It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane

In my mind
hollow stars litter life on Mars;
I wonder
is that who we are?

Rage seeps soft skin
skin burnt red cheeks
burnt eyes to
night someone
dies…

It’s so dark
I want more,
do you know what lies
beyod the door?

Gazes glued
to imprisoned hues
cruelty blooms
but no one moves

blood stains taint rain
another thought in our brains
-do you really think
I’m insane?

Greens turn black, blues turn grey
-behold the greatness of today.

In my mind
tears mold to truer forms
metaphor for metamorphosis
-there is no time there is no space
but there is an end
that we’ve misplaced.

Face the truth:
it’s easier to lie,
lets resuscitate the creativity
denied.

Lose your fear for transformation,
without it there is no hope for creation;
embrace change, rearrange,
find a living reincarnation.

Where it is dark, there will be beauty.
Where it is light, there will be beauty.
The answer is there for us to take;
so wake up, realise,
find growth in your mistakes.

The Embrace of my veins and my heart
has tightened.
Arteries wrap around the red flesh
as would the vines of a ****
-around the trunk of a tree.

I feel I have become rooted
in the rotting Earth
while my branches grasp
for the impossibility
of fragmented clouds.

My empty blood travels
-in hues of violet and indigo-
through the imprisoned tree
that is my Body.

I reach both extremes
but I am never satisfied.

They hate the shadow of the bird
over the high water of the white cheek
and the conflict of light and wind
in the salon of the cold snow.

They hate the bodiless arrow,
the precise handkerchief's farewell,
the needle that keeps the pressure and the rose
in the cereal blush of the smile.

They love the blue desert,
the swaying bovine expressions,
the lying moon of the poles,
the water's curved dance at the shore.

With the science of tree trunk and street market
they fill the  clay with luminous nerves
and lewdly skate on waters and sands
tasting the bitter freshness of their millennial spit.

It's through the crackling blue,
blue without worm or a sleeping footprint,
where the ostrich eggs remain eternal
and the dancing rains wander untouched.

It's through the blue without history,
blue of a night without fear of day,
blue where the **** of the wind goes splitting
the sleepwalking camels of the empty clouds.

It's there where the torsos dream under the gluttony of grass.
There the corals soak the ink's despair,
the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails
and the space of the dance remains over the final ashes.

Whether a tear
of silver
or a ghost hidden
behind night’s pall;
she rules
every inch
of our flesh.

Cold iris of
radiating whiteness
-pure.