More than myself

Can I create more than myself
And if I can, must I?
Is livelihood (like solitude)
About to pass me by?

At times we associate
With a view  – a sight to see
A sense of fatal curfew –
Of our own mortality

Can I build a house to share –
Must I share it once it’s built?
As accidental as a romance
That is driving by me still

Still as can be, in situ –
What situation is
Movement denies my sense of self –
Of soft and supple bliss

Where did she go –
Where is she now?
Is one’s life a curse
To spend it without paying forward –
Could anything be worse

For time will never stay at rest –
It waits for no man – sure, not I
Hasten, hustle, hurry –
Catch up!
Before I die.

I think of thought…

What do I think of thought

Or can I only feel

A touch as tender as the breeze

Or hard as bovine –

‘fore the veal

What do I think of thought

What does she think of me

As hard to the touch as a scab

Or soft and supple

Alike thee

Bereft of kindness –

Or genteel

Like an edelweiss to me

She sees the sun

And makes it real

Glistening – delights the sea

Gravitate to Earth without a force

Magic sensed and written on

Below – the park – a round-a-bout

A tree, with branches

Bark and frond

That listen to the overt mood

The cumbersome-ness of the room

They hear disorderly array

And come to right things very soon

What do I think of thought

What does she think of me

A touch so tender as my mood

So precious as the sea

Camellia

He walked amongst the many
and came across the one –
the one who made him feel
like he was walking on a cloud.

Wearing Leopard-spotted ‘happy shoes’
she was a slim little thing, five foot six at most,
wearing black, skin-tight yoga pants
that hugged her legs,
and a silky beige shirt hanging out over her hips
that showed her bare back when she bent down
to check for a book
on the shelf below her.

Her hair was black, long,
drooping over the nape of her neck
and resting half-way down
her slender back.

She rested her hands on her legs
lifted herself up from the crouching position
she’d maintained for a moment,
and as she stood up
she threw her hair over her left shoulder
and turned to face him.

When she walked her shirt slipped open at the front
to reveal her belly.
her soft, supple skin was like a baby’s bottom.
her face silky smooth, surely gentle to the touch,

She wore no make-up,
for there was no need to improve on perfection.
she had a gold stud in her lip,
but even that small admonishment
to her beauty only seemed to add to it

He felt his body changing
in ways over which he had no control.
he felt short of breath.
he was entering a place, a feeling, he was uncomfortable with.

Yet the feeling made him aware he was alive,
physically – mentally,
and able to appreciate the finer things.
he knew not whether to feel awakened and welcomed
to a brave new world
or whether he should feel aggrieved
by having been shut out of that very same world.

Had this girl awakened a sleeping spirit
or had she provided a teaser to something,
like a rainbow, that was just beyond his reach?

One girl – once. He had found his ‘camellia,’
blooming sweetly in the Spring.

busy-ness

Been busy shading under a tree while this same-sex marriage survey blows over.

But in fact I’ve been trying my hand at greeting card writing. For those writers of you out there it might go against the grain, so to speak – probably flies in the face of what ‘real’ writing is all about.

See! I’m already using cliches – “go against the grain”, “flies in the face of”.

So be it – but if you’re writing a novel you might want to ‘steer clear’ of such lazy writing.

Maybe I should keep to poetry. For the reading pleasure of some, I’ve included a piece below, entitled ‘the symphony’

 

The Symphony

…then I heard a sound

Was it a harpsichord I heard

Or a piano, played to please

Accompanied by violin

With horse’s hair to serve as strings

And cello at an octave low

Than viola in the symphony

So that the music streams and flows

And leaves them with an inner glow

That lasts through courtship –

So that – when – asked to wed

She says; “Of course –

I love you more than you could know”

As the symphony strikes up a chord.

 

 

 

 

 

Are these the words?

Are these the words I needn’t say?

You say them for me when you pray

You kneel upon a wooden floor

Sit on a bench they call a pew

And talk to those who cannot share

 

Your presence in the holy room –

Who sacrificed so you could live

And care for those who cannot give

What they receive to those they love –

 

Who treat them like a waveless shore –

They cannot see you anymore

But where they go there will be care

And one day they will see you there

 

Yet now, the congregation flows

Singing hymns we all would know

From the hymn sheet given them

 

And once done, in sight, the choir sings

A hum is heard from those ahead

Then the scriptures will be read

By the Reverend that fine day

 

And if a Bible you don’t have

No need for you to worry, so –

One will sure be given you

 

And inside that holy room

Where words are said for me through prayer

I wonder whether I could share

The sentiment being written there.

Old Sydney Town

Built from nothing but botany and earth

A harbour fore, deliverance be true.

Now the best there is, anywhere on earth

Harks of a persona harking back to you.

 

My family come from Melbourne, don’t you know?

The only one born and bred in town!

When we moved south I had no say at all –

A two-year old, in back seat, bears a frown.

 

On our return, my smile fast appeared –

Ahhh, the wattle, the humidity and sand.

A blow-up pool in our backyard of cheer

Was where you would find me and my fans.

 

As years past, Sydney grew to adulthood –

A child that had, now, come of age.

A life of love, forgiveness – yes, I could

Be that man standing on the players’ stage.

 

I sat there on the House’s stairs, watching them drink –

Vodka looked like water to the naked eye,

Donating funds for those left on the brink –

I fixed my eyes on the harbour’s night-time sky.

