We try to live out of constant flux.
A flat-lined life where every moment
of every day is good... and that's good.

Yesterday the wind blew,
in fury of nothing.
It just blew, and
things fell down.

Yesterday it rained,
in torment of nothing.
It just rained, and
things got wet.

But today what yesterday was,
is but a gentle breeze on cloudless day.
Mother Nature too has her moments,
and things are still again.
Really still.

Once, I saw you twice in one day.
Now, I get to wake up to you everyday.

Serendipity.

I glided through
the diaphanous breeze
with a desolate hope
that I would find my
way through the haze.

I stopped to rest,
finding solace  
in the pounding
syllables of the sea
where I could see your
glimmer in every wave.

The pessimist says, “What a crap day, we can’t do anything in this rain.”
The optimist says, “Look, there’s blue sky over there.”
The realist puts on their dancing shoes.

A young man was walking along when he came across monk who was sitting on the side of the path meditating.

The young man, curiously stopped. “You are not from here? For I know everyone in this kingdom, and everyone know who I am. My name is Narcissus, son of Cephissus, and I am King of this land. Where do you come from, and what are you doing in my kingdom?

The Buddhist monk sat silently, and continued to meditate. His eyes were closed and at his side was a banana and a pale of water.

“Did you hear me? I am Narcissus and I am King of this land. If you know me like my people do, you would know that; I am honest, I am kind, and I am loving and full of compassion. I am fair and just. I am an advocate of peace, I judge no-one, and my subjects love me. And you sir, what are you?”

The monk opened his eyes, took the banana and peeled it. He halved it and offered Narcissus the King the other half, then continued meditating without saying a word.

Narcissus ate his banana, musing at the monk who didn’t speak. Why do you not speak?” asked Narcissus. I am the King and I demand to be answered when I ask a question.”

It was deathly hot, so the monk offered Narcissus a drink from his pale of water.

“I am thirsty. I will accept your offer,” said Narcissus. He drank all that was in the ladle and helped himself to another. He stood and waited for the water in the pale to become still again. Then he pitched over and looked into it, admiring his reflection, and smiled. I am still beautiful he thought. Again he addressed the monk, asking him who he was.

The monk leant over and kissed Narcissus on the feet, and bowed to him without saying a word.

Narcissus peered down at monk, smiled, and said to himself, “strange man,” and moved on.

The monk resumed his position, smiled, and whispered to himself,
“I am nothing.”

do you really think love is easy?
that it takes no effort to keep love
to be love.

love is arguing over something small then
feeling **** about, wishing you had
better control over your tongue,
and saying sorry.

‘s not about who’s right, who’s wrong
‘s about making up,
‘s about taking the ripped out invisible chord
and plugging it back into each other.
reconnecting the love chord – not into the brain.

that day she said, “get out! i never want to see you again.”
he realised he’d’ ****** up big time for the last time.
that one more with the boys, meant the last one with her.
all she wanted was a window seat, but he gave her the aisle,
always the aisle,
the wrong aisle.
oh well.

thing is, you get another chance – at love that is.
best not look for it, clutch for it, search for it, otherwise
all you’ll find is desperation.
can’t love desperation.
you won’t even make the
plane if you fall for desperation.

love is many things, but what it’s not, is
easy.
whomever thinks it’s easy has never
found love.
they’ve found easy.

Can you hear the rustle
of leaves high up in the trees?
The wind does that.

Can you see the sparkles that
dance from the ripples on the water?
The sun and the wind does that.

Can you feel the cold of night  
that touches every inch of you
when I’m not there?
Absence does that.

Do you sense the emptiness
I feel when you’re not beside me?
I do, and you do that.

There is something so inexplicably beautiful about being broken, shattered onto the floor of darkness. Love can easily do that to you. One day your breath is taken and the next, your soul is broken.

If you were a cup made of porcelain you would need all pieces to be whole again, and the cracks would show. You wouldn’t match the rest of the set, and be discarded, thrown into the *******.

But the beauty of being human is that you get another chance. Out of the shattering you get choose which pieces you want, and the ones you don’t. The cracks may show in your eyes and on your skin, and that’s ok; there’s not another six like you.

Love the cracks in you, these are reminders that there was a time when you felt as if your soul almost died. Then, in a defining moment, you had the fight to step out from the darkness, and into your light to be whole again.

It’s in the cracks to which light enters, and ignites the soul.

Telling the one you’re with,
that you love them,
shouldn’t be saved for a
special occasion.

That’s what champagne is for.

Cotton sheets
on a winter’s night.

She entered the room,
her clothes fell to the floor.

’You’re on my side?’
‘I know,’ and
slid to my side
to let her skin
lie in the warmth
I left for her.

And then she
thanked me,
in cotton sheets.

do this they will instruct,
and you probably will.
do that they will drill into
the marrow of your bones.
get in line, stop fooling around.

and you probably will.

soon enough you’ll stand
up straight all by yourself.
worse still – spend your whole life
a puppet.

the moment you say, "**** it,
i’m reclaiming my soul.
i give myself permission
to do what I want, on my terms,"

that is the day you will
truly be free, and know how
good it feels to walk the earth,

no strings attached.

