I wore my longing like a coat.
Kept the sharpest words in my throat.
I leaned in close; the blues just knew,
I would let them bent notes come through.
Bare boards beckoned worn-out shoes.
Slow feet shuffled with the dues.
One heel circled, one stood still,
As the lights turned round like a windmill.
While the dye brush waited by the wall,
I heard the blank canvas start to call.
I held back each splash just enough,
To leave a white whisper, in the rough.
I let my feelings rise up halfway,
Enough to ache; then to fade away.
My heart was folded, tied up with care,
To glow with all that is left hidden there.
The blue kept curling into the white,
Like the Milky Way deep in a velvet night.
The spiral nebulae all slowly grew—
To tie-dye the sky, with an ancient hue.
The tighter the bind, the brighter the bloom.
Stars need darkness, to brighten their room.
Hold back the colour—let just enough take flight.
Raindrops can teach sunlight to shape its light.
When the last slow glow chorus ends,
Twilight mends what that daylight bends.
One lone blue spark escapes the seam,
Just far enough to light the dream.
Beyond the Wire
another day in country
we shuffled out beyond the wire
our platoon’s mission
search and destroy
the air was hot and humid
like a sauna with no relief
the jungle closed in on us
wrapping us in a green cloak
blocking out the sun
Johnson, on point, was
out in front probing
for the enemy
hoping the day
would end peacefully
we spread out
lessoning our chances
of becoming an easy target
our heavy packs weighed on us
as we humped twenty klicks
without a break
our jungle fatigues
failed to wick sweat away
from our bodies leaving
us feeling as though
a monsoon had soaked us
we reached the village
and began searching each hootch carefully
ripping up flooring looking
for the hidden enemy
when we had finished searching
we pulled our Zippos from
our pockets and lit
the dry straw that served as
the roof on each one
and watched as each one roared up
in flames like a Roman candle on July 4
our lieutenant signaled for us to
take a break and we sat among
the debris some smoking
cigarettes others smoking reefer
our day was a success
no one was
going home in a body bag
A strange thing happens as I age,
Which cannot be controlled.
I tend to focus, everywhere,
On people who are old.
Today, a doctor’s waiting room,
A check-up for my eyes,
Was filled with those so elderly,
From seats they couldn’t rise.
As names were called, they shuffled out,
(Our wait time very wrong!)
But watching them, I wondered,
Is this group where I belong?
To get there, on the bus I sat
As people moved inside,
With canes and walkers, hoping
For a seat unoccupied.
And on TV, up on the stage,
On Oscar night, I saw
The older actors missing
All their sparkle, once a draw.
When I was young, I rarely noticed
Seniors within range,
Yet now, reluctantly, I see
My view’s begun to change.
I once knew a man of promise
He came to live by me
But now he’s gone
No longer here to see
I don’t know where he went
He has just gone.
Maybe he lost all hope
Got lost in transit
An un-delivered package
Shuffled off
Prepared to be burned
In the slums
Outside the central post office
Or killed in his sleep while dreaming.
And if he’s out in the fields
Talking to the asparagus
That would be a tragedy
But that’s another story
I can’t say where’s he’s gone
I haven’t heard from him
It seems like an eternity
Eternity, I once knew that too.
My paper dog caught a cold and snuffled,
and, sad to say, his bark was muffled.
Frowzy's life was very hard -
made from a ribbon and some cards
that weren't completely shuffled.
Mary Ann had never looked so beautiful
As the church bell tolled loudly and echoed
Reverend Cooper shuffled to his pulpit
Bible in hand, staring down at the floor
She was not nervous about the big event
Her burgundy velvet dress was spotless
The lace around the collar white and soft
Her dark curly hair was tied with a burgundy bow
Her cherub face was still plump and firm
Her polished patent-leather Mary Jane’s
Were a stark contrast to her white tights
Yes, in all her 3 years, she had never looked so beautiful
From the front of the room, she looked out
Everyone was there - mom, dad,
her big brother who teased her for being a girl,
Gram and Grampy, her aunts and uncles,
even her babysitter
All there just for her.
As Reverend Cooper began speaking
Mary Ann looked down and noticed that
she looked so sweet framed by the
off-white padding of her coffin.
We stood in a circle
And followed along
With the teacher’s instructions.
(I got a few wrong.)
As we tapped and we shuffled,
The mirror revealed
Our successes and failures,
With nothing concealed.
When the music was added,
We got to pretend
We were up on a stage,
But you’d have to suspend
Disbelief for a few of us,
‘Specially me,
For my skills aren’t expert
To any degree.
Yet the melody moved us
And all of us found
Such delight in the tapping
And joy in the sound.
A a cultivator you hope he might just listen.?
A man who knows how valuble time is'
When other cockys, take the mission
Just to show the wofkings.' Look mate.)
They are not asking..You to just agree.!
