Poetry | Stories | Photography
Pockets of grey dominate the ivory sky, for the sun doesn’t shine on the lonely seashore.
A cold wind wails sorrowfully along the shore for the dead fish who lay motionless on the sand.
With vacant eyes and rotting flesh, the seagulls and the crabs make a feast of the dead fish flesh, which will soon be no more.
When we go, the universe won’t waste our energy,
for nothing is wasted by her;
She keeps secret treasures until the time ends.
There’s a way with the clouds today. As night approaches, the sky paints with the hues of grey, white, blues and pinks.
Anna never gets used to the sky colours, for those colours make her feel old and new things, dark and light things.
The sea is out over the cliffs. Tonight it’s still, which is an odd feeling. Although cool, there’s this mist hovering. “How peculiar”, Anna thinks, “It’s probably nothing.“
Walking into the house sends a strange chill down her spine. Something’s changed, but not for the better. The light doesn’t help.
Anna mutters in reassurance to only herself, “I’m not scared. It’s nothing. No one can hurt me now. Not now…“
The rattling begins soft, then gets louder. It’s as if the house has taken on a life of its own.
Anna screams inwardly, for the words no longer escape her lips. Terror grips her heart and then crushes her lungs.
Struggling through, she sees three ladies standing before her in a 1920’s dress. Their faces sneer and laugh as they pull her forward. The rattling starts again, they laugh at her, the rattling comes in louder waves, they smash her head against the wall and the rattling echoes.
Anna asks, “Where am I now?“
In unison, the ladies playfully answer, “You’re with us now whether you like it or not.“
You sit at that mahogany desk you love
diligently researching paranormal things.
You look for an answer to what isn’t clear;
sadness is cruel to your burning heart.
You miss me; I know this very, very well,
I miss you and hold on in this place still.
You held me in the last moments of life,
I remember all your words and actions.
You feel my touch, but I do alarm you so
I whisper in your ear, “Be my lungs, love.”
You look pained and move so violently
I cannot catch you as you fall from me.
You left those papers to be with me today
I’m sorry, yet it had to be this way, my love.
You see me now, but there is much horror;
I felt that way too, yet this horror will pass
you say, “It was always you here close.”
I say with conviction, “Yes. Always close.”
You look at me, and I look at you, and we see
we see the love we have for each other.
Your face comes to my sight
I study the beauty of you
Your face takes me into the light
I take note of your face
Your face shifts before my eyes
I slip into another place
Your ghost pulls me into the abyss
I see, then become whole again
You helped me find our light and love
I get lost at 3 am in words of you
You want me to write the story of us
I will write about when you were the Pharaoh
and
I was your gold and bronzed queen of the Nile
She sits by the water.
The river moves by as fish take a peek now and then.
“Do they know my broken heart?” she wonders as nature’s carpet touches her feet.
A clumsy fish wiggles toward her then retreats.
A teardrop falls into the river.
The fish swims away.
In the snow, the seat is bare, except for you and a few tidy possessions.
You’ve been down this road before: broken and broke.
There’s nothing like poverty to make you feel like you’ve made the wrong choices. Yet, you are liberated now: free on this bench in the snow.
You think, “How beautiful the snow is as it falls. If I had a poet’s heart, and I was more familiar with words, I would articulate this scene with more purpose and beauty, but I cannot convey this; this is a photograph or a painting…“
You sit still in the snow, and you don’t notice the gun against your head until the jolt ends the falling snow for you.
Your last moments were broke and broken, beautiful and sad, as you thought of the falling snow.
What beauty in your death. Death on the bench in the snow as you sat full of a fading glow until the light turns to darkness.
Now you get the chance to do it all differently.
Never one to believe in anything,
you adopt an elitist attitude towards those who hold opinions that are not your own.
A lady finds you to be her one and only,
for you and her connected many lives ago.
Now you’re arguing insistently, without
fully appreciating what her lips and mind are explaining.
She feels a pang of hurt as you tear layers of her arguments away without thinking of the consequences.
Not one to see your folly, you shovel the dirt from an increasingly large hole.
Seeing a chance, she pounces upon your weak argument like a Lioness from Eden.
Now you can see her, and your elitist bullshit begins to falter and fall away.
She catches you with her teeth, and you flail about like a rabbit not long for death; you both find deep love in two pairs of eyes.
The burning embers of our love blow along the wind to run up and down our skin. We came from a place only the Dragons knew, yet it was a place of passionate fire.
We had it all until you tore a hole through my heart, and I smashed our love into shards of crystal.
We stand in the silent darkness waiting for the earthquake to crush what is left of our love and return it all to the dirt ash.
My chest aches and yours broke;
still, I wish we hadn’t fucked it all into pieces.
Sometimes, when she sits on the step, she thinks about places and how they connect us to memories, as does music and scent.
Her mind drifts back to the cool water of Nelson Bay and the pretty lighthouse on the hill; Connected to her sister deep in thought.
Thoughts of grey days with coffee on every corner, a European feel, and a charm only Melbourne emits; Connected to her childhood home.
Thinking about younger days with a hammer for macadamia nuts and corkscrews for coconut eyes in Mareeba; Connected to her origins.
The memories play behind her eyes as she looks at the red dirt full of cracks under the Australien sun.
C & K 