Sometimes I fear
I’ve never known you -
like a leaf might think
it knows its mother tree
from spring
to summer
to fall—
ing
into winter’s
cold, hard ground,
severed from the branches
that once nourished it.
Caught in a season
where familiarity
finds itself face to face
with formality,
and transition
resembles exile.
Maybe one day what is left of me
will sink deep enough
to find something I could never see
from the branches -
where darkness can decipher
whether I never knew you,
or whether knowing you
was never supposed to mean
I wouldn’t fall.
When time immortal has passed me by,
and under the ground I shall lie,
who will remember me?
What faithful person shall it be?
I lived a life of little note.
A few mediocre poems I wrote.
Oh life wasn't always kind.
I left precious little to remind.
Yet I feel from here to eternity,
I left room for thought, to some degree.
Some deed done with a contrite heart,
some valiant gesture in which I played a part.
I fear that my time will not be forgotten yet,
by folk I loved or even some I just met.
Will the presence of my smile, linger a while?
I set no fashion trends, never one for style.
I have always told stories, ever since my youth.
Quite often been known to embellish the truth.
I never liked to be beholden to anyone.
I was quite partial to the way I got things done.
I guess a one never really knows how much,
depth of feeling to those whose lives you touch.
Will anyone lay fresh flowers on my grave?
Is there any one in life I had the chance to save?
My body will slowly disappear.
There will be less of me from year to year.
Will my soul be here from now to eternity?
Will it linger endlessly? Will it still be me?
Coffee, that invigorating liquid
changes occur between each sip
– relish the rich taste
Life, that chronologically dimensional timeline
between here and eternity
The battle garb of the ages is in constant motion
revolutionary – a curvature of time, a drastic alteration
An immediate recognition
the poison that has accumulated within our souls
If eternity is an afterthought
something that follows the present moment
– then what is the true reality?
It is time to remember who we are
j u s t i f i c a t i o n
The sun climbs the glass-faced towers, Mist rises from ploughed paddocks.
Buses exhale diesel into the air, Fresh-turned earth lifts its dark, clean scent.
Coffee and pastries tumble into the street, Dew beads cold along the crushed grass.
My shoes kick paper from the pavement, My boots wake dust from the track.
A siren threads its needle through traffic, A kookaburra cracks the stillness.
Rain blurs the lines of the streets, Rain wakes the sharp smell of earth.
Fences divide the street from home, Fence lines loosen into distance.
At night, the city refuses darkness; At night, the stars reclaim the sky.
I look between the towers for one clear star, I look down the road for one clear light.
Jasmine veiled with jinxed jewels
Justified my own escape.
Me a genie serving a 5-year sentence
In the Disney Dungeons.
My lawyer was Tinkerbell's uncle.
Recovering alcoholic.
Not so recovering if you ask me.
But back to Jasmine.
She caused such a commotion
It gave me a way out.
The Magic Carpet was waiting for her
But found me. I hopped on.
And like some Arabian Uber
There was a man already "on board"
Named John Kay. And the rest is history.
Braving the lay of time and space, the joy,
And suffering - the flesh in throes of pain
Or highs. Lowing on floor or riding springs.
Between the sheets, we sense darkness and light.
Ebonic plague, a question forms, dare ask…
In sickness haste, we know we cannot last.
Then God appears in chiaroscuro;
In feint and faint, we blink out S O S.
What place we find when closing eyes, coin-shut.
I’m good enough? My works paved paradise?
An entity…who’s there? Fear look… I stare.
My history’s like dandelion seeds.
Wide or narrow, a path of no escape.
Eternity, in endless waves, fallout?
Some say it is in the clouds above,
is it?
Some say it is in a far off place,
is it?
Does anyone really know?
Yes, just a few,
the ones who have died and then came back.
Do we believe their stories?
Their stories may seem wild to us,
wild because we have not yet been there.
We now live the world of life,
death will come soon enough.
The question comes back to,
What Is The Distance Between Here and Eternity?
For now we can only guess at the answer,
one day we will see the answer.
autumn
crisp, bright
drifting, cooling, turning
leaf-lined days meet pale horizons
settling, quieting, deepening
still, silver
winter
the last page is gone
torn cleanly out of the book
no final words wait
the story stops mid-sentence
somewhere beyond the torn spine
endings gather there
each one wanting to be true
none can reach the door
every ending stays alive
on the lost page still in flight
perchance it escaped
slipping quietly from print
into someone's thoughts
weaving space between bookends
the story scripts the reader
There is no middle ground for girls like me,
just a thin, cracking line of who we’re allowed to be.
Too old for swings in the fading park light,
too young to be trusted out late at night.
Too grown for dolls on a bedroom shelf,
too childish to speak for ourselves.
Too pretty?
You’re begging for eyes.
Not pretty enough?
You’re no one’s prize.
Bare face?
You look unwell.
Lipstick on?
You’re cheap as hell.
No boyfriend?
No one cares.
Have one?
They count your stares.
Too loud?
Sit down.
Too quiet?
Don’t drown.
Too soft?
You’ll break apart.
Too strong?
You’re hard of heart.
Every choice wrong.
Every step watched.
Growing up girl
is losing before you’ve fought.
Attraction between us?
Admiration for you?
Devotion for one night?
Obsession for a lifetime?
Aphrodite has cursed me?
Unprecedented, this desire to love, you say?
To spend my days beside you?
To flee my desires, my very self?
I thought I was the strongest of all,
Until I quietly changed my mind.
Somewhere between then & now,
I learned how to slow down.
Not because the road changed,
But because I did.
The old frames still exist,
the ones only I remember
In the order they happened.
Funny how something can feel so true
And still belong to a place
You can never return to.
So I left the door where it was,
The memories where they were,
And myself somewhere beyond them.
I travelled far to cast my vote,
carrying the weight of life with me.
By evening, I watched the news
my country had built a mighty weapon.
Missiles, aircraft, fire
I felt proud of our strength.
Then I stepped into my garden.
The leaves still held
the morning's dew.
A flower still carried
the last light of the sun.
I watered the plants.
The sky roared.
Aircraft crossed it like birds,
but instead of flowers,
they dropped death.
My garden turned red.
One white flower remained,
a single drop of blood
resting on its petal.
I looked at the sky.
Who won the war?
Who lost it?
The sky stayed silent.
The earth answered in blood.
I gave my vote for my country,
and felt proud of its strength.
But when will we win
the greatest war of all
the war for a world
where a child's white flower
never carries the stain of blood?
Morning drifts through the room, its softness laying on everything.
Objects hold their breath, waiting for names that never fully arrive.
In the quiet between things, incompleteness becomes its own kind of grace.
On starry, moonlit nights
Or those pitch black ...
These are the roads ...
I drive forth and back
My tailights and headlights
Go rolling through the mist,
Scattering newly dead leaves
With a turn of my wrist
Fenders ruffle the wildflowers
That grow high by summer's end,
Brushing them with wind ...
As I go sailing 'round the bend
The fog through my fingers flows
Cool, damp almost eerie to feel,
Sends a shiver along my bones
With one hand on the wheel
Time, it disappears out here
Old songs on the radio,
All around spin tones of gray
Driving as fast as she can go
Between midnight and morning
A lonesome hour for some,
Here you'll find an empty seat
If another soul wants to come.
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