Once again thank you for coming! And I hope you enjoy this momentary distraction please leave your comments or thoughts. They are most welcome!

Tuesday 31 January 2012

Walking to Wynyard Station

Balmy six o clock concrete and a bright shock to my chest
tastes like warm pressed
Shirt

Now go to the station
Dodge that bus avoid the cracks
Observe the freeness of the leaves
And the sensation of bitumen on leather

The sun is high
But currently I reside in the shade
Between tall old buildings
Some built for pride and others efficiency

No parking here
Narrowly dodging cars
While my sweat beads loom on the collar of my skin

Man charging down the street
Why does your hair wiggle and loop
Man with the umbrella
What madness possessed you on Such a sunny day

The Street crossing man of red stands tall resolute and he keeps us back
With no words no hand
Only custom

People bob hopping
Along to the station
Down to the clicking gate
To get a place in the end of day race
To jump on a train
To get back whatever distance and whatever way

Now sitting
At last homeward bound

In the Blackness of Tides

it has been long time since my last post. I have had problems internet wise lets just say, but now I'm back.

I visited Coffs Harbour quite recently. We have this place we always go and there's this beautiful beach called Diggers Beach. The waves when we finally popped into the surf were glorious, but soon I was alone put there. That morning I'd been stressed out of my mind...but as soon as I hit the waves I just felt happy.

It was a fascinating feeling. Last night I was searching for the same thing, but didn't find it. This poem is about that mysterious thing whatever it is that calms you and touches something inside you and well...in my opinion heals you.

In the Blackness of tides

In the blackness of tides
Lies my hand somehow
Murky and unclear
And only an inch in
Only under just-
Just under the waves

The water is green
It is mysterious and
Yet it is the single thing
Occupying my horizon

In the darkness inside
Big opaque and all-encompassing
There is no unseeing and no forgetting

The ocean is the opposite
Somehow serene and never ending

The black waves roll in my rhythm.

Wednesday 11 January 2012

Oceans Cry

Her oceans cry
has the lisp of the waves
the tips of the salt
and the starch of her hair

Those blonde whisps
Tangled and so secret
The mystery of her shape
is like the trickle of night
Silent fickle and barely seen

Tripping silently on dunes
Daring waves and water
with her naked skin
and a bright turqoise scarf
in her hands solid and gentle

her oceans cry
and bend to meet her
and hold her and smother her
Whitewash deletes sound and
breath

Her oceans cry
like lost footsteps in sand
carried away by morning.

Monday 2 January 2012

Easy

Good morn all,

Another shorty and it's pretty raw. They title is all about from the outside emotions are so easy right? It's easy to say get on with it on the outside so this poem is to all those people struggling on the inside. I know that it isn't easy whatever you are dealing with because if it was easy it wouldn't be worthwhile.

Happy new year all and thanks for staying with me into 2012 who can say what this next glorious year holds in store for us.

Easy

Emotions run rims
Circles and throw boulders
Speak don't speak
Run or fight or flee
Emotions in me run free
And trample like mustangs
Over sand strips
Curling up flakes of dirt
Till they form clouds
Suffocating smog juxtaposed
With the burning maze of
Flesh that is my heart.

Sunday 1 January 2012

Reflections on an Anatomy of the Self

People say you shouldn't start a story with action, well those people are wrong because my story does.
Life is action and death is the opposite
Death is nothing and Nothing is absence, so I'm told.
My great grand father lived well a good man making his etching over the earth, good family, solid income, home, wife and kids.
These things he possessed now I suppose the house is withered down, and the wife is gone to dust too I know I was there.
Ashes to ashes dust to dust these words represent a cycle
And what is a cycle but some fanciful sense of immortality.
Yes we shall feed the birds and the worms we will return to the earth.
Will we return will we feel the hard soles of the earth turning us over will
The worms burrow and tickle our arteries or will it sting?
The markings of a life are soft murmurs compared with the eruptions of molten rock and the cries of broken ground as fault lines crash and tsunamis and waves carve into the earth.
These are visible tangible. Perhaps you may claim the world in our head is its own tract of gullies, canyons and volcanoes.
Metaphors for the actions performed and remembered, but are these so easily discernible.
It is so necessary to transcribe it to flesh because flesh is forever.
So life is nothing if not remembered.
Actions till the day we die.
Each day though we die a bit. Each morning we wake somewhat the same but different.
Each moment we lie that before counts. Tomorrow is an eternal blank slate misunderstood more than
the good book, if indeed it should retain such a high accolade.
I started a story about a girl and so it turned into a dissection. I thought by proving something that perhaps I was flawed wrong or mistaken.
It wasn't so much what she said but what she failed to say the absence hit me. It knocked me down and broke something deep how can a thing so close be so ill effected.
We talk of rock as immalleable, but each day I walk I change it a little and the question is did I change her? Did I help her or leave anything behind?
The phrase we are an island springs to life.
Actions are independent of each other and maybe we don't truly control the outcome. I condemn gambling but when have I not gambled or some part to chance?
I said before that life is action my great grand father I'm told was like me now he is dead and his actions are past him. He is here but he is absent he has not left behind eruptions.
He has left life. In both ways it is possible to do so.
Death is absence and absence is nothing. My final wish only that there be something.