Sunday, February 12, 2017

The Flame-haired Boy

The flame-haired boy
lives his life like the strike
against a tinder box,
ignition of a match head -
incandescent.

He bathes in the rocket's red glare -
where and when unimportant,
just a howling flight
through darkness.

He's not afraid of an apocalypse
he dreams it - inspires it.
He is blinded in his own light -
a faux-Christ -

his salvation is a fire pit
of self-righteousness.
He thinks to save us
with the purification of fire -
but he will burn -
and all the world with him.


Monday, January 02, 2017

The Wedding


We arrived late afternoon
to witness the binding together
of this man to this woman.

Many of us didn’t know each other,
but a few speeches, silly games, and wines later
we were establishing a cheerful gang mentality.

After dinner, speeches, and the cutting of the cake
we strayed out through the night to write of love
with sparklers’ fire against the darkness,


and went home with pocketsful of stars
and tiny porcelain love birds.


Saturday, February 27, 2016

Insomniata

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

Kaka



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

Closure

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.

sugar

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.