tortured poet
I sometimes am,
when all thoughts
and motions once clammed,
convulses through me;
vibrations from a soul, man,
within.

when I notice
and lean in,
words spew out;
liberating me
from deep yearning.

is it curious that we spare our souls
through poetry,
but remain closed books to our "family"?

I just had a vision;
of all of us @HelloPoetry poets
online around the world, reading and writing poetry.
What do we look like; this precious community?
Are we similar or vastly different?
Tall or small, dark or light, and handsome or indifferent?!

I would love to see, all of us from up high,
flourishing, or anguishing, in our creative drive.
May we collectively motivate one another,
as we strive, applaud as one hovers,
and empathise as one dives,
down, deep low, crash and burns, as we try.

Dear imperfect me,
You are your own, just be.
You wrestle with insecurity,
that you can't settle peacefully.
Dear imperfectly,
The way you are is how you're meant to be.

Don't close your eyes and pretend you can't see,
Cos when you do, you're missing free
dom, and the richness; vibrancy,
of what it means to be living, see!

  Dear imperfect me,
The devil wants you to be devastatingly,
lonely, to isolate yourself from me,
to run around, head cut off, me.
But dear imperfect me,
there's no such thing as superiority,
it's just what we do when we are achingly,
small inside, and out, dumb wittingly,
disconnected from reality.
Such a waste; insecurity, obligatory shame, we accept begrudgingly.

  Dear imperfect me,
Can we try something new, happily?
Can we live more peacefully,
seeing ourselves progressively?
As beauty wrapped, uniquely!
As unsentimentally evolving.

  Dear imperfectly perfect me,
You are, you are, who you're meant to be,
For now, until you're not; key!
Grab this truth wholeheartedly.

Brews and beats,
Dogs, with owners, walking the streets,
As locals taste the treats.
From farmers,
Butchers and bakers,
Tunes float above the crepe eaters.

Safe and sound,
As the night spun around.
Safe and sound,
Tucked in bed, love all around.
Safe and sound,
Your little head in the cloud.
Safe and sound,
You can dream and scream aloud.
Safe and sound,
Turn around, cos the boogie man's only in your mind.
You're safe and sound.

A wander, canter, gallop or trot,
Your body becomes one with the horse.
As new movements pulse, pain is forgot;
Nature’s beauty relieves pain from the source.

Silence replaces the busyness of life,
The trees sound out their own tune.
Animals show us how to live,
And their movement illuminates how we can thrive.

What would Barbi wear,
If she went to Church?
Would it be white?
Would it be a modern mini
skirt, or would it be a pantsuit?
Could she be the new high priestess,
or would she be relegated to the sinners
confession box to cast all cares?
Or would she be Hillsong's worship
redeemer, belting out blessed
croons to lull our sins'
anxiety-inducing tunes?
It would be a shimmering
rainbow-sequenced number
flowing with loving kindness.
Maybe Barbi could save the Church,
elevating it to a new perch.

squeals of delight
float out across the horizon
from children in the houses
nearby.

then, cries of fight
follow after they tear open
treasures, discard disappointment
feebly.

many will gather day and night
full bellies will ensue,
then ambivalent skumber,
mixed tearily.

Must we endure guilt’s futility;
To take stock of our soul’s condition and
To release all unnecessary spoil, to
Be comforted by our Maker’s redeeming love?

In each of us,
There is a wild, silky part,
Said the great poet: Mary Oliver,
Can we conspire to connect
With that part in ourselves
If we dare, maybe we’d 
Be more free and spare
Focus on what others see.

Mosquitoes
Are pesky, little blood suckers
Aren't the ones meant to be eating tonight!
They weren't on the invite list,
But alas, they crashed the party
And gave me more love bites
Than I bargained for.

They outnumbered the guests,
And at my behest, I shut the party down.
I heard ‘Pink!’ protest: “Nooo, get the party (re)started!”
So, I did spray, lavishly, a perfume of Aeroguard,
but all that did was send shards of poison
in the air and me gasping.
O mosquito, this is no ode to you,
But an antidote to the hot air, mine
and sister summer.

