Poetry | Stories | Photography
Your heart yearns for the sea.
Sitting in your office, you drift towards the southern saltwater.
Lost in the south sea, you drift unnoticed and unafraid of what may become of you.
You float on the waves, the sun begins to set, and you think of nothing.
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.
Your fancy porcelain throne
has stood the test of time.
A safe haven from your nagging love,
where a zen calm resets your soul.
You sit upon the throne looking at memes
and giggling uncontrollably.
A knock at the door shatters your zen
calm, and you look startled.
Your love peeks in to remind you there’s
a boring lunch on soon.
You say something pleasant, and the eye
rolling from your love begins.
The door doesn’t close properly, and the
zen moment has passed.
You let the trumpet play a wild tune, then give
your sweet porcelain pot a pat.
The thought of being one with the seat again
makes you smile.
A cobalt blue sky.
You with black-rimmed glasses bitching about my grey-rimmed glasses.
The heat intensifies a longing for romantic love once felt long ago.
The sky shifts.
Then the clouds appear in a rush to make rain before too long.
The sunder coloured sky,
just like you and I.
You were all about those pretty pools
filtered into oblivion on social media.
I preferred violent seas, as the sound
of waves crashing made me feel alive.
You could never understand those
violent seas and I could never understand
your love for pretty pools in paradise.
I stood on the shore of a storm raging
sea while you watched from a pretty pool;
I walked into the sea and found home.
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.
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.
Words spoken we feared would come
to spill out from old rusty speakers.
We never thought this day would come,
we always knew this day would come;
we did it to ourselves, and we knew it.
Words spoken, hurried tones to loved ones
for they will be the last words from our lips.
We stood and sat as the day moved along;
a last dose of intimacy between the two of us.
The record player sits still waiting for the album,
yet we cannot decide what will be the last song.
We play them all for the rest of the day waiting;
then a song starts to play we both love and
…
..
.
The wild winds from across the hills whip up
a number of feelings in this winter of ours.
We feel the ice from across the southern sea
flow up through us and change us again.
Still, the wild winds won’t change the hearts
of the many who will never understand.
They remain still and translucent to our eyes,
as they never realise their full potential.
We buy violets
to place on the window sill,
to be just like Mum.
C & K 