The Woodshed

There was a green shed
tacked onto the end of the garage
at my grandparents' place.
Sometimes I would go in

and sit on the chopping block,
a big old stump of macrocarpa
that I could sit on cross-legged,
or drape myself over so I could stare

up at the corrugated tin roof
where sometimes the sun
peeked through as if it were watching
my every move. Sometimes

I stood on the block, pretending
I was a rock singer, moving hips
and holding an invisible microphone
to my lips while I sang out of tune

those old songs that played
on the radiogram. But mostly
I'd just sit and soak in the scent
of chopped wood, run fingers
over the seeping gum

and pretend that pre-winter
would last forever.

Fishing the lights

I swing my line
let it sail through the air
hook a star
and haul it in
until the sparkle
blinds reason -
darkens daydreams.
So I cut
it loose, let it free
to swim through the night
and find its home
among the other lights.


'Fishing the lights' is a phrase that caught my attention from a wonderful fishing site and its awesome members. The phrase keeps nudging me and so now and again I put pen to paper and see what happens.

When there's a chance, please say goodbye

Sometimes we get a chance
to say goodbye
to farewell a lover, or friend,
a sister or soul mate.
It is far better
than a sudden passing
where we are shocked
and have no words
to offer our own soul, or
theirs, far better
than having a limbo of silence
that stretches beyond endurance
carrying us to the open sea
where we are left to flounder
with panicked arms,
or to drown, far better
than never saying those thoughts
that make us most comfortable,
most cherished and most loved.
Take the chance,
say goodbye.

Post Processing

There is depth in the shadows
she wears, beneath her eyes
a suggestion, a possibility,
a promise.

A close companion

It's at his ear
again, the slim
silver case
he calls his 'Cell'.
If he screwed
it to his head
he'd be able to drive
without swerving,
walk without screaming
and eat without dribbling.
I wonder if he realises
that phone has him cuffed.

Halloween Horrors

A witch came yesterday,
called in not to pass the time of day
but to collect on her dues -
she received an orange ghost

in return. Not a thank you
passed her black lips,
no nod nor satisfied smile
just a slight straightening
of her back as she strutted

down the driveway,
a tightening of the bend
of her hat
and a two feet clap
when she loaded her loot
into the car.

Retaining Images

I glimpsed Your gift today, a sparrow
splashed, played, pounded
and bounced in a dirty puddle.
I looked for the camera,
realised my eyes
would have to capture
the bird's wings
scattering droplets,
and my pen, the words
to roll the film.

a habit i broke years ago...


Cigarette

I remember your taste,
the inhale
that curled smoke
deep into my lungs,
the thrill of holding you
between my fingers,
thumb resting lightly
on a filter yellowed
by the taint of tar.
I remember too
the incessant pangs
of coffee breaks
and your marked absence.

Spirit of Khan, RIP

The wind mourns your loss
as do I. I hear the wolves
call your passing, a shaman
given to caring, to cleansing
and healing broken spirits.
Your loving thoughts
passed beyond all walls
broke your own barriers,
belittled your own needs.
I am glad you found peace,
quiet and peace,
that you reaffirmed
your beliefs and left
in comfort. Rest
now friend, know
your legacy of caring
will continue.

For the child born an angel

Maybe once in a while
an angel is born, a child
who will turn the disheartened,
who will rearrange the thoughts
of a non-believer,
who will bend their little piece
of the world
to rights again.

I walk my garden
and see your hopeful eyes
staring back through raindops
on petals. You are beautiful,
unforgettable and graceful
and though things seem topsy turvy
there is one who has a greater need
for you. He will take you
under his wing,
nurture your kindness
and love, and teach you
more of your gifts. Go

to him with opened arms
and show us that in following
there is no fear,
no frightening moments,
take my strength if you have need
lead the way, and I
will follow.

Let's walk together

I hear you
in the spring wind
whipping through branches
of the olive trees,
hear your voice
and feel your hand
on my shoulder
as if you were here
waking me at dawn
messing with my dreams
nudging me to walk
with the wind, to walk
one last time with you.

Digital Camera

The history-cracks in my palm
cradle you as my eyes
peer into your square screen,
stare the length of my arm out
to a created earth. I see
blossoms and beatles,
bruised bodies and bent buildings
and sometimes there is more
colour in the tagging
than in the rainbow
in my garden.

A piece of Spring

I see his work
through the lens -
the pink in blossoms,
dangling with the weight
of raindrops,
moss crawling along the garden
seat turning brown green
and the street beyond
becoming a black snake,
slithering in silence
past my garden.

A piece of Spring

I see his work
through the lens -
the pink in blossoms,
dangling with the weight
of raindrops,
moss crawling along the garden
seat turning brown green
and the street beyond
becomes a black snake,
slithering in silence
past my garden.

Foretelling the future

I can see the sin
sitting on the shoulders
of the old, creating the cracks
in their faces. I compare
them to the young you steal,
those you take so early
in the season,
their perfection a fair glow,
an aura that crackles
its wrapping around their soul,
tell me you choose them
for another reason. I dare you
to lie, to take someone bad
and change their blackness
into white, or into the crystal
clear raindrops of the innocent
young you steal from under
my heart. I know
I shouldn't dare you, I know
that you take what you need
but still, I don't have to like it.
Call it my ignorance
and take them all.

Winter is inevitable

Tree limbs are caught
in cloud webs, pulling
the sky down to mud-
streaked earth. Winter
leaves the ground brown
and swollen like the dead
floating in murky streams
passing me by as I wait,
breath stretched
towards Spring, soles
stuck in a land
cursed and dying.

Freedom

There is dust
settling on the tv set,
I know as I've just dragged
my finger through and left
a little of my soul behind,
the part that thinks of you
and wishes the dust fairies
were dancing in sunrays
so you could watch
and while away the time
with a fantasy in a place
where dust doesn't matter
where there are no clocks
or changing seasons
where it is just
you, fairies
and freedom.

There is iron in red

I swallow iron
when I drink red.
Feel its dry blade
slip down my throat
like dandelion tea,
feel its strength
invade my body,
steal my resolve
until all I want
is you.

Pandora's Box

There are papers in this box,
a cardboard coffin
that cradles history
from days when the sun rose
and lit their lives with love,

papers that whisper the secrets
that tell the tales of deceipt,
the lies that were hidden
and only now flare into view
with clarity the stars

magnify. I bring the paper
out at night, in the hopes a misty
evening will mask the mess,
the remnants of a twisted love
that should have been muffled
at birth.

Reflect the blue

Cars travel up the road,
rain-splashed waves bow
from their tyres, clay
from the removal home
washed away into the drain.
Drains carry dirt, and slime
and history, and they take it
from the streets drag it to the sea
where it becomes but one drop
in the oceans and I wonder if the oceans
are filled with history, with lives
and death, with the dregs
of removed houses, the blood
of wounded souls. And if this is so,
why are the oceans green
and not red. At least now I know
why they reflect the blue.