Facing Truth. Facing You

Poetry

So many words caught within
Twisting through the turbine that is conscious, concise thought.
Yet trapped.
Standing in an orderly chaos queue,
beating arrhythmically in protest,
as purposeful thought sidelines creativity;
opening a path for emotion,
allowing only the presence of ‘smile.’.
For without words, ‘joy’ quails before basic focus, leaving unconscious action to enact.
Happiness in conversation.
Concern in perceived absence.
Contented, simple thought.
Sorrow at distance.
Shyness when facing truth, when facing you.

Beholden

Photos, Poetry

Between 50,000 words and 20...,there came a need to venture far.---Sea side to wanderwhere tide, high doth stridehence, now cast away, low.Left behind are its tormentsand this day in shadow,twas hither and thither -by the tide's ride, a metre -where I cast forth my gaze.Here, rock pools unsulliedby the denizens of the cleft -nay, the sandstone wasstripped bareof all but the lifeless.Bones of the land, grindingtheir will in the sand.Now I come, to observeto wonder at creationfor I, caught in wordsam beholden by rock.To see the cosmos of shadeslaid down correct to an agenow wrought and tornby the whim of the sea.To witness the happeningthat beckons to the heart of all -beckons to the breadth of life -in this pattern, we breathe.In this existence, where we create a lifethe patterns continue unsullied;the whim of us, no matter -Tide and stone ignore us, true.#poetry

Seaside to wander
where tide, high doth stride
hence, now cast away, low.

Left behind are its torments
and this day in shadow,
twas hither and thither –
by the tide’s ride, a metre –
where I cast forth my gaze.

Here, rock pools unsullied
by the denizens of the cleft –
nay, the sandstone was
stripped bare
of all but the lifeless.

Bones of the land, grinding
their will in the sand.
Now I come, to observe
to wonder at creation
for I, caught in words
am beholden by rock.

To see the cosmos of shades
laid down correct to an age
now wrought and torn
by the whim of the sea.
To witness the happening
that beckons to the heart of all –
beckons to the breadth of life –
in this pattern, we breathe.

In this existence,
where we create a life
the patterns continue unsullied;
the whim of us, no matter –

Tide and stone ignore us, true.

Breath Deep

Photos, Poetry

Twould that we could wakein a dream of endless twilight,shattered only by stormsEver on the horizonAs we gaze at the setting sunThe realm of evening beckons to the soulThere is peace, waitingAlways, waiting, like tomorrowFor adherents of the promiseBut who arrive instead in the nightBehind the winds of changeWhere havoc plays amokIn twilight, even havok breathes deepSeeking peace in the silenceWhile the sun slips quietly away#poetry #topendpoetry

Twould that we could wake
in a dream of endless twilight,
shattered only by storms.
Ever on the horizon.

As we gaze at the setting sun
the realm of evening
beckons to the soul
There is peace, waiting.

Always, waiting, like tomorrow
for adherents of the promise.
Who arrive instead with the night
behind the winds of change.

Where havoc plays amok –
in the twilight, even havoc breathes deep.
Seeking peace in the silence
while the sun slips quietly away.

dreaming again?

Poetry

on Instagram, I cannot see the life in your eyes
cannot be certain I am looking at you,
and not just a wax
model of you enjoying life in a far off land
in a far off time

how can I be certain that you’re alive?
do you truly exist?
I have to look you up
on facebook – thankfully, you have a profile
to be sure that you exist

that we met
that you weren’t a figment of my dreams
in a life I never lived
I don’t want to realise that you don’t exist – again

in person, I know you,
I’ve embraced the fire within you
basked in the warmth of your smile
but if I turn my back

will you vanish
back into the nothingness
you ever were

have I been talking to
hugging – myself?
am I paranoid?
am I mad?
am I still dreaming – again?

