Poetry | Stories | Photography
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.
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.
Words were spoken, they never existed before.
We talked about change, difference, radical noises.
Our speech was louder, clear convictions, true directions.
Words are spoken in guarded tones, censured.
We talk about survival, sleeping in, making sad noises.
Our speech is quieter, muffled opinions, limited directions.
The stories she told! I don’t see ‘er so well now, yet she’s in my heart still telling stories.”
“She must have been an interesting woman.”
“My Lassie, She was no woman unless women are created from water and shells. No, she’s the sea! The sea is the best storyteller.”
Walking towards work; dreaming about being rich, staying in bed, champers for breakfast, bending our legs together, and trying out the waffle maker.
Reality floods back and I realise my skirt is too tight; the Covid Spread, like a Biscoff addiction, gone wrong, has me in its hold.
Walking down the ally towards the office, noticing the Passion Pop bottles placed randomly near the old broken door, and feeling university nostalgia coming on like an awkward chance meeting.
Turning back, I see the brick wall, and a door leading to more bricks, pipes, a hidy hole for one. A cat passes over there looking for food in the bins, and I feel sad; humans shit me sometimes.
Standing in an ally, hoping no cars come by to take me from my thoughts, and staring into the magical Dandewrong wall portal, hoping it will take me to another dimension; away from the grind.
Nothing happens. It is a hole in the wall, and nothing more. Then I look again and think this is only a reminder of the crumbling history we once knew. Crumbling history before our eyes, as this place becomes something else.
The tendon snaps;
you cry for anyone to come,
yet no one can hear you in dark.
Limping loudly along;
you wish for the comforts of home,
to take back those words you said before.
The trap you found;
you scream knowing no one can hear,
as the light of the moon dims, disappears.
A room sits amongst the trees; more of a box, less a room, and hidden away.
Within the room lives a Hermit who loves the company of no one and nothing; only birds, animals, and spirits give the Hermit joy and sunshine.
A room so big on the inside and so small on the outside; this is the Hermit’s palace.
Around the room, birds flutter and poop on the skylight. Trees sway to and fro in time with the seasons, and burrows hide wombats, possums, and plump creatures.
A room sits hidden away amongst the trees; more of a palace, less of a room, and hidden away.
Dressing up with friends,
he is Ragnar Lodbrok
the Viking King.
With a helmet from Bunnings,
a shield from the kitchen and
a vacuum cleaner hose for a sword,
he fights invisible battles.
All fired up, he attacks the
kitchen cupboards,
harasses the cats,
pretends the lounge is the sea,
and drives Mum up the wall.
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.
Many books spill over and out into the landscape of my home. Tumbling and falling, they cry out for attention.
They sit and sit, yet some receive nix; others, a cursory glance or an occasional flutter of my fingers.
Many books sit in a crate, ready to be loved by someone.
C & K 