First time I kissed you By accident, on cheek I whispered, "see you soon" Ablaze, I stepped onto river's edge - once where we met - Time and again To cool my thoughts.
Last time we hugged It was all you A friendly pat around broad shoulders As I stooped down Like a medal winner Empty handed
I could not throw my arms around . It was orchestrated by another .. my arms were loaded with jackets and books wrapped in cotton ... I knew it would be the last.
Since then, how carefully the silence is conducted through an orchestra of friends.
While I write lyrics to music I can only imagine.
Iron Pot Lighthouse, Cape Blessington, Bruny Island in the distance.
Blossoms burst on piles of rubble Pushed aside building highways through suburbia They catch the afternoon sun A showy illumination of pink hits your eyes as you drive towards bleak horizon.
That's what it's like to meet her It captivates immediately Exclaim The blossoms are out! Sit in wonder as to whether Fruit might be produced From the meddling of bees upon flower What kind?
I still wonder Was it too early, then, to produce anything? In the life of our young tree Did the bees delay? Did the wind invade and blow soft petals away? Or is the display merely decorative? Beauty is a keeper. Four years on, I should surely wonder.
I collected all the fallen limbs and driftwood memories.
Looking into your eyes, examining your face the details of every freckle on your arm, the shape of your ear your smile and lips.
To make driftwood art and admire it all day.
Some days, the hard ones It feels like some unknown people piled all our memories up and set it alight.
Warmed themselves by the fire of the passing night of memories that never happened.
It fuels my sadness, a touch of resentment.
Who are these well meaning people, perhaps cold, they were, who had to warm themselves by the fire of us to feel alive.
Who threw in a pinecone of ‘what if’, or ‘why would you’ that sputtered and sparked in the flame.
I know all the things that they say.
I spend my days willing the life out of me, as alone as one can be.
So these humans, whom I do not envy, the ones who are alone like me, can know all the kindness that resides within. As one who knows what alone really means.
How can one treasure Empty rooms, plates, faces? We prefer them filled. Yet attune space with nothingness. It is teeming with invisible life. Things we don't see nor understand. We require something to magnify it.
How well we occupy Vast spaces of ocean crescent moon beaches Even the desert is densely populated. With hardiest plants and creatures. Content in their remote obscurity.
Venture into spaces as yet unknown. Capture its essence like tintype. Still, it seems, though ponderous. Hushed waves from afar burst onto shore. Roaring white noise as foam Between toes, tickling. Wherever you go to seek space Bring it back, as a treasured poem To dwell inside for all of life.
Couples and overseas interlopers Tread, stoop or jog up Labyrinthine stairwell Overseen by rock god overlords Never impressed by one Occasional lack of breathlessness.
Many seasons of being Watched by militant mob Now I take pride in How exhausted, fire stoked Flame faced, perspirated No shame in it. I am alive. Doing what I love With those who are deserving of mine.
Notice the semblance of Heart shaped whitewash Caused by triple sets of dumping waves. Sometimes, heart-rending pain Is the way out To float away On carefree days.
More so than The breaking of bread It's the gentle tap of rain on tin roof That turns into a gale While two souls gently unfurl Tummies full of soup Grateful for gables to collect drops As hopes, fears and dreams swim in the air.
Steamy plunge of tannins Soaking in tea cups Stories waft like mist On cold winter mornings As moody songs fill the silent space between two beings.
Wild wings of wind pick up frothy tips of waves and cast them off in spray. Wow, we proclaim. Shed our outer skin to soak in deep ocean. No words needed. A watershed moment.
Shelves brimming with books A leather covered nook Lace curtain dances On morning breeze I hurriedly go to work
One day these pages Will open to me I will read aloud To my love over tea
A neighbour stops To look longingly At the morning moon Snaps it with a long lens While my blue screen eyes glow
One day I will wake By the light of the moon Lying on soft tufts of dry moss We will curl and trace the sun in morning ritual
Ginger cat curls in winter coat Around blue flowers soaking low lying sun Lush grass is mown by guinea pigs on a run New natives thrive in builder's rubble.
One day, on eve of Spring I will wade through winter garden's tailings Gather barrowloads of greens to reveal fresh ground We will chirp like birds at herbs that survived all odds. Plant companions for their year ahead.
Count the stars of heaven 