Left over

January 7, 2018 at 7:17 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , )

Left over from the grand affair

She hangs around the empty plates
Hidden in makeup and glossy hair

Left over from the grand affair

Pretending that she doesn’t care
Waiting while the fear abates

Left over from the grand affair
She hangs around the empty plates.

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Gym

November 8, 2017 at 11:34 am (Uncategorized) (, , )

To live completely is akin
to building muscles in a gym
Every lift, bend, stretch and pull
makes us feel incredible.

And when we’re tired and ache to rest
we know that we have worked our best
and quietly sit and watch our young
arrive, warm up and carry on.

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Coming Home

November 1, 2017 at 11:15 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , )

Often living souls will stray

Sometimes they will tip and sway

But as the tide returns each day

Soon they will come home.

.

Where do catlike spirits fly

Which toil would hold and stultify?

They’re hunting free, but by and by

Soon they will come home.

.

Forget the knots of doubt that bind

us to the clock, uncloak the mind,

reach far beyond, and unconfined

we’ll welcome our souls home.

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Stones

February 4, 2017 at 3:08 pm (history, Poems, Stories) (, , , , , , , , )

He brought down the axe
on those prehistoric stones
that had regally edged his flower bed
public and permanent
undisputed leave to rule granted,
planted, for centuries.

Meaning to smash those stones,
dash them down to size
despising their indestructible
smooth confidence, since
his lay shattered,
he refused to be thwarted by disease,
disappointment and a blunt axe.

Raising his game he brought to bear
great anger and frustration,
torn muscles and brittle bones
screaming, tears streaming in rivers
past slivers of stone,
whilst they remained, undiminished
taking pain without complaint.

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Window

December 5, 2016 at 11:33 am (England, history, philosophy, Poems, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

At the window in my front room
I watched umbrellas go up the hill
struggling in furious autumn gale
most black, some red or comically transparent
pulled down upon a woman’s shoulders
to protect her new hairdo from the rain.

The Georgian bay window shielded me from rain.
I loved to be alone. That cold front room
with long net curtains wrapped around young shoulders
and the weather beating, shining or racing down the hill
was my castle; huge windows on a world transparent,
sheltered from the furious autumn gale.

Round I whirled, a leaf dancing in the gale,
moving faster and higher, inspired by the rain.
The net meant giant windows were transparent
only from the inside, so to a clunky sale room
gramophone weighted with pennies, I was me on that hill,
before the world could press upon my shoulders.

I smelled the musty net around my shoulders
and knew the world was old and furious, though its gale
and torrential outpouring never rested on our hill,
forming pools in parks where tourists pulled on rain-
coats and stirred coffee with plastic spoons, in a room
where an organ played and people’s smiles were transparent.

When my cousin came, we served homemade sweets on transparent
plates and put on a show. On young shoulders
responsibility for choreography and costume. Front room
filled with patient eyes, we would anxiously regale
our aunties, mums and Nanna with entertainment, rain
dancing in accord, outside, thunder clapping on the hill.

Of course, I grew up, and went out from the hill,
down into murky valleys, away from transparent
umbrellas, aunties and sticky sweets, out into rain
that seemed more inhospitable when it landed on shoulders
bent and bowed with the weight of life’s gale.
But part of me will always dance in that front room.

Meet me on the hill, put a scarf around my shoulders,
transparent rivulets in a furious autumn gale,
blessed by rain, with no umbrella, let us dance in my front room.

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Old Lace

September 24, 2016 at 12:21 pm (Poems) (, , )

Stitches unravel,
Kiss and fall away from us:
Undeniable.

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Today

September 21, 2016 at 6:34 pm (Poems) (, , , )

There’s a wasp between my fingers
and a bee behind one ear,
Two slugs above my eyelids
and a bird’s nest in my hair.

My body is a tree trunk
my mind a crooked path,
My life juice is a river
my feelings are a raft.

Fulfilling earth’s intention –
imperfect and impure,
with love as my redemption,
intuition at my core.

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Rip Tide

August 3, 2016 at 9:25 am (Poems, sociology, Stories) (, , , , )

The tide tipped and turned
Sweep-blow-draining all away.
One cafe remains.

 

One broken cup man
orders customary chips
and consults his stars.

 

His hopeful soul
hangs loose in the empty bay
waiting for a wave.

 

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Taking Care

June 15, 2016 at 7:58 pm (Poems, poetry, sociology) (, , , , )

Through the depth of each night, till the dimming of days,

it’s a difficult path to the parting of ways.

For the sake of us all, for our dads and our mums,

The carers will carry the vulnerable ones.

 

When others step sideways, the carers come through,

to meet expectations that daunt but a few.

Intuition and patience, resilience and smiles,

They will take up the slack for the final few miles.

 

 

 

 

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Liquid Asset

June 7, 2016 at 9:57 pm (Poems) (, , , )

Robert, the last documented micro-entrepreneur, reached the door of the bank just as the lock clicked. He rushed to the library to access the internet, but austerity raced him there and shut the door. He was cross, hot and thirsty, unable to access vital funds to buy that last drop of –

– water

unstoppable energy

dripping, pouring, gushing

back to the beginning

ready to run again – water

 

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