Poetry | Stories | Photography
Only whispers from the corner
walking towards the parure
of rubies and diamonds
the whispers become louder
Images of violence and blood
bullet holes and white lace
within an unknown forest
the images become clearer
Someone mentioned royalty
what Russia once was
until the Bolshevik uprising
someone stares at me oddly
Cold untilled soil,
an overgrown garden full of weeds,
blooming roses,
an atmosphere heavy and mournful.
An empty house
unlived in for many, many moons.
Decaying walls;
unloved, dusty and abandoned.
Eerie sounds
once sound of laughter, happiness.
Dark shadows,
lurking horrors and unsolved truths.
A vacant owner,
unwilling to return to the family home.
She lingers alone;
he hides alone so far from their home.
Through a prison window,
light falls on a room with dead roses.
Her favourite vase untouched,
roses she loved sit cobwebbed, dead.
A ghostly glimmer;
faceless, loveless, she stands alone.
Unbroken connection,
she cannot leave the place she loves.
Unsolved truths,
bound to this house by his untruths.
Unable to move on,
chained to this lonely torment waiting.
A coward disguised,
his fear of her spectre haunts his nights.
Provocative heart,
her resolve to linger touches his days.
She waits for him,
lingering within what was the family home.
She waits for him
to bring the son she loves so much home.
Together for decades: as young lovers, they were inseparable.
Now he is dead; she wanders alone through the timezones.
Never staying in one place for too long, never making connections; She could have had it all, some say, yet without him, it wouldn’t be the same.
She keeps walking through so many countries, walking to remember and to forget.
The death of her love, the haunted heartbreak lingers until it will no longer remain.
Lost on the journey, she stands still under the stars; the recognition of the love she lost startled her, as she finds herself looking at what was in the Bamiyan Valley.
Looking and imagining the Buddhas standing within this beautiful Valley she would have loved to have visited before their destruction by hate and intolerance, she moves on to walk in a direction that suits her soul.
A bird chirps unknown thoughts from a branch in a tree that I have not seen before today. The air feels thick, with the taste of a storm or rain; I cannot tell for sure how the weather will play out, for I do not live in the clouds.
I stand in a potato sack dress, oblivious to my situation; I do not know how I came to be here, nor do I know the name of this country.
I know nothing, yet I feel the very fabric of my surroundings. The connection with nature, as if words are spoken directly to me and only for me to hear, guides me forward.
Trees remind me of the Tree-Folk and their many stories; the wisdom they share with only a selected few. I feel closer to something as I step across an invisible threshold into the forest.
The weight of some emotional distress lingers on my skin and in my mind; I hold back the welling of my heart and those tears wanting to spill and run free towards the forest floor.
Something is missing from my many layers. It is as though my past, personality, and me, the person standing in a forest, ceases to be what she once was.
I walk to remember. I walk to forget. I walk through the ever-increasing darkening of the forest as rain does not come. Instead, snow begins to fall.
The snow should be cold. The snow should make me feel cold, yet it makes me feel calm.
I stand still, waiting for something to come.
In the forest of forgetting, I walk, and I walk until I remember what it is that I must finish.
Walking towards work; dreaming about being rich, staying in bed, champers for breakfast, bending our legs together, and trying out the waffle maker.
Reality floods back and I realise my skirt is too tight; the Covid Spread, like a Biscoff addiction, gone wrong, has me in its hold.
Walking down the ally towards the office, noticing the Passion Pop bottles placed randomly near the old broken door, and feeling university nostalgia coming on like an awkward chance meeting.
Turning back, I see the brick wall, and a door leading to more bricks, pipes, a hidy hole for one. A cat passes over there looking for food in the bins, and I feel sad; humans shit me sometimes.
Standing in an ally, hoping no cars come by to take me from my thoughts, and staring into the magical Dandewrong wall portal, hoping it will take me to another dimension; away from the grind.
Nothing happens. It is a hole in the wall, and nothing more. Then I look again and think this is only a reminder of the crumbling history we once knew. Crumbling history before our eyes, as this place becomes something else.
A smile from ear to ear,
as the young one ships through
the forest searching for playtime.
Monstrous trees do tower,
and the feeling of them bending
inwards is a very odd feeling.
Odd feelings pass, as her
favourite tree approaches, or
she approaches her favourite tree.
Strange, as always, she asks for
permission before climbing
this familiar one, her safe one.
A flicker of movement out of
the corner of her eye
piques her innocent curiosity.
Feeling as though she now has
permission to climb, she climbs
the tree steadily, full of life.
Sitting in her spot, she looks
down and sees a boy, yet not a
boy; maybe an elf, forest spirit.
Calm, she watches as he walks
away; she calls to him, yet he
never turns towards her, gone.
She comes to visit this spot hoping
to catch a glimpse of him again,
and to see her friend the tree.
She hasn’t seen him for years,
yet her daughter just pointed and
said, “A boy Mumma! A boy!”
Yesterday hearts weigh heavy
on the years lived in the past.
Time does not wait for hearts to be ready;
Hearts must be ready waiting for time.
Couch surfing alone. The house is cooking.
The night is cold, clear, calm, crystallising.
A meow from the laundry tells her the cat
wants food or else she will be the next meal.
Crashing and banging in the laundry as bowls,
teaspoons, detergent, all of it gets a workout.
The cat sits starring at the strange figure,
wondering why food is so difficult to provide.
Friends again after the feeding, yet she feels
peckish, for insomnia and jam are no strangers.
She sits on the fence for a while deciding,
until the desire for sweet outweighs reason.
I dreamed of us walking through the Melbourne streets.
The city was dark. All the people walked around with candles of different shapes and sizes.
We shared a candle and watched the way all the candlelight shapes moved on the building walls.
You and I never felt so free in the ambience of no electricity, yet the city never looked so beautiful.
There was no coffee to drink, no sweets to eat, no food to feast, so we stood for a while looking at the Yarra River.
Thousands of people with candles moved along the river, over the bridges, and into the night.
We used our dying phone charge to take photos of this beautiful night.
When we awoke, the photos on our phones were all blank. You couldn’t erase the, “I love you” that escaped your lips.
The sky is blue.
Fat cupids dance in the clouds.
I might have a breakfast beer and watch tv.
Another parcel arrives: still no toilet paper.
More tea, kettle? The kettle hates me, and the biscuit tin is empty.
I’m so alone in Isolation.
Ghosts, sing Nick Cave songs with me.
The kitchen was once a refuge where she could create anything; the kitchen was a creative place of her own in their tiny house.
Then her significant other developed a taste for cooking, and this place ceased to be her creative space.
One day, he starts mocking her for the creations; he proudly declares that his creations are better in every way.
They stand in the kitchen together one evening as he scolds her creations for being so different. Having had enough, she fills the dishwasher, turns it on, and water begins to gush all over the floor.
He lames her for the dishwasher malfunctioning. Without thought, she says, “When the water exits the dishwasher, I am reminded of all the bullshit that gushes from your lips”.
He stands at the kitchen bench, unable to think of something witty to say, as she walks from the kitchen, towards the garage, and out the door.
C & K 