I want to run;
you want me to walk.
I want to feel it all;
you want me to feel you.
I want to love like a song;
you want me to love only one.
I want you to let me fly;
you want me to fly only with you.
I wanted you to see;
you wanted me to see it was me holding myself back.
Category: writing
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.
Wool Blend
We came from the bogs.
No house sitting on a hill for a thousand generations,
No windswept seaside town with old friends from birth,
No absence of the pressing spectre of family disfunction.
We are the one-offs: A rare and unique wool blend.
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 who 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.
Grass Dream
Too tired for daydreams, yet they come and plague your mind.
You stare out the window at the man with his mower, wondering what it would be like to ride on top as he pushes it along.
Images of you vibrating furiously, him pushing you along, and all the grass covering you.
The Passing of Emma…
Your fluffy face comes to me, and I think of the way you pawed my face, a meow, or sleeping beside Daddy.
On the saddest of days, I look at a cloud shaped like your ears with tears of sadness for you, my sweet girl, for you were my Emma, and now you are gone.
C & K 