I spend my morning,
Sipping coffee (no surprise there),
gnawing breakfast (in bed), 
while reading poetry.
It is still.
As I scroll seeds 
Of insight from others' experiences,
Vulnerabilities and creativity.
I could be in Paris or Milan, 
Or in the Kimberleys;
I am transported with each line.
Inspiration poured into mine
soul. I feel I've lived a thousand lives
With every verse believed.
Relieved though, I'm safe at home, 
And the life I'm walking is my own.

Awkward and lanky,

not a boy and not yet a man.

Youth, litheness; potential

and yet, still teachable.

my old photographs hang
on a wooden frame, found
on the lawn of a house
whose man has no name.

do we still print photographs these days,
or just keep them on our phones?
I don't. We take them, edit them,
and make them into something we can clone.

photographs, something I prize;
the whole journey of discovery,
timings: early morn or sunset,
capturing moments of gratulatory,

but I don't take many now,
why? where has my love escaped?
do I now just capture them with my eyes?
have I hung those dreams too, where my lost hopes are draped?

every minute of every day
I keep looking
over my shoulder,
wondering if today's the day,
you're going to say
goodbye.

goodbye.
door shut, don't even try.
and as I keep chasing
down the shadow,
I lose who I am
even to try, again.

I still see you as a little girl,
With your whole life ahead.
But now, you are missing,
Becoming a statistic instead.
At not yet 14, you are out roaming the streets, 
drinking. and. only God knows what drugs you are taking,
You are somehow finding comfort there than at home, beneath your sheets. 
Come home, Coco, we are missing you,
Come home, Coco, these teen ways are not you.
I know when your mum and dad split,
It split you too.
But come home, Coco, with love
And with better choices, your true life can be found.

When I asked my mum
What she sees when she looks at me,
She gently replied: “My girl!”
Warmth filled my heart.
With those words,
Such a visceral response received.
Is that what truth and joy feel like?



Love.

he was looking at them
searching for answers
but all he could see
was their vacancy;
their eyes hollow and shallow,
he ceased.
his dreams evaporated,
and his spirit deceased.

Here I was thinking
I looked all dapper:
With my cream pants,
Cteam top with a woven stitch waver,
And my cream suit jacket.

My royal blue glasses
Shielding my eyes from the rays of the morning sun,
But a small nick to my pinky finger
Left blood stains a run…

We all walk around life
With our pains imprinted in our skin,
And sometimes clothing.
As much as we try to hide in,
Wash away impurities,
We are left stained --
With life.

I put on Jean Paul Gautier for women this morning,
but the pungent that befell on me was cut grass,
From the house next door,
freshly mowed this morning.
As I waited for my lift to work,
The smell permeated my skin
And my inner being;
A fresh start to my day!

Come,
Dip your toes in,
Delight in the silky cold
That refreshes both
Body and spirit.
Notice how your breath
Gasps, reciprocally stiflingly 
and in liberation.
Come and enjoy
The simplicity.

The scent of the garden,
Left its traces on my hands,
As I danced around pulling weeds
and disposing of them in bands.

the tears are deep,
deeper than my skin.
they come up from the deep,
fears and lost dreams from within.
the tears that come
from all the lives not taken,
the tears are cries
from all the paths mistaken.
the tears were all
the dreams I've shaken
and nothing comes from
but only depression was awakened.
but then the tears were a release
from all the sorrows brazen.

I found myself, this morning,
Participating in a ‘new’ sport.
Though timeless, reaching back to my youth.
As the days curb closer, the end of the year nears,
So do the shadows stretch out before me.
Chasing shade spots, as I pounded the pavement,
trying to hide from the sun, which was already 
shooting shards of heat and demanding her dominance.
Shade then became God’s grace revealed.

life is full of good times,
bad times and everything
that blurs the lines.

my good times vary,
overseas trips, and
my heart doing flips.

but the bad times,
they run the same script;
you aint good enough, never will be, what a trip!

now, the in-between,
seems so dull not to mean
anything, but it's mine.

my life is full
of good times,
bad times and
everything in between.

