Ride a bush track
On my motorcycle not looking back
For the freedom feel
Makes for a good deal
You look at the scenery
There’s always something to see
The corrugations bounce me around
Up and down as my back takes a pound
How I long for those youthful days
When having fun you’d say
Was just ride in the sun
Freedom was the word not out done.
© Paul Warren Poetry
that epicenter
where the tectonic plates
overlap
a breaking point
before the shift
walking the edge
that wedge between
dormant and motion t
my essence the sea floor spreading
before the thunder.
words have power
when they break our backs
with the arduous labour
of function
they are otherwise
vapid
so I stand on the precipice
fingering the corrugations of furrowed wounds
intuiting the solid you are trying to touch down on
wrestling my own shadows
the ache of my constant dangerous want
still echoing in the sound
of your heartbeat
in the thick of trying to satiate so many
and failing..
© Katherine Wyatt