Poetry | Stories | Photography
I hover between sleep and awake, feeling the effects of waking dreams and a death-like calm.
The music presses me on through feelings of exhaustion and stressed-out commitments.
When the song stops, I find myself falling towards the keyboard.
I hover, then give in to my dreams.
looking out
a heart’s desire
cobbled streets
romance once set in
the visible sea
no sign of the ship
waiting for x to come home
the cut-out walls
clean glass for a short time
amorous longings
silence louder than a bomb
a heart lost at sea
impossible to cage freedom
all the more exciting
when x brings the sea home
I work from home alone.
I raise my eyes to the window,
and
look out towards the hills, cows.
Magpies snap up worms from our lawn.
At lunch, I stand in thongs and a coat,
watching everything between heaven and Earth.
The wind wails of Winter, yet it is Summer.
Autumn left as Winter dawns,
yet a calm intensity begins.
Linger it does within the hues,
as pink takes blue to indigo.
Crisp longings linger within,
yet the calm sea calls to me.
strong and courageous
take whatever is dished out
marshmallow inside
Two Haiku: A Weekend Away
longing for something
you keep feeling everything
knowing of nothing
missing your essence
longing to see you again
keep thinking the worst
I sit without you
in the quiet nighttime hours
writing poetry
I arrive early,
come back later.
When I arrive later,
a certain look.
Sitting and waiting
on the wooden seat.
Shaded by the Plain tree,
leg hair moves in the wind.
People watching;
odds and ends on election day.
A crow talks shit.
Maybe it’s a pissed off Cockatoo;
no, it’s a crow
perched on the sign Drinking Water.
Waiting and watching,
everything hurts from the hard seat.
Learning about people
and listening to random conversations.
The crow is a squeaky wheel;
the cloud cover dims the soft light.
The odd looks continue,
and my finger keeps touching the keys.
Saturday morning, in the madness
bursting with cars, and
a shit Council incapable of foresight.
On election day,
a day we should be grateful for,
I wonder about this two-faced place.
The hustle and bustle
of the blue stone streets.
They gather for a feast
to celebrate the New Year.
They never saw the grace
beaming the colour of light
at the short wavelength end
of the visible spectrum watching on.
Thinking only good thoughts,
they eat from the lucky golden roast.
The grace watches on as
a vine starts to move up the table legs.
A heavy grey day
out and about for a stroll
A rare quiet day
No raindrops fall
the wind doesn’t whisper
No birds singing
A recluse to many
walking past a cafe
A nostalgic scent
from 1832
C & K 