To survive?
Or thrive?
Is the goal the drive, or a means
To an end?
What end?
What's propelling you forward,
Is it social, political, economical?
Or some other reward?
You are more,
So open your eyes and explore,
Your heart... soul;
Let your spirit soar to that goal,
Higher, seek the ends of the earth for more;
Your core.

We miss take many steps, opportunities and decisions,
All throughout our day,
Shall we see them as demon disasters? Or hidden
Gems along the way?
Even today, mistakes were made,
And regrouping, re-evaluating and redirecting were essential, I’d say.
If I decide they were wrong and a waste,
I’d be in a spin, and Miss Perfectionist would get a wealthy pay.
But, if I choose, they could instead be wisdom pearls,
In which to collect and treasure where they lay.
Then I could re-take, learn and grow,
And I’d stay, not run away, enjoy and play.

Rome wasn't built in a day;
Life isn't a task to be ’completed’
Puzzles are to be enjoyed,
Complexities marvelled at,
One bite-size at a time.

As I de-program to reprogram,
The big picture held
Open-handed, eyes wide, spirit ready, mouth agape to wield
The mysteries deposited, and
The rich tapestry revealed.

As I wake up, the reality sets in.
I want to close my eyes and, hide from the fear within.
Life is a struggle of continually believing,
It’s easy to give up, but in You, I am anchoring!

I have a go, but look to others to affirm.
I am unsure about this world, naivety burns within.
I still have hope, I cry to the Spirit to discern,
I want success, a feeling of capability I yearn.

It is the season of play,
So, this heavy burden with you away!
It’s time to dream and let my inner voice have its say,
It’s the time for discovery, and finding my way.

The path may look well-trodden,
But no one’s walked mine in the modern.
So, don’t give up, pull yourself up from Soddom,
There’s more to life, you haven’t forgotten!

A thought just came across my mind...
What am I worrying about?!
I am alive and living,
Yes, there are threats all around,
But I am not under threat.
I am not at war or in war, causing me to sweat,
Like many civilians around the world...
MANY CIVILIANS vulnerably unfurled.
Yet a war wages within,
Daily, hourly, minute by minute.
So stop this combat zone, dim it.
Don't think,
But do. Do love;
Loving-kindness to myself and above.
And others whom I meet
to stop the violence in the street,
And the traumas falling at my feet.

an early morning riser
gets the worms.
the saying goes,
or is it more like:
worries she burns?

Quenching my thirst,
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,
I gulp (ladylike, of course)
tepid water, slowing my burst
to match the quiet calm,
I catch a glimpse of new birds
playing on the army-cut grass,
short and sharp. Need for replenishing balm!
I smile; a 90's tune comes to mind,
but with a 'fresh' take:
"my mowing [milkshake] brings
all the birds [boys] to the yard..."
La la, la la, la. Grind!

This morning I mosied,
Literally and figuratively.
A new experience, not,
But today I felt myself as this person:
A mosier!
Shuffling around my house,
Not yet ready to really rise
But hungry and praying for a surprise.
And, I s’pose I found one in this word!
A smiling Mosier am I.

****, clang, ****, the cash registers mixed with purchase bags, screaming children, and weighty wallets bleat out an all too familiar song,
We know the tune well,
Heavy debt, unhappy recipients, bloated bellies,
It’s all hard to digest,
Santa or St Nicholas, however, you connect to this festive season, how did we get it so wrong?
But it’s not all so bad when we stop and remember...
Love, connection, and grace; can we look deeper into each other’s faces, and
See the longing, step forward, and open our hearts to embrace the feeling of belonging.
It’s not a weakness, but a necessity, it’s humanity.
But while we compete with the almighty dollar, and with our eyes turned, disgusted by the revered collar,
That was meant to protect but became the perpetrator.
A source of truth, and a way to follow, taken from us,
By *******, power has corrupted and peace has shattered the illusion,
Santa and Nicholas may not have to leave the South Pole anymore, if they do, they may get the new familiar no-talent ‘****.’

You flutter your flighty, fleeting tunes,
Lift us too, beyond,
To the stars and moon.

Where do our prayers go,
When we put breath 
to our hopes and woes?
Do they float up to Heaven,
Or become a bereft flow,
never to be enlightened?

