lost memory emerges, forms.

Big stars burn down from the sky,
the moonlights part of the way,
so, I walk to the end of the street.

Black sky, big stars, a bright moon;
the hills sit in luminous shadows,
no cows moo at this time of night.

Bronzed grass lines the darkened
hills flowing beyond the shadows,
to remind me of other landscapes.

Blossoms on the breeze do smell,
reminding me of the landscapes
of my life, and how the landscapes
of this land changed me over time;
how this land’s landscapes change.

Joyful Song

Another new day, another war ends.
Out with the old, in with the swing.

Another candle burns down, spills;
electric lights would spoil the mood.

Another flapper dress bounces,
someone else does the dancing;
I’m sitting at home, cool as a cat,
relaxing in my fine haberdashery.
I’m waiting for no one, just the cat.

Another cloud bursts, like his heart,
when someone shot him a year ago.

Another dead soldier for the cause,
though I wonder if it was worth it.

Another set of thoughts race by,
as the emotions of widowed bliss
set in, consume the atmosphere,
keep the cat from venturing over.

Another record to spin, as I dance
with his pillow to our joyful song.