This Page

A blank page is all I need to create and destroy everything

I can undo it all I can watch the page fold in on itself

I can watch the lines and symbols float over the page

And project the lives of consciousness I project into it

I can craft anything I choose on this blank canvas

I am God I have no plan only a mind and a will

To travel onto this line

And the next

I’m on fire there’s something buried deep inside

And it’s going to live forever on this page

It’s going to rise up and swell out of me

There will be waves on this page

It won’t look it, but you’ll feel the slight swell

From this stanza

Into the next and the seemingly random gap of lines

Has a certain order if you look deeper

If you can see into me

Into the thing that this is now

Because it’s something more now

You and I here together

We’ve done something here today

We’ve travelled places

We’ve created

Broken

In a world where a lot of emotions, thoughts and feelings are forbidden I think poetry is a good way to express them.

I've always felt very strongly about bullying which is inevitable once being a bullied person myself.

I think it's such an isolating experience where it's effective. The funny thing is how it does break you, there is part of you that remains fragile. Maybe it's not dangerous in the most obvious ways but it's effects are subtle and I think we just need more understanding people in the world.

Because I truly believe this stuff can resurface and you'll watch a man of 45 recede to the age of 12.

Broken

How dare you
Yes innocent you
Who whispered words
Words the girl repeats everyday
In her head
And now the girl is a woman
But it's too late you took something
From her and she's broken

How could you think
How could you prosper
While she tested the fragile lining
Of her wrist on the metal lining of torn cans
And watched it drip
So red in so pale a room
Drip drip drip

How dare you
Yes you happiness in tact
You'll never know
The thoughts and darkness
That overwhelm and consume her
You'll never know what can't be undone
You can't understand
You broke her
But you've already forgotten
She never will
How dare you

How dare she
She who has so much to offer
She dangles her life helplessly
She can't understand the feelings
That's because part of her doesn't work
It makes her raw sad and numb
All at once
The taste of iron surfacing on the tongue a young woman
Older than she deserves
Spoiled and Broken

Backyard

I'll be honest sometimes I have no idea what I'm doing when I write these poems. I know the learned ones are scowling at me right now. But I suppose what I mean is that I think the best poems are discoveries.

This poem evolved out of a few haphazard images. I just kept writing and of course some of the stuff that comes out is forced but keep going and you get to do this great thing where you essentially complete the thought.

So this poem is a complete stream of consciousness which I do not apologise for. Writing isn't always about doing something artistically brilliant for me as you know the blog and writing are first and foremost for me.

Hopefully poetry can help tap into that unimaginable millionth part of me as Milan Kundera might say :)

Backyard

Grass between my toes
Films black and white
Technicolor rose cotton
Dress

Dress fabric denim
Silk pants plays nylon
Burgundy coca cola
Veranda

Wood chisel white saw
Dust light rays of white
Hot sun between grass
Beyond the patio

This is old barrow
Sand turf dirt black
Fingers bogged nails
Down raking planting mowing
Forging holes building home

Poles yard sticks
Trampoline bounce pagola
Sunset milk Marsala
Orange zest lemonade

Wild furry grass under my feet

Pillow Talk

Pillow Talk
Not wanting to distract
From the mallet swaying
Towards the back of her head
Jackie laid low into the pillow
And breathed deep the thick
Wall of air baking the back of her
Tongue.

All there is

Stand by the window
Stand by the door
Stand by the road
Stand by the shore

Puzzle at the colours
Puzzle at the bends
Puzzle at the sounds
Puzzle at the ends

Dreamily lurking cold
Rug up feel cold
Feel shivering spikes
Feel deep down its not right
Not as it should be

Queer how afraid
Ought we be
What ought we think
At night in the darkness of the sea
Do we use it to fill us up
Keep our inside full
And our hearts cold with fear

Sit feel the jarring quality of concrete
Sit still and listen to sounds you won't understand
Sit and wander in your head and into the sky
Sit close your eyes now open them
There you are

Cry

Cry

Why do we all sit there and say its okay
Why do we all hope it's not our problem
Why do we all think feeling sorry is enough
Why do we dwell on things as it that will fix them
Why do we think we should mask the nasty but do it anyhow
Why do we stand still as our friends suffer
Why do we not care as long as we can't see the pain
Why do we make sure we never meet eshothers eyes for too long
Why do we do things we know are wrong
Why do we do it when we know it will hurt them
Why do we lie to ourselves that it's okay
Why is it so hard to help
Why is it too much to expect a helping hand
Why are we not allowed to demand kindness
Why is kindness a present and not essential
Why do we treat each other like this.

Why do we know the right but choose the easy
Why is it easier to forget and deny suffering
Why is it so easy to think about ourselves
Why is it so important to think of ourselves first
Why did we forget to trust
Why do we need to believe in something more
Why do we sacrifice people for monetary gain
Why do we compete with each other and not lend a hand
Why is personal sacrifice in vain if it's for anyone else
Why did we forget to value anything other than us
Why do I feel the need to write this
Why do I bother
Why do I cry out in pain and anger
Why do I need right now for someone to tell me I'm wrong
Why can't I just accept how things are.

The Storyteller

Scattered moments and images
Do not make for story
And yet this is our frame
Our lives are stories

So perfectly crafted
With plot holes and bias
Unreliable narrators haunt
The fly on the wall

There are no stories
Just fragments broken
And scattered through years
Some provoke tears

Shapes floating foggy in
Our internal mists are
A good place to stick truth
And stories

Writing is a labour and a bore
I'm not sure how to imagine
The empty blankness between moments

Those moments of un profound quiet reflection that remind me
What I am and what I am not
I am an animal flesh bound

Determined to be something
Inspiring I dream up things
No one has ever touched or seen
I latch onto the mists of emotions

I make it flesh
Because i think
We all still want to believe
In stories.