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.

Heartless Society

We were the ones always taking action,
being the first to break taboos,
never afraid of what others thought.

Now we hide behind computer screens,
cook food most people will never taste,
think about moving up the social ladder.

We got caught up in a materialistic society,
moving closer to aggressive, heartless society;
fighting to make another dollar, and survive.

Australian Landscapes

Big stars burn down from the sky,
the moonlights part of the way.

Bronzed grass lines the streetscape,
this land is crisping under the sun.

Blossoms on the breeze do smell,
as a lost memory emerges, forms.

Big stars burn down from the sky,
the moonlights part of the way,
so, I walk to the end of the street.

Black sky, big stars, a bright moon;
the hills sit in luminous shadows,
no cows moo at this time of night.

Bronzed grass lines the darkened
hills flowing beyond the shadows,
to remind me of other landscapes.

Blossoms on the breeze do smell,
reminding me of the landscapes
of my life, and how the landscapes
of this land changed me over time;
how this land’s landscapes change.

Standing on the Shore

A wave breaks the sadness
you feel looking at the sea.

Young hearts shouldn’t hurt like
yours hurts under a perfect sky.

Another wave crashes into
many pieces of aquamarine;
water gems breaking and
moving back into the sea.

You take a false step forward,
not grasping the consequences.

A wave misses the target,
failing to deliver the blow.

Your heart moves you to stay,
so you remain standing
on the shore, heart-pounding;
shivering at the thought of
what could have been:
you, the aquamarines,
the sea none the wiser.


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 to 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 that sits 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 find out why the weeping continues.
Two eyes stare at her, and a quick movement frightens her, yet she holds her nerve and enters further still into the room.
The eyes occupy a person, and the person is familiar to her; the person is her long-lost sister who was feared dead.
Convinced at once that this is the chance, she takes her sister’s hand, they pad along the hall, and out into the night.
The parents awoke the next morning to two empty rooms. Two sisters swept up 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.

Caramel Fudge

thefotofilmatic at deviantart

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.


 Kaydreamer at DeviantArt

Walking amongst your favourite trees,
contemplating the ways of the forest, wild roses.

A softness has come to your soul recently,
so you take a moment to reflect, scheme a little.

Whispers from your Mother remind you of her,
even though she is not with you physically, whole.

A series of thoughts move your reflective mind,
so fast; you take a moment to catch up, process.

With no gesture, you turn a tree into a table,
then you turn another tree into a dishwasher, combo.

A wildness has come to the forest from the
commotion you created as you began experimenting, changing.

Wild consequences won’t be served up to
you, as 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; it’s quiet.

Toilet Brush Dream

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…”


City Dark

I dreamed of us walking through the Melbourne streets.
The city was dark. All the people walked around with candles of different shapes and sizes.
We shared a candle and watched the way all the candlelight shapes moved on the building walls.
You and I never felt so free in the ambience of no electricity, yet the city never looked so beautiful.
There was no coffee to drink, no sweets to eat, no food to feast, so we stood for a while looking at the Yarra River.
Thousands of people with candles moved along the river, over the bridges, and into the night.
We used our dying phone charge to take photos of this beautiful night.
When we awoke, the photos on our phones were all blank. You couldn’t erase the, “I love you” that escaped your lips.