As sunrise and sunset,
Paints the sky in a tapestry of colours,
Autumn colours my soul in the loveliest shades.
19/8/2023

Is where the heart is
That’s what they say
It’s where one’s roots are
From where we come
It helps define us
There’s comfort
Familiarity
Sometimes
We crave it
We need it
To recenter ourselves
To remember
Who we are
We all go
Home
Where the heart is

Where moments sped on rapid wings
For love hath dwindled silly things,
Carousing special thoughts of you
In incandescent passion’s brew.

Fingertips touch, tenderly
Then soft brushed lips, especially,
That honeyed calling in your eye
Caressed the silky night to fly.

That in our fleeting, stolen kiss
Entwined both souls in raptured bliss,
But bleak this glow of lovers moon
For passion fled far, far too soon.

Both panting in the stark moonlight
Bewildered, thudding pulses, tight,
In wretched circumstance’s stand
To force our separations hand.

Confusion, stark, in dead of night
She’s gone. My moonlight quails in fright.
Leaving just a trace of scent….
And, in such, my shattered heart’s lament.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
1968 Butchers Hill, Northern Queensland

How do you
Forgive yourself
For all the
Things that
You never
Became?

As the sun sets,
I see familiar
And unfamiliar cars
Driving by

People that like me
Have highs like
No other,
And lows that
They’ll never get over.

I look out into the street
One last time
As cicadas sing their blues,
I wonder who’s truly right
Or who’s terribly wrong.

How boring it must be
To be able to wake up in
The morning and do
What you need to do.

I will dance around
My kitchen table
As dishes pile up.

I will lay on my bedroom
Floor as the laundry
Screams that it needs
To be done,

I would go into the bathroom
If it wasn’t for the person
In the mirror that despises
Me so much.

Oh but when I get that spark,
That little moment of clarity,
time stops,

I become a fraud and can’t write
Poems anymore,
But the way my hands move
Around the dishes,
How fast the laundry walks itself.

It must be perfect to live
Like this forever,
But oh, how boring.

I sit outside in 100
Degree weather
Sweating bullets
while Smoking
my first cigarette
Of the day

Even if it’s torture
I actually enjoy
How it feels

Raw and unfiltered
Just like the thoughts,
That rumble away
In the form of questions
And ****** encounters
That haven’t happened
And probably never will

I crumble under the heat,
As I sit patiently
Waiting for the noise
Of the wasp
That flies near me
To go away

So I can light
another cigarette,
And expect to forget
How love felt.