 

I looked from my balcony at night

And saw fireworks – New Year’s still far away –

A picture perfect backyard scene of light

That drew me nearer Southern Cross each day.

 

Old Sydney Town, I love you with my heart –

My family belong there with the Bridge.

I may move north for a brand new start

But you stay with me – in hindsight, you are it.

 

I missed you every day I was away,

Frustrated at decisiveness to move.

My mother brought me to your world to stay

And trickling water fountains would disprove

 

That Old Sydney Town left slow-coaches behind

Only one speed here – fast or you were dead

But your city’s splendour, elsewhere I couldn’t find –

Secluded beaches ‘round the foreshore’s sand I tread.

 

Under the Bridge I lay, gazing in her eyes

My hand pressed to her palm as we embraced.

Where else is there a park beneath constructed site?

Yet my main attraction was her suntanned face.

 

The caterpillar and the crane – far away

And the dust gave blue sky a dirty hue.

Please keep the beaches open – don’t betray

The places, splendid, we can all walk to.

 

Old Sydney Town, I love you now you’re grown

And the waning winter weather waits the sun.

Raise your head with pride at amalgamation’s show –

Out of many we live life as one.

Dance

Dance the dance that gives a chance

To come again before the end

Build the build that holds a choice

To feel, to fawn, via the voice

That speaks to you and speaks to me

As I look through glazed window to the sea

That trickles in reflected moon

A place I’ll tend to very soon

Before the store can empty, new

Be one of them, the very few

That sort out disorganised array

And drift so far, a world away

Before they stop and turn and come again

To touch, to tremble, now and then

‘Cos every heart beats faster still

When faced with someone that until

Just recently they never thought

The one true thing that they had sought

Would hold their hand in life’s romance

And walk the walk

And dance the dance.

The Cotton Dress

He slunked down to the ground

He saw a shadow, not his own

“Where have you been?”

She asked him with surprise.

 

“I’ve been here getting shade

From the baking morning sun.”

The park was empty

But for their huon cries.

 

“You left me,” she said, scolding him.

“You wanted time alone. Besides,

I wasn’t meant to be there

But by chance.”

 

“I’m not allowed up to your bedroom –

Remember what happened once before.

It was half past midday,

When she ended our romance…”

 

“But you left me,” she said a second time,

Forgetting what she really meant to say

Her sleeveless cotton dress

Was on her mind.

 

She flicked her brown hair past her shoulder

And tilting her head to one side

Her strap fell to her upper arm,

Beside.

 

He moved ever closer

Sitting on the grass under the tree

His eyes no longer shaded

In the sun

 

Had he ever stopped believing?

Was his mind attuned to hers?

Did he think she was, of all the girls,

The one?

 

The noonday sun was getting stronger

Than the morning ever had

They came to share the romance of a kiss

 

Not since first date memories

Parking by the lakeside in the night

Had he felt something, anything, like this.

 

May the cotton-dressed brunette

With hair waving in the breeze

Desirous, yearning, wanting him some more

 

Walk with him from the park

Their eyes set on the light, left on inside

Her apartment, near the pillow

By the window, past the door

 

He put his finger to his mouth

And told her so quietly to ‘shush’

They spoke a language known only

Ever, unto them.

 

They spoke a language, reminiscent

Of the first date they’d ever had

They were a blooming flower

Lightly watered, from the stem.

‘Prison’

Just started working 9-5 for the first time in a year. Hard to get back to the daily grind after book-writing and poetry. Here’s my take on Week 1, with a bit of satirical humour thrown in for good measure

 

‘Prison’

 

It feels just like a prison with no bars

Not being used to regimented ways

It appears like a facility for those

Who need some help re-positioning their days

 

With no card I’m unable to get in

I ring the bell and someone comes to help

It feels like something’s missing from the tree

The bird used whisper happy tunes each morn’

Now no-one whispers anything to me

 

Is it lunch-time yet? I try hard not to look

At the clock – the more I look the less it turns

Confusion has its place in that first week

How the hell, ever, will I learn?

 

I sit and think but sometimes I just sit

Do this, do that, in sequence every time

I sit and think but most times I’m amiss

A sour grape dying on the vine

 

Across the way the grapes are reaping wealth

Their beauty is the essence of the dream

I wish I could attend work by stealth

Nothing’s ever quite the way it seems.

Times they are a changin’

Well, well, well.

I was going to make this blog about emerging authors and how to make the most of your opportunities as a writer but I’ve erred in my mission. I posted a couple of poems of late and you guys seem to have enjoyed reading them so I thought, why not?

Why not keep it up? Why not post more? Why not treat you all to a little bit of what I’ve been up to of late? And I’ve been up to a few things of interest.

The second book is in manuscript form and I’ll drop in to post a few poems from it in the next few weeks. It’s been a real joy developing my poetry into something I think you’ll find to be a little more sophisticated than what you found in ‘Prism’. I’ve even taken to drawing. Faces.

And I’m here to tell you, don’t ever let anyone tell you ‘you can’t’. Can’t draw, can’t paint, can’t write. I used to think drawing was such a difficult task, but then I took a couple of lessons via my good friend Google and, lo and behold, the cartoonish drawings you find here accompanying my poetry have come from none other than yours truly.

See, it can be done. Even Van Gogh took a while to believe in himself.

Walk that extra mile if it means you’ll find belief, for it will set you free – and the world will truly be, colloquially speaking, your oyster.