Morning Coffee Stop

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I wander for a while on polished tiles

and never consider slipping

or melting under the neon lights

of commodities blanket halls

I glimpse outside

and the sky tells a lie

the day should wake

but it is night-time still

a grey day consuming

the should-be summer haze

I raise my Mocha “To Death”

saving nothing for life

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sisterhood

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There is a joy of sisters

who know both the Sun and the Moon of our soul

and the constellations of our mind

Who breathe the light that radiates from our eyes

and grieve with us the death of a smile

Who know the beauty of a teardrop

falling gently on a naked shoulder

The salty sting to bind them in

an embrace only felt by sculptures

 moulded side by side

Summertime

Uncategorized

There’s an invisible barrier

separating my skin from the warm caress of this Thursday afternoon

A shield to guard the realm of my infinite body

the one inside that sometimes sneaks out to play under the summertime sun

One that kisses the molecules of water

rising unbeknownst to most men

I shyly embrace the flowers between my toes

as  though they had snuck here in a sinister manner

like the neighbour boy

through a window

trying not to be seen

My feet and hands walk the wooden stairs to my manicured garden

turning away from the freshly trimmed grass to admire the weeds

and watch I will

the wavering clouds that say goodbye with such delight

They will not rain down today

and wash away this infinite girl who glides through the day

as one glides on ice

 

Neighbourly

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There is this human predicament

that grows in a place

we believe our hearts to live

It’s that sudden impulse

to turn away

when the fear of lingering eyes

and another human’s thoughts

force us to retreat

as though we are so sure of defeat

in this war of concern

~

The myth of standing out and being seen

There’s a cat that cries but you do not comfort

because you never paid the money for it

It’s the myth of money in exchange for ownership

and so I let it cry

~

Once again I retreat inside

to the comfort of a couch

paid for with my very own fantasy

The ultimate lie, I think

is that we step on stones

afraid to move one from its place

Multi-coloured minerals made into a multitude of shapes

admired for the difference

and yet I shudder as my feet kick them

from that comfortable place called “next door neighbour’s home”

just as I shudder to pat the cat

following me down the road

Food Market

Uncategorized

Scents collapse into each other

like a tower made of butter

melting under a hot fan

A chaotic mess of multiple places

permeating the creases of my skin

so that I may taste

with every inch of my body

Every cell salivates and dances with joy

my face – an expression no human has ever seen

for it is a look unique to me

 

The Poet

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If I do not write

I will die at the Devil’s gate

waiting for him to scold me

like a child

the wooden spoon given as a gift

from one who has decided not to breathe anymore

I write as one gasps for air

after lingering under the waves for too long

wading through the ocean foam

my hands carving letters into the sand

before the tide takes them away

I long to etch them deep

so that these words will stay

a maddening dash of pure expression

along the shore of some nameless beach in Wollongong

October 1, 2017

Uncategorized

I spent the day with a river

forming in my mind

forking into different directions

the water rushing through

lacking knowledge of where to turn

and so it turned too many times to count

forming a whirlpool where one would surely drown

and so I let it out to keep my lungs clear

so that my chest could rise and fall

with the beats of this dreadful day

A familiar echo on the tv

radio

money

ratings

in a world where “selfless” people say selfless things to the cameras

about the rivers in their minds

leaving me to wonder what direction they take

and I ponder the thoughts and dreams of those

voices

now voiceless

ones I’ll never hear nor know

warm hands now ice

clothed bodies now naked on a slab

when they should be talking

and walking

warm hand in warm hand

and as my own heart beats

I feel the emptiness of a place where anger should dwell

a place that instead

houses the serenity of eyes closing softly

this molecule of acceptance for a day

we all know will come again

here

or tomorrow

in some not-so-distant land

 

 

 

 

Paper Girl

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I trace my outline onto lined paper

and glare at the creases etched unnaturally

into my face

Like someone had carved parallel roads

with a box cutter

dividing me into separate places

~

I am now a variety of destinations

Miniscule mysteries for you to unravel

And when you have figured out the first-

simply fold into me like a delicate pleat

made from some delicate designer’s hand

An innovation of needlework

and paper craft learnt in some distant land