Lying Dormant

Photos, Poetry

#poetry #anxiety christmassitting amidst extended familylistening to the expanse of experienceI lay dormantin my own mind, in my own words,my life is simpleI exist in the joy of this momentI live in the smiles, the harmonythe peacefinding refuge in the breath of windblown treesI contemplate possibilitiessurviving from day to dayas moods change and joy is shutteredcompletelyattempting projects I'm not ever sure I'll finishwriting words I may never completeand seeing existence in a way I cannot translateI continuewhat else is there to do?what is there to say?

christmas
sitting amidst extended family
listening to the expanse of experience

I lay dormant

in my own mind,
in my own words,
my life is simple

I exist in the joy of this moment
I live in the smiles,
the harmony
the peace

finding refuge in the breath
of windblown trees
I contemplate possibilities

surviving from day to day
as moods change
and joy is shuttered
completely

attempting projects
I’m not ever sure I’ll finish
writing words
I may never complete

seeing existence in
a way I cannot translate
I continue

what else is there to do?
what is there to say?

Archived Slate

Poetry

Upon an absent whim, I wander
through the textual memories of 10 years past –
through the pain and progress of identity creation
and explanation discarded without context
or aware consent in a server farm
somewhen, somewhere.

In the archives
of our ‘favourite’ social media platform
I discover the confusion set to define then cloud
my recollection of Melbourne.
The loneliness and despair,
from memories thought discarded,
that has me tracing
broken days in alienation
and wondering how self-conscious the anxiety
that made solitude the default pattern
and the night-time streets my absent comfort.

Discarded, as were the friendships
living now only in this mausoleum of scattered bones
and in the meaningless shrug –
wondering what she’s doing, hoping he’s still alive.

In these memories, I find the spiral
that appeared in multitude upon my arms
describing my descent
my descent
and with the wisdom of distance
wonder whom else could track their fear of living
through their lost submissions
to this electronic
library.

Who else can loan out their madness to the world?
Who else can demonstrate their current sanity with archived proof?
And wonder, should I be tempted to wipe clean this slate?

Prey

Photos, Poetry

an unknown spider.she and her kin hung waitingon a path through prickly acaciafor preyset to fly safe, beneath the gusting wind.much too large for her anticipated feastI provided safe passage for flieswhich clung in swarmsto the shade of my backfar above her patient need.but her greed?aye.I would be wary now, for the sight of such prey, such delicaciesmight yield a web set to catch the next hikerthe next kangaroocovered in fliescovered in delicious goodness.#poetry

an unknown spider.
she and her kin hung waiting
on a path through prickly acacia
for prey
set to fly safe,
beneath the gusting wind.

too large to be her anticipated feast
I provided safe passage for flies
which clung in swarms
to the shade of my back
far above her patient need.

but her greed?
aye.
I would be wary now,
for the sight of such prey, such delicacies
might yield a web set to catch the next hiker
the next kangaroo
covered in flies
covered in delicious goodness.

West Bay

Photos, Poetry

#poetry #kangarooisland Warm is the breeze that blows from the eastWarm through the heath above West BayA gusty day, set to make leather from the face and tongueCarrying the scent of tarnished foliageAnd scattered sunburnt dust.Cold was the gale out from West BayCold and terrible was the stormA shrouded night, fair to freeze the skin and bonesTold the last true tale of the Loch VennacharAs it was lost to the rocky coast.Parched is the coast around West BayPatched and scarred is the cross in the duneWindblown memories mar the coastlineWhere sandstruck shores dry saltAnd an anchor stands in for the lost.

Warm is the breeze that blows from the east
Warm through the heath above West Bay
A gusty day, set to make leather from the face and tongue
Carrying the scent of tarnished foliage
And scattered sunburnt dust.

Cold was the gale out from West Bay
Cold and terrible was the storm
A shrouded night, fair to freeze the skin and bones
Told the last true tale of the Loch Vennachar
As it was lost to the rocky coast.

Parched is the coast around West Bay
Patched and scarred is the cross in the dune
Windblown memories mar the coastline
Where sandstruck shores dry salt
And an anchor stands in for the lost.