A long flowing snake
Of people sauntering
Through the streets
Crowds caterpaulting
Upon signs of
Sweatshop treats
Colours and shapes
Draped upon a
Myriad of skin
Matching one another
Like a false array of kin
Heros take their stand
While the audience applauds
Criminals remanded
Even angels take a fall
Think the worst if you will
It’s your bitter pill
But think of all the
Panic when the crowd
Have their fill
I picked them all at random
Not noticing the package
I did not want the wrapping
To prevent me from partaking
The first one burst into my mouth
A liquid sweet liquor
The remnants of the cherry
Relished for a moment more
Next was slightly square and hard
But sweet all the same
The longest chew did skew my jaw
Relieved the end it came
Several more of various shapes
Tasted much the same
A smooth blend of flavour unknown
Coloured in different ways
Then the most shocking ones
A sour batch of bites
Some so nasty I spat them out
Hastily cleaned my mouth
For a box labelled favourites
I found so very few
The hard ones tiresome and long
The good ones gone too soon
One cannot be a foothold
To carry life and limb
One can barely be a handhold
Secure for you to cling
One cannot be an anchor
In a fall to take the slack
One cannot be a lifeline
When there seems no turning back
Instead a close companion
Can cheer us on in love
But surely as the day is long
Shall share the view above
It needn’t come as a surprise
The number of people who engage
In some illicit trade
At some point in their lives
Consider the timeless predicament
Of those who choose between
The lucrative path well-travelled
Or some nobler yet modest means
The expense to such persons
Is profound in due course
Decline of mere dignity
Whether or not remorse
Inevitable hostility to
Sheer corrective force
Which leads to an eventual
Incarceration or demise
Or so they say..
For Michael
Wiping crumbs off cafe tables
Scooting glasses from their deaths
Scrubbing spit off spotty faces
End of day, treasure rest
More they learn, more the chatter
Philosophy of small talk
Wonder where your mind escaped
Once I had learned to walk
Hear your voice in mind over mother
Tea sipped lips kiss mass of curls
Broken record breaks the silence
Time revolves, their lives unfurl
Chords of chaos wrap up fondly
Softened by warm blood lines
Endearing past, forbearance endless
Nagging finite-ness of time
For Andrea
“I would love to have more time with my mother…
She is part of me.” – Crown Princess Mary of Denmark
Rural fringe
Dwells common cringe
Cardboard-cutout street
Set like flint
Hinterland where
Lawn and forest meet
Cliff frontier
Carved face looks on
Ranks of timber felling
Sinking ales
Saloon servants
Stirring tales a’ telling
Piano stool swing
whisky jar fling
Rest old timey den
Battle weary
Laden pilgrim
Poised sword of pen
For Liam Hugh
“We take up task eternal, and the burden and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the past we leave behind…” -Walt Whitman
Blue cheese
Clear water
White smile
Brown earth
Pink cheeks
Bottomless cup
Unfinished plate
A kind heart
(Kathryn Dawson Photography)
So I stole one photo that you took and claimed it as mine
I thought you wouldn’t mind but it’s a small token
To repay me for the one of us she never sent
The only one, it’s printed on my mind
Us with our siamese smiles and beer glasses on
Framing us with cider pints, backed by porch lights
The spa filled with artists just out of view
Embracing the awkwardness
Even when scars heal they keep a memory that sometimes
Has a phantom ache to scratch a long lost limb
Forgive me for stealing but if I asked for copyright
To all your contributions it would go on forever
Like a colourful child’s painting smeared endlessly, carefree
All over my mind. So of course if I seek to make an imprint
There will be evidence of your fingerprints everywhere
You are there
As the road trips to reunite become few and far between
A letter to a lost limb and their children unseen
We shared a womb of birth and rebirth, love to self-destruct
I’m still the same as you used to be
Little girl image:
http://consciousnessandthebrain.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/man_in_the_mirror.jpg
Words held up
Words fall down,
Coerce, betray
Power of say
Thought into being
Divine intent
Sublime Lament
Testify, lie
Rhyme, rap,
float on high
Pervade dreams
Persuade, pierce
Convey pain
Double-edge knife
Give and take away
Fleeting and infinite
Reprise or pray
Join and separate
Purge and convict
Restore and redeem
Dismay
Construction grey and rubble blue
Fluoro fashion, steel cap boots
Not a namesake, urban glare
Grinding metal jack-hammer blare
Plank and rail winding on
Milestones leading to no end
Nestled in a corner cave
Industrial music blend
Like a gold tooth in a cavity smile
Where tools, utensils, blades and brushes
Create a different landscape
If only imagined, constructed
Paint explodes outside its doors
Spraying over asphalt floors
Footprints of an architect
To renovate our minds
Pop up places, lounge lattes
Created art resides in spaces
Amid the mesh and metal maze
True sunshine on their faces
“But we do try to turn our backs on the fog and squarely face the sunshine.’ – Vladimir Nabokov
Links:
Sunshine Art Spaces Victoria, Australia
Photographic project, Sunshine Victoria – Brad Axiak
Count the stars of heaven 
