Poetry | Stories | Photography
You walked in the busy city, stopping to wait for the right light.
A quick snap below of what’s above, reminds you of Winter’s day.
Looking back, you stare at the image of Melbourne town.
There is a silent way about the grey; a stillness in the sky.
Perhaps you will again see Melbourne moving on a winter’s day.
Living in the middle of nowhere can feel like a lonely place to be.
He sits at the table dreaming of the sea, as odd noises are coming from the upstairs bathroom.
Curious, he runs up to see the bathtub has overflowed seawater onto his favourite tiles.
Several city dwellers
kayak along a mysterious river
of rocks and wild things.
They spot a village, and
smell sweets on the breeze
like perfume to their city noses.
Floating on the sweet scent
of something so sensual and seductive,
one by one, they move towards the bank of the river.
Seduced by the smell, in single file,
they arrive at the entrance of the sweets shop
filled with naughty dimpled children fizzing about on high.
Frightened and perplexed,
yet seduced and hungry, they persist through
the beasts to reach the source of their longing.
Salty and sweet, sour and smooth,
this is the window to their longing:
they found the magical fudge made by Mrs B.
The flower asked a bee, “When will the world end?” The bee looked dumbfounded, then buzzed away.
Perplexed, the flower asked a spider: there was only silence.
Then a cat sniffed at her petals. She asked the cat the same question. It seemed to prevaricate any response, then pissed on her stem.
The season is here, as we cook for 600 when only about 30 will be coming for lunch.
Dad is only ashes so he can’t have a drink, so Mum gets the box with him in it and has a drink.
The siblings are at it, as the hunger pains start roaring, and the little children have turned into terrors.
Over the pond, they’ll be as cold as a bear; yet here it is mild, and the sun shines a bit.
The BBQ is running, and the men gather around for it’s a team effort out there to ensure the meat isn’t charred.
Bossy boots orders everyone around in the kitchen, so Mum takes Dad and flops on to the couch.
Lunch will be served soon enough, yet there’s always time for a chocolate or two, a mince pie, white Christmas, a rum ball or two, strawberries with cream, a tea or two, a coffee, some punch, biscuits, and, and …
Lunch is served, and the chatter runs wild; no one says grace because this isn’t the Lord’s day, it’s only Christmas Day.
Walking amongst your favourite trees,
contemplating the ways of the forest and wild roses.
A softness came to your soul recently,
so you take a moment to reflect and scheme a little.
Whispers from your Mother remind you of her,
even though she is not with you physically, not whole.
A series of thoughts move your reflective mind,
so fast; you take a moment to catch up, to process.
With no gesture, you turn a tree into a table,
and then you turn a tree into a dishwasher, a combo.
A wilderness has come to the forest from the
commotion you created as you began experimenting and changing.
You won’t receive those wild consequences,
for you gave like for like to change the trees, a plant or two.
Another reflection leaves you startled as a
Cockatoo makes a racket, a Koala turns from you, and it’s quiet.
You wake up in terror as a toilet brush dances around you. For some reason you think the torch beside your bed is a gun and that you can kill it; you cannot kill a plastic brush.
Baffled about your predicament, you decide to pull the covers over your head. You can still hear the bristles, and the handle is knocking against your bed frame.
Unsure what to do, you throw the covers off, jump off the bed, and hide in the corner.
The toilet brush gathers momentum, lunges at your face and you scream profanities as you wonder why the toilet brush is tangerine.
In the distance, you hear, “Anna, Anna, wake up!”
Disoriented and sleepy, you say, “Huh, what the! I was having a- huh?”
You partner looks down at you worried, “You had a bad dream-“
“What is that on the Telly!?”
“Anna, don’t worry. It’s only Donald Trump.”
Through tired sobs you say, “I dreamt he was a toilet brush…”
“Huh!?”
Yesterday’s hearts weigh heavy
on the years lived in the past.
Time does not wait for hearts to be ready;
hearts must be ready and waiting for all time.
Couch surfing alone. The house is cooking.
The night is cold, clear, calm, and 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, mulling over a decision,
until the desire for sweetness outweighs reason.
He dreamed in colour.
Dancing with her made his heart beat faster, as they twirled in unattainable opulence.
The colours swirled around the room, as he felt a devotion to her.
She changed. The face of love turned to hate; she was pulling away.
He woke drenched, then remembered his wife loved someone else.
Hair ready to take flight
as you
strut your balloon skirt.
Feeling ready to break
the floor, yet loathing
whispers freeze you.
A Jizzy Jammer pops a pill,
so you decide that’s for you,
as you slam down courage.
Now you’re online and out there
collapsing the dance floor;
deconstructing dance moves,
freaking out the conservatives.
C & K 