I’d rather

I'd rather be with me, than
In the shadow of a tree
Grown by groaning pains
Missing her former ways

I'd rather be alone, than
Drink down remedies from
Expectation formed
Watching romantic comedy

I'd rather go solo, than
Interpret someone's needs
Through the scintillating sound
Of the pleas of silent screen

I'd prefer to take a stroll
Cool and dry under a 'broll, than
Be soaked in untold stories
Of adventures without me

I'd rather be awake, than
Anticipating ache
Of sleeping next to you
Then, in a month or two we're through.
Burnt out trees in St David’s Park, Hobart Tasmania

It’s not too late

It's not too late to win
Bring it on in
Hopeful is a form of resistance
In this world of compliance

It's never too late to start
Pull it apart
Apathy betrays us daily
Rebuild your world brick by brick

It's always too soon to give up
Reach out an arm
Wave it high until you feel again
Air on skin, apply firm grip

It is now the time to change
Grow it again
Limbs you left behind in wars
Between best friends, love comes in time

It's all we can do to admire
Past selves for bravery
How we begun, no coming undone
Arise for the sake of one and all

It's ok to want to walk in
Knock on the door
Ask to come in, for love takes the floor
Knowing the will is never found

S.O.S

Seeker of sparkly things
Eyes always searching crowd
For glittery glimpse
Of small city familiarity

Search and found
Ache of longing rescued
No shame in admiration
A bouquet of floral, gemstone and jewellery

Hands shoved in pockets
To stop their dance moves
Body chimes in, swaying back and forth
Rocking to classic sound of heart's beat

Eyes and ears glued to lips and voice
Ebb and flow of sound
Storyteller sighs for a while
Relieved loyal receiver of sparkly tales.

Two loves

There was a story of
Two loves
One a great surveyor of landscapes
Who beheld the ocean and firmament
Over tea, toast and morning paper
But obscured from mountain view

The other a lover of all things nautical
Who beheld gondwanan mountain
From a glimpse of kitchen window
Ridgelines ridden by mountain bikers
From the bedroom

Each obscured from the one thing they loved
So it was between them too

Happy inhabitant

Incessant is the word for it.
Thoughts come in such a way
Made a home in vacant spaces in the brain
Places erased when lifelong memories stormed out the door
Happy inhabitant an apparition now skips across the floors
Prepares coffee in my kitchen
Sits beside each morn
Far from me to give a cold shoulder - she is neither warm nor cold
A presence embraced for fear emptiness consumes the light of morn
Night shadow photography

Let me be

Let me be the furry friend
That shares the end of bed
Or maybe shiny shell
Old fossil on your shelf
A favoured recipe
All smudged and stained with beer
Or how 'bout a deciduous bush
That flowers a month a year
A portrait of a woman
Whose eyes stare far beyond
A tarnished penny on the sill
You plucked from Nan's old pond
Whatever dear, I beg of you
I'd rather be a thing
Than considered a potential
Love, nigh despised by all who hear.