They know as do I the, land lie planned
And its where, you never want to go ya'see? Look up (agenda 2030) and think
Of the Burma campaign.' The blood and
Sweat, of your protectors, fighting in swamp and gunshots rain.' Some made it
Back to keep a farm.' Yet others never did.! Though you; enjoyed such freedom
That card, now under the deck is being slid.' And the death card is being shuffled'
In the bush city..? Why not check out the
Game.' Break out some..Bickys and tea
Old mate.? And your? Or our? Cockys, will
Make the any confab; real plain.'
So I went to the quack on a Wednesday
He said that they'd found something wrong
He said there's this thing called a prostate
And mine well its just not on song
The best thing to do with a Prostate
Is just take the Bugger away
So that's why i'm sat in my garden
With six holes in my belly today
They cut and they scraped and they prodded
And shuffled my insides about
Till the bits on the left were all righted
And the right bits were turned inside out
So now I'm at home in the garden
My belly it feels a bit odd
I don't know if I should call the doctor
Or if I just call Dyno-Rod
But the best thing I know is that prostate
Is now in some hospital bin
Its not in my guts spreading Cancer
Like it would if they left the thing in
In another part of the city,
Where I never ever go,
The streets were far from pretty
And much worse that you might know.
The poverty was glaring,
The folks down at their heels
And, although I wasn’t staring,
They were burdened by ordeals.
Some were sprawled out in the gutters;
Others shuffled slowly by.
Though I couldn’t hear their mutters,
I could see the reasons why.
From my neighborhood, two miles
Is the distance, I would say,
Which holds separate all their trials
And keeps fear of that at bay.
The deck can be shuffled,
resulting in a new order,
but we all are still
just placeholders.
This one now another one then,
all taking the role
that is given to them.
People move on,
but the slots stay the same,
and as always
they will be filled again.
It can take ages or just a few weeks,
but this will always continue
no matter how you shriek.
If this reality makes you feel unease,
then ponder it more
and you will be pleased.
Because the slots you have been dealt
cannot be changed,
but the placeholder you receive
is always arranged.
simple chords holding her music together in the form of a forgotten book
the cover hanging off. tied on by determination and love of music
simple cords, her grandmother used to say, make it easy to listen to
she was a patient loving woman who mastered a piano in every showroom
the torch had been passed, and Sophie was now the family maestro
all musical ability had bypassed her mother and her siblings
her satin ruffled dress made a crispy sound as she shuffled to the bench
the orchestra was waiting for her to take the lead.
Simple chords she whispered under her breath
feeling her grandmother next to her.
A lake surfaces between mammoth bones.
The valley once was a bowl for giant daisies.
Wind-blown swells feed now the open gills
of minnows, they are shuffled around
like silver clouds.
The fluid dance of the sunlight is rich
with the minuscule bones of long risen memories,
nowadays they are saltlicks for the deer who pass
to graze upon the dreaming waters.
Small stones on the shoreline take the form
of great forest beasts not seen since the trees
were pod bearing and leafless.
Once dinosaurs swam in these waters,
now they undulate under the mottled trout
as the ripples of an ever-ongoing language.
The table’s set, the cards are stacked,
Coffee is ready, out come the snacks.
Allana grins, that knowing look—
She’s got Phase 1 like it’s a book.
We start out slow, just laying sets,
But soon the room is full of bets:
“Will she skip me?” “Who's on Phase 3?”
The drama builds deliciously.
A run of four, a colour sweep,
Wild cards hoarded, secrets deep.
“Who shuffled this?” we all accuse,
As Allana drops—Phase 5, no shoes.
She plays with style, she plays with sass,
She’ll drop a Skip and raise her glass.
A card shark No. She’s something more:
The kind of friend worth playing for.
Phase 7 brings some minor feud—
“Reverse again? You’re kinda rude!”
But laughter trumps each petty slight,
And every hand makes hearts feel light.
By Phase 10, the end is near,
Unless she's stuck—then we all cheer.
But win or lose, it’s understood:
With Allana there, it’s always good.
So here’s to nights we won’t forget,
With rules, revenge, and no regret.
Through every deal, you make it fun—
Phase 10’s best with you, Allana.
Scott W.
The air slowly fills
with curly pungent wafts of steam
billowing up from a
hot freshly brewed cup of coffee.
Raising the baton to
conduct the dawn chorus
of bird songs and plans
mulled to begin.
I love to see and feel
the ringlet tufts of steam
getting up my nose, blurring and
opening up my eyes,
like a curtain raise,
to conduct the symphony to begin.
The trills and tweets,
chirps and cheeps,
whistles and trills,
caws and chortles,
are all entwined and garnered
in the first sips, of the first cuppa,
taken at wake of day.
The steam and songs
unspool a cotton thread of
memories and reflections,
hopes and fears,
to be weft, warped,
shuffled and shuttled,
through the loom
to weave the coming day.
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