Asking faithfully so,
with lists full of prayers,
going back decades low.
Some answered joyfully,
but many more not, leaving me wondering...

So, I was feeling tired this morn,
dizzily walking headlong into a heat storm.
unable to quickly reboot,
so I put five beans in my porridge soup.
the so-called 'magic beans'
didn't have the desired effect [insert scream],
but sent me back to bed,
with my arms wrapped around my head.

The controller sits in her tower,
Blasting down commands:
Do this, and do that,
Reverberating are her demands.
How to calm her bellow? I ponder.
How did she get so loud?!
But then, sometimes it's so subliminal,
Her messages that silence the proud.
Silence is deathly, it kills life when left unchecked,
Is it peaceful or suffocating?
Is it healing or is it a tragedy?
Can I change? Or is this how she'll be for the duration?
I have hope in you oh Lord,
That you will calm the controller.
I have trust in you, oh Lord,
But I just have to let out this holler...

a bee buzzes,
a scream shrills,
a horn honks,
but silence...
silence...
Silence sounds...
it's not the absence of sound
but much more,
more than I expected
in the lows of loss.
It's like waves...
clashes of particles in the air
and tumbling together
in a rush of fusion,
movement.
Silence is not...
lack,
but an abundance,
of more...
more possibilities,
new ways of hearing,
new ways of feeling...
being...
MORE.

Clone stamps don’t exist,
Heaven's kiss only breathes originals.
But when darkness overwhelms,
It’s hard to embrace lovingly,
The slump of a body,
The shadowy figure,
The shallow intimacy it gives out,
So they are overlooked, not seen, not valued.
Commodity is an exchange price,
And if your invaluable tag has been ripped off,
Who can speak of your true value?
Back to the breath.
Recreation can commence for the adventurous,
New life with wisdom,
How ripe a red wine will that drop be?

yearnings called me back deep,
pulling me in the opposite direction.

Haste not,
Let beauty brew
and bubble,
becoming more thorough
through the rubble.

What does Snow White see,
When she looks in the mirror?
Does she like what she sees, freely?
Or does she, like me, look
With dismay, and say, 
"Oh, my skin is not as white,
As yesterday, I won't go out and play
Today, I will stay in and away,
Because people will say 'she's not so fair'."
It's not fair that weight of expectation,
and the wait for ultimate perfection.

Does loving your neighbour 
Just mean those next door?
Or those in your church community?
Or those who you adore?
It is the lost;
Homeless,
Hopeless,
Heartless,
Anyone needing more,
Here and across the world;
The global community
Be there for.

I have empty boots strewn
on my back deck.
I have empty boots still
in my cupboard
not yet walked their ordained path.
I have empty boots
and empty dreams,
not really living,
or so it seems.
Where would have those steps taken?
Who would I have been?
Where could I now be if I took those steps of my wishful making?

who knew
ten years ago
writing to process trauma
would
make my heart
and mind stronger
and open my world
to new ideas, people and order,
even make me live longer?!

It's surely made me wonder,
observe, admire and sonder
in many a world
where I'd like to yonder
and ponder
new ways to phrase
my inner yearnings
and sift out foolish fodder.

These are the best days of our lives, or
Are there better days to come?
No more sorrow, no more pain, so much more to gain,
When we trust in the rising Son,
Now, smile. Joy thrives;
Saved lives, new creations, in time with the eternal drum.

There is a
Time to learn
Time to make mistakes
Time to cry
Time to **** up
Time to make bread
Time to read
Time to love
Time to be hurt, and a
Time to hurt –
Time to apologise, and a
Time to forgive. 
Time to respond, rather than react
Time to rethink
Time to drink coffee
Time to let the dawn of new promises wash over me
Time, rebirthed and reclaimed,
The most precious commodity. 
But sometimes there's no time at all.
Oh, how we mistake its insignificance by drowning ourselves in unhealthy times.

Night hung in the heat.
Naked sleep offered no relief.
Even as morning creeps
rain tries to poke holes
in the heavy air,
but only a ‘dust devil’
is accomplished!