Saturday, February 27, 2016


Sleep, silky soft,
crept into my arms
and held me
beneath the night sun -
spun me a cocoon of dream
spiced with imaginings.

I wish I knew
how to make her stay.

Mars aint the kind of place to raise your kids -

Like a silent breath
holding for a first step,
Mars waits.

The name is an idea
of green men in saucers,
but reality is red dust
and far.

So far only the mind's eye can see
the soft, floating vistas,
excavations of canals,
and the creatures
who might dwell in them.

Saturday, September 05, 2015

The Sound of Starfall

The sound of star fall is the sound of a heart breaking
each string stretched taut with discord
until finally it snaps

a crack
like gunshot

trust crumpled
fragments scattered
in a shrapnel of dreams

blown on the south wind
piercing eardrums with a black hole
where I love you falls to silence.

Saturday, May 30, 2015


Your coloured feathers paint the sky
and lead my eye to dream
of all the things that you have seen
can see
will see.

Ancient creature,
you have lived as long as me -
plain and brown, dull and old

until you spread your wings
and share your rainbow secret
that makes the darkness sing.

Friday, February 06, 2015


The sun warms my bones to honey
sweet beneath my skin.

I dance to the music of the wind
fragrant with ryegrass and the scent of trees -

I dance in celebration at the closure
of ancient wounds.


The challenge for the poetry class
is to write about this packet of sugar,
but what can I say?

It's an example of crass American marketing
in its baby blue and white striped paper
with a 50s style American woman smiling
from the cover - very 'mom and apple pie'
like June Lockhart in Lassie

It doesn't belong here, on my colonial island.
It doesn't sing - like wind through the wires
at Windwhistle, doesn't stir and lurk the shorelines
like the two oceans that circle us
endless and tireless, waiting to engulf.

It's too much sweetness - like a buttercup
full of raindrops, from which fairies drink.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Black Sheep

It's no fun being the black sheep in the family. Everyone gets together making memories and having events and adventures, and you're always on the outside of everything.
I've never understood what it is that sets me apart from everyone else, but I've always felt as though I'm standing on the outside with my nose pressed against the glass looking in at everyone else having parties and good times, even when I'm in the room with them.

My stepmother (doesn't seem like the right term for her, but for want of a better one) passed away on Monday. Because I am disfellowshipped from my father's religion I once again find myself in the position of being a social embarrassment to him. I should be with him today, supporting him and looking after him, helping him to organise the formalities. Instead I'm sitting here at home by myself while my younger sisters do all of that stuff. I feel as though they think I should do something, but I don't know what it is they think I should do. My father will be surrounded by his church friends and none of them will  speak to me, in fact will probably leave the room if I am there.

My sisters will take care of everything, but I won't know what is going on, won't experience any of it, and feel very much like an unwanted spare wheel.

This is not entirely due to religious differences. I've always felt this way. But it certainly hasn't helped at all.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

just leave me out here in the black

Saturday, June 14, 2014

This sponge of a Google girl
soaks up the dribble
of a million minds -

How seasoned she will be
with dross and doom -
purporting to be meaningful.

A thousand times the end of days
has been foretold, retold,
and sold to simple minds.

It's so unkind
to lead them on with hope
that all the pain they feel
may soon be gone.

They have no way to do the math,
or plot their days and pain
upon a graph.

Words fall like cataracts
to blind the eyes of those
whose sight once clear
is now befouled with blight.


Footpaths are crumbling,
my feet keep stumbling.

We trawl through floods
and rivers of mud
rubble, garbage, crud.

Everything's changed, strange.

I try to stay positive,
treat it as cognitive.

I walk through the city
such a pity to be broken,
gardens choking in weeds -
breathing wreckage -
how it breeds depression.

Winter's Tale

The house is freezing,
but there's no one here
to feel the cold.

Snow spins outside the windows
every winter now - a growling white bear
planting splayed paws on the lawn.

When I was a child it was a rare thing.
Wild with excitement we would barely
scrape together a snowman.

Children are still excited
at the prospect of a frozen frolic -
a day off school maybe ...

but parents watch the weather
deepening year by year
news of tsunamis, hurricanes,
tornadoes, floods.

The ice floes of the great bear
dwindle in warming seas,
desert expands in the great
southern lands.

The signs of the end of days
are upon us.


She washes out his bowl,
clears away all his little things,
with indecent haste.
Too soon -

but she couldn't bear to see them
in the morning,
when she comes out to get breakfast
and his sweet face is missing.

His rush to talk and cuddle,
as pleased to see her as she is to see him,
gone - like the slam of the front door
in a gust of wind.

Today she plants a tree in the garden,
heavy with lace leaves and cream flowers,
pansies and polyanthus around the base.

The earth breathes in and holds
his soft, perfect shape in its dark arms.