Rivers run,
and I let them take me with them
to the ocean. 

 Poets write,
and I follow their thoughts,
for they know the way out of the darkness.

Flowers bloom,
and I sigh along, escaping for a second
 the cold hands of death.

The stars shine; they offer their light as a warm shelter
for my frightened eyes. 

Painters paint, and my invisible hands are holding 
an invisible chisel.
Only the colours can tell our
stories.

Birds fly,
and I am holding on to their
feathers; they lose them sometimes, but never on purpose. 
 
Death takes,
and I don't try to stop her from taking,
for she turns back the hands of time. And it means
my salvation.

Rolling hills beneath a low grey sky
The rippling water in the back of my eyes
Stillness hallowed, forlorn and sweet
The black sacred ground beneath my still feet

The earth is rich yet nothing here grows
The river has dried and no longer flows
The trees are bare of leaves but not fruit
An omen of something below the deep roots

Does anyone here but lost husks remain
If I stay will anything thus here be gained
Does the sun here rise or does it merely set
The twilight stretches on but cannot end yet

“Come on!”

The stepping stones
Warm your feet
When you land.
Clear, tinted blue
Flows past beneath them
Like a crystal sky.
Mischievous wind
Tickles my neck,
Blowing the hairs away.
Sweet rays settle
Like a blanket
Over my skin.

“Do you hear it now?”

Down by the Murray River,
where life swims all around;
above and beneath the surface,
in this heat, everything flows.
Beers, BBQs, budgie smugglers and babes in bikinis,
memories bobbing above ground
capturing freedom, post-pandemic and pre-celebrations.

Down by the Murray River,
watching things flow safely and soundly,
birthing new possibilities:
boyfriends, babies, businesses and brews?!
Endless possibilities abound,
prophecies realised; salvation.

Down by the Murray River,
with nature, our souls sing loudly,
simplicity is possible,
trusting and enjoying,
everything is allowed.

We are each floating, and so it is right and kind to notice and greet those floating along side us - we are each driven by the same flow to the same sea but within our own stream (some main, some minor), but all heading down and meandering, slowly slowing, unless we find resistance and find cause for rejuvenation - and of course, we do.  We all do.

“Hello, old friend.”
The lines in his face
are streams of white sand
Falling through the hourglass.
“It’s been a while.”
He says to me
But we both know
That he never left.
We walk together
On the worn path.
He holds my hand
Not in comfort,
But to drag me forward.
He’s a swift current.
He’s a companion,
Traveling by my side.
He’s an ocean,
The eternal and endless tide.

Downstream, three buckets

of mayonnaise are sailing --


along with our boat.

i eat the food of the soft and hard work
   no time is left for a god to appear
cross the river and find a path that works
   a life of effort all live with the true

of not excisting in the mind of self
   and what we call god is a bandaid that
is better than nothing as we bleed life
   out of love upon a table raza

which is true yet maleable so now
   we walk and talk the walking head maybe
not a word is true that's not thought softly in
   a moment of yells and we follow

as to the inner true unheard that
can be peaceful if we try i do not know what