Untitled: Dissiri

All the poems you wrote,
kept safe in a plastic crate.

A jealous lover of your words
finds your crate, and in
dissiri,
destroys your handwriting.

A series of questions follow;
there are no
clear answers, yet you know.

All it takes is one line crossed,
one betrayal,
to leave with almost nothing.

A hurt unknown to your heart,
now broke,
you struggle without a home.

All you must do is stop writing;
a jealous lover
and a life with plenty of money.

An understanding of your worth;
you walk away
and let your words and life flow.

A published writer of many poems;
letting grief go,
and walking without looking back.

All your words are you,
A part of who you are,
A cry of rebellion in a world of conformity;
You need not apologise for the words you write.

Taste of Tomorrow

The festive season moves on;
another year and the end of another song.

The taste of tomorrow in a mug;
a cup of coffee, milk and sugar: your drug.

It has all been done before;
right now, you require something more.

To remain the same isn’t you;
you think of flowers blooming under the blue.

You step out of your comfort zone;
no one else can walk the path, only you alone.

To the sky, you look in wonder;
it’s clear today, yet inside you hear the thunder.

The new you walking without fear;
you are alive, and well enough, fate is near, and
now you can see that your path is clear.

A Vision in Blue

Caught by your soft eyes,
those eyes tell no lies.

You fight the truth within the mirror,
Your eyes see who you are much clearer.

Caught by the way your soul cries,
Your bleeding heart slowly dies.

You fight a true love growing dearer,
the touch of a heart coming nearer.

Caught by your love for grey skies,
tear-stained soul resists, it dies.

You are near to her,
You can now hear her.

Caught by her crystal blue eyes,
A vision in blue, those eyes.

You rid yourself of all the lies,
lost forever within her eyes.

Kiss of Time

Photos of your world.
You stand in a snow-covered forest,
with a stillness not found in my summer.
In those photos, the kiss of time moves slower,
for the kiss of time moves faster in the heat of summer.
I find myself longing for the winter, yet I need the summer;
without summer, there is no winter; without spring, there is no autumn.
Without the kiss of time, there would be no time for us.
Our impermanence would be permanence.
Our beauty and wonder would never be so lovely.
Our hearts would beat something other than blood,
as we grow colder every hundred years or so.

The Tea House

The words of Rumi take shape and play a scene with sounds as I sit thinking of the desert, exotic lands, and being another person in another land with another life.

In a far off land different from my own, I am alone, and I walk within your nation, yet I walk apart. The half-hidden faces and the glances show me that I do not belong here.

I have never worn so much cloth around my head, had so much material cover my body, and I have never felt unseen; yet the heat and the clothing cool my skin, and I feel free of fear.

Arabic on the wind and the vision of a mosque so beautiful you know the artists and architects loved their god, yet I’m a hypocrite for I do not believe in anything anymore.

Safely wrapped, a kind man ushered me towards the tea house to have something to drink. The smell of mint, rose water, and orange blossoms put my mind in a philosophical mood.

Surrounded by noise, I feel calm as I cannot understand a word, yet I know I don’t belong here; I am not part of this country. I am a hypocrite hiding behind a cloth I don’t believe I should wear.

Yet, I cannot bring myself to admit that the pull of this place feels like a longing that I have felt since I tried to play that broken instrument that looked like a Qanum many, many years ago.

I sit in the tea house surrounded, yet alone with my thoughts. Then I hear the bombing begin. It is a shock: a booming calamity and a whooshing sound mixed with many other sounds. It is a shock to my ears and my heart, for we do not know of this life in Australia.

Blood mixed with dust, concrete and debris strewn across the streets, bodies broken and mangled, and there, so close to me, the kindly man who ushered me in: bloody and dead. In those cloudy eyes, I once saw courage.

I walk from the tea house to stand and look towards the sky. You have gone from me through some cruel twist of fate, yet I know we will find each other again one day.

I feel like an important person in that instant. It is as if my feelings are the only feelings I can feel exist. Individualism has taught me to think my feelings might change the rivers of time.

The next bomb destroys my daydream, the images and the sounds of Rumi end, and I am sitting at my desk reading about your country: saddened by so many dead.

Wild Rain

I wrote this one yesterday.
We have experienced Winter in Spring.
It’s lovely, as the rain is everywhere at the moment, yet the thought of Summer makes me wish for more rain and cold weather.

A rain cloud kind of wild day
Petrichor blew away by the wind

The wild rain calling outside
Placing my empty porcelain cup

The inside smells cannot win
Walking outside to feel the wild rain

Sick Day

Grey clouds,
fog in the morning,
feeling the weight bearing down.

A hidden disease cripples your body
and leaves you broken yet whole.

An obtuse workplace,
work-life balance is only a theory.

Afraid to tell anyone,
you battle on with your demons.

A glimpse of clarity,
sleeping the sick workday away.

Grey clouds,
no fog as the day passes,
feeling the relaxing rain falling.