Mr No Name

Mr No Name sits in his usual spot beside Adelaide Rose Davies. Tonight is quiet, dark, and it smells of half-dead roses from so many fresh graves.
A man who used to have a name is now known as Mr No Name. A man not even worthy of having a first name.
This evening he thinks about the smell of the half-dead roses on the breeze and what he lost. Tired, he lays his head down to sleep with his only friends, the dead in the cemetery.
Homeless and alone, this is the only place he finds peace and quiet to sleep and dream of his painful memories. His memories of a loving wife, two loving daughters, a house full of light, and the day she walked away because he lost his business to a cruel recession.
He dreams about his daughters in colour. Any money he has he spends on his mobile phone to see their faces from time to time.
Sometimes, when he is lucky, he sees his wife holding the arm of that famous person. He sees her, and he falls in love every time.
Laying there, he writes a message to both of his daughters on Messenger. Perhaps they will see it, or they won’t. He writes a forgiveness message of kindness and love to the mother of his children.
There are no pillows anymore, no kisses from his girls, and no feelings of warmth and happiness to mend his broken heart.
He rests his head on Adelaide’s grave, then asks a question he never thought he would ask, “Adelaide, can I please come down there with you? I always feel calm beside you.”
The cemetery remains serene as the night moves along; there is no snoring anymore, for the broken heart stopped beating at 3:15 am. Ten minutes after his girls and the love of his life deleted his messages.

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.

I

I watch you walk into the room;
you are a beautiful masquerade.

A confident air hangs around you,
for you have never known “No”.

I watch you stand and sit so well,
then give me a look of disgust.

The player amongst many players,
you are an amusement to watch.

I sit and wait for the hammer to fall,
it doesn’t, and I wonder when it will.

A fault in that elegant demeanour shows,
for one man sees behind the masquerade.

I see you frown and flinch at his words,
then recede into the shadows tonight.

An entertaining amusement for the sick,
I take no pleasure in seeing you fall.

Tonight I will sit and wait for you to return;
so many lessons to learn, sweet daughter.

Sea of Starlight

In the middle of burnt dirt
with the odd Mulga
lookin’ like unbrushed hair.

We don’t dare fan the flames
of the dead ones
out here in this no law land.

In burning heat, we suffer
through thoughts
muddled into dirt and sky.

We wish for cold grey skies
with kept trees
lookin’ like English Butlers.

In the outback, we wonder
about the dead
as the daylight turns to night.

We stand sipping hot water
with muddled
feelings about this old land.

Outside we look towards the
sea of starlight
in this dark open landscape.

We remove all traces of the
spaces between
us as we finally understand.

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.

A Darkening Room

The light begins to take cover under a sea of clouds;
the clouds move closer and grower darker and darker.

I keep the light off in my room, waiting for the rain to
begin, and hoping for the chance to show you a photo.

You are stuck in North Queensland being burnt by the
sun every day; I sit here in the cold, wet winter I love.

The night creeps closer, and the sky becomes darker,
as the rain starts to fall and move down the window.

I take a series of photos, then send my best one to you,
although I think you will say the weather is yucky again.

The night sets in. I imagine you out and about in the
garden, talking to the neighbour or cooking dinner for two.

You stay locked in North Queensland, and I stay locked in
Gippsland, as we wait for the chance to hug and kiss again.

The light is a faded memory on the horizon, as twilight loses
to the night and the absence of moon and stars leaves only
the reflection of someone I should know better in the window.

Ochre Afternoon

The blind moves as the breeze flow through the window; I can see the change sun rays make on my skin, as my arms colour and look like desert sand.
The sun casts strong rays across the backyard, as the cobwebs move and drift between grass, weeds, the fence, and the bees dance on the weed flowers.
A song from the crickets, birds, a few flies, and the next-door neighbour’s air-conditioner puts my mind to sleep, as I soak up the last sunlight of the day.
A change in tempo is on the breeze, as the afternoon drifts into twilight, and the time for sweet soft days of washing going stiff on the line comes to an end.
The heat of the day is turning into the warmth of another ending, another night; I won’t miss what I no longer have on this sunlit day, for the night is bright.
One song is coming to an end and another song is ready to begin, so I fight with the pegs and the stiff washing: waiting for the first fresh Autumn day.