Poetry | Stories | Photography
Sitting and standing,
painting a still life of fruit.
The right light today. Fruits, once alive, become immortal on the canvas, as part of their being is forever alive in the paint and the brush.
A calm move through the studio as this place feels right today.
The last stroke moves along, and the canvas becomes something new; pieces of fruit are falling from an unknown place in the sea.
Weeping from behind the brown door grew louder and louder until one could hear the crying from all corners of the house.
The house lives and breathes something primal; malice lingers in the corners, threatening those who venture too close to the flame.
She is only six, so she knows things and sees things the adults choose not to see, things adults choose to forget.
Weeping from behind the brown door stirs something forgotten in her soul as if she knows who occupies those walls.
Taking a torch, she pads tentatively along the hall of rooms to the one sitting at the end, the one with the brown door.
Experienced with keys and as sharp as a knife, she hastily acquires the key and puts the right one in the lock to see if it works.
A click and movement are all the convincing she needs to enter without fear, only to discover why the weeping continues.
Two eyes stare at her, and a quick movement frightens her, yet she holds her nerve and enters further into the room.
The eyes occupy a person. The person is familiar to her; the person is her long-lost sister, who she feared dead.
Convinced at once that this is her chance, she takes her sister’s hand, and they pad along the hall and out into the night.
Their parents wake up to two empty rooms and two sisters gone away by a vanishment that created a legend.
For the girls, they made their way through the forest and into the night; now, they live countries away without fear of the night.
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.
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.
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 