I swore to myself I’d never do it again —
fall hopelessly in love. To love is to get hurt.
I broke my arm once in three places, ******* it hurt.
It was nothing compared to a broken heart,
torn right down the middle. That type of pain seems
to never go away. Then you meet someone else, usually
when you’re not looking and you think **** man what’s happening...
it’s happening… this scary **** is happening again.

There are some things you just have no control over.

& the sky never knows what the Sun will do
in the breath of a new day,
how it will be clothed.
You too are like the sky, vast
and beautiful, full of wonder.  
There are times you may not
see the colour of the sky in you.
You may not, but everybody else can.

She rifled through me like a set of old drawers,
clothes strewn all over the bed and floor.
My eyes there
My ears there
My skin there
My lungs there
My mind there
My head there
But my heart over there
Away from the rest of me
She stomped on it as she walked out
It bled all over the carpet
And hasn’t stopped since.

He stood in the darkness, reaching for the uncapped bottle, pouring himself another. Why has she left? he thought.

Rain thrashed against the window, and for a moment he was lost in a drip that ran down the pane.

"What now," he said to himself, as he took a swig, unaware that he'd made his decision and was already half-a-bottle in.

I forgot what it’s like to be up in the clouds,
to breach the haze and see how the sky
makes the Sun feel at home.
I forgot how from my window seat
there’s a movie out there, an ocean
of difference between us that’s not
so different at all.
Today we defy gravity.
What movie will we see tomorrow?
Will it be like this, one we never tire of?
One we can watch over and over again.

Maybe this will happen, maybe that.

Maybe the day will come when we will finally arrive, and just maybe we will sit back and smile about from where we have come.

Maybe when we smile it will be at all the choices we made to do the things we did to get to where we are—here, maybe scathed, maybe *****, maybe even both, but alive.

Maybe we can take that drive we talked of, hit the road to nowhere with nothing but the Sun in our faces and the backseat over shoulders.

Maybe a random search will find that song we listened to when we talked about things we never knew about each other because we’d only just met. When it plays maybe your hand that’s on my shoulder will move and squeeze with tenderness the back of my neck because we’re stirred by the now not so random song that we listened to often way back when. And if it doesn’t play, maybe the search will reveal another. One that in years to come will be the song that will take us back to when we travelled the road to nowhere, and then we’ll have two.

Maybe when we get to nowhere we’ll be now-here, and find that beach we never knew existed and we will walk it, leave footprints in the sand and watch how they disappear in the tide as if we too never existed.

And what of that bach on the hill? Maybe that’s where we’ll hold one strap each on the bag that contains all the things we need, yours at one end and mine at the other.

Maybe we’ll sleep in the bedroom, maybe on the deck where we’ll see stars that we’ve never seen in the city because here, where it is darker, things are much brighter.

Maybe if the night is cold and the rain thrums we’ll be reminded that there is no place that we would rather be than right here, beneath the blankets, in whatever part of the bach on the hill we end up, near empty glasses just over there where we started, and not an ounce of space between us, only love.

Maybe, as the night stills, we will muse amid the silence and wonder at what tomorrow will bring or maybe we’ll turn inward and smile at what we’ve just done, and our eyes will say, “let’s never arrive.”

She rifled through me like a set of old drawers,
clothes strewn all over the bed and floor.
My eyes gouged and thrown there,
my ears pulled off and tossed there,
my skin peeled and slung there,
my head decapitated and kicked there,
my mind bent and twisted right here,
but my heart surgically removed and dumped over there,
at the foot of the door, all alone.
She stomped on it as she walked out.
It bled all over the carpet
and never looked like stopping..
------------------------------------------------------­----------
That was then.
I’ve a new set of drawers now,
beautifully laid out and boy has
she’s got killer green eyes, and the
kind of love that put me back together.

Is there such a thing as beautiful chaos?

The kind when you have no idea of where to start, where you are going, and how you will get there. You know not what it is that moves you. You just move.

I think there is such a thing. “What is normal for the spider, is chaos for the fly,” someone once wrote.

There comes a moment when you know you just have to move and trust all will be ok.  Often you will change direction, not for any particular reason, but because you can.

Better to move across the canvas of the earth leaving thunderous footprints, even if at times they form circles, than no prints at all.    

It is the child within that is this way, the child that splashes colour on a page at will, the untarnished artist whom creates beautiful chaos because they’d rather be the spider, than any kind of fly.

Beyond the trees in the clearing stood courage unclothed; always the preferred attire. Its gender, female; hence I will refer to it here as she.
 
Such femininity supressed in the webbed corners of masculine satire. To know it is to have it, to have it is to use it. Of course she recognises fear hiding in the wind that bends the trees–she too, is afraid.
 
She stands at the water’s edge, stoops to see she has no reflection, only blue sky staring back with a whisper, “Where there is no reflection there is courage.”
 
She exists in the space it takes to step from this place to the next. Courage will guide you when there is no water and if you get lost, look up,
—She is there too.