stop.
no, don't stop.
go. go farther and further than you've ever been before...
don't stop,
go.

Oh, Mr Darcy,
You truly are
One of my first and longest loves.
Those dark, brooding eyes,
And sparse words did his tongue speak.
I always did hold you up as
My favourite,
But I have come to find out,
not too handsome to tempt me.

Why is it that I've tried so hard
to forget?
When I've spent so long
trying to remember.
Then, when I stop,
it all catches up with me.
You catch up with me.
I catch up with myself.
When did I lose you?
And how did I find myself in this place again?
The place of wanting to run,
Run so fast, hard and away.
From myself, from you, and from the world.
I break,
I'm shattered.
I fear all these little pieces
can't be put back together,
No matter how talented the artist is,
I'm broken.
But then I remind myself of the
Beauty in the broken places.
Breathing again, I walk on into
A new dawn,
A new day,
A new life.

Life is full
Of contradictions.
Embrace them all,
Or you will get bitter,
**** them dry
Til you are sweet!

In the heart of the secret garden,
On my morning walking track,
Kokoburras crack the darkness
And sing a love song, cajoling
Other birds to cackle back in return.

Oh hagelslag,
You are my childhood joy!
You made being Dutch in a
Anglo-Saxon world a toy;
Chocolate and sprinkles
In one, such fun.
And when you melted
I spread you thick with my thumb!

I want that feeling
that thrill;
Where my heart flutters
And my voice lifts in exultation;
a climactic shrill!
Is this fleeting?
Or is this real?
Is this my heart dreaming
Or is my desire the ideal?

I wish I could find
the first poem I wrote...

[was it on paper
or deeper, on my heart;
unblemished hope?]

Were my poems
ever melodies?
Or were they just
internal remedies
to the thick,
sick, and cut off
parts in me?

Did I write limericks,
raps, or pick-up tricks?
Were they from my inner voice
or head, just strong?

Did I ever give them air
to breathe,
like a love song?

Is this why
I am now so prolific;
I would prize that poem long,
put it in a vault to deny
constant criticism from the system...

but then let its spirit float free for all eternity.

Wanted to be seen;
Valued.
No matter what.
Pleased people to the point;
Unvalued.
Invaluable learning.

The cycle of life;
The journeys we traverse,
etched in our bodies:
tattoos of the well-lived
loved and even loathed.
That’s a full life, isn’t it?
Leaving traces of our existence.

I've walked up these hills 1,000 times
And I've walked down them just the same.
I'll walk up these hills 1,000 more
Because each morning ain't ever the same —

The sun rises, casting shadows.
Light and darkness then frame the scene.
God says each morning will be new,
Not wearing on, I sure won't ever see the same this plain.

There's beauty in the clouds,
There's beauty in the rain.
There's beauty in the morning sun
Rising again and again —

I didn't want to walk up the hill this morn…
But viewing this valley and the vista,
I'm sure as hell glad I did
To gaze upon the beauty,
With no need for a frame.

These are interesting times,
forced in-doors, distraction-free;
distilling all the fear-mongering themes,
naked and bare, illusions fall, truth is what's seen?

All the chasing’s fruitlessness revealed,
we are but flesh and bone,
could this be blessing bestowed?
Distortions, disillusions, dangers healed; all soul secrets are known?

the nook of her back
elicits sensations in me
exhilarating;
greater than a drop of espresso
or crack,
I am alive with desire, free —

but will I step forth
and meet she?

Fasten your mind on God;
Untangle the webs of my mind
As I step away from the
Webs of this world.

Feel the tension,
Even though it’s uncomfortable,
because it’s where you’ll grow!
Lean into the discomfort,
Feel the disconnect, as
That’s where new life begins!

The quintessential Aussie experience:
A meat pie with tomato sauce 
in one hand and a cold beer in the other 
At the Aussie Rules Football finals with your brother
And every man and his dog.
Cheers crooned from the crowd,
‘Carn the Lions! ‘Carn the Swanies!
“Carn the pies! ‘Carn the doggies!
Which way will it go,
No one knows.
That's the thrill, that's the chase,
That's what it means to be Aussie in case!

Cold and dark; sadness looms overhead umbrella-like,
Comforting, not.
Swallowing from within.
Yonder, the door opens and a light shines in.
Sadness flees as company beckons.

The coffee dripped
Into my mouth,
little droplets of life;
The rich, dark roast
Layered my tongue
Like velvet;
So sensual —
I could wrap it around my shoulders like
Helen’s, my Nan, foxy-red fur coat,
From the 1920’s and 30’s,
I am back there with her now —
With each drip,
And the zoot, zoot, zip
Of the trumpet
Bleating out
As dancers flapped about.

In a world of instants, waiting is foreign —
We’ve succeeded in drawing everyone together to our detriment,
That we’re never alone.
Loneliness is feared, rather than embraced,
Draw nearer to the One our heart is longing —

When we wait, we wonder and wander,
This is the place, our heart we discover.
Anxiously, we busy,
Rather than sit, reflect on the other.

We can transcend this moment in time,
Waiting seems like a block, something avoided, rather than embraced as mine.
In this space, we’re not gender or race,
But a being, alive and fine.

Quietly the unheard voice from within,
Speaks, giving you true meaning.
From here creativity is born;
New ways of seeing draws in.

Curiosity can play; dance, sing, build,
In this posture creativity is filled,
Down falls the scales from our eyes,
In this space anxiety is stilled.

When we wait we are dependent, and free,
Eyes are opened and they really see,
The cracks and flaws, the misgivings and discomfort,
But also the beauty and uniqueness; which is me.

Desire is like:
a quiet torrent in my womb,
it flows rhythmically
whenever I dare consume
an alternative universe with you.

Courage increases the force,
I dream for the day,
when I am free without remorse.

I owned the streets this morn,
like darkness owned the night.
And with each step, I owned the street
like winter owned the grass;
tight and stealth,
sleek, powerful and full of wealth,
as I walked those streets,
I reclaimed my health,
as I walked those streets,
I reclaimed my  voice,
as I walked those streets
I told MN who was in charge --
not her or any other man or woman!

Sparse cars slipped past like whispers of the fog,
their gas fumes slid into the clouds: no beginning and no end.

And Blackbirds, oh Blackbirds,
You were my lagging escort this morn,
You sat still, like frozen shadows
too cold to move and too scared to be seen.

How do we miss our call?
What's distracting us today from hearing and trusting at all?

Jealousy is but a poison's curse
that leaves you nothing
but disappointment to rehearse,
over and over; self-loathing.

winter produces
dead leaves,
that when raked
breathes
life in the soil
that creates trees
in months to come,
air in my lungs now; reprieve.

The pain of life is everywhere,
Sitting below the surface.
It’s too simple to dichotomise here,
We feel it when we don't get the kudos,

And we feel it when love is lost,
So we pull back and hide.
We notice it when our ego’s bruised most
When money on the market slides.

And how about when we text an old friend
No reply comes back, an empty smack.
We apply for a new position, career or trend,
Someone else wins and you get all the flack.

We can't escape the pain, it hits us like rain,
Over and over again we face it.
Wounded, guilty and filled with shame.
despite the pain, we say f*#k it!  And keep going.

Comparing is...
Having your eyes blinded to
The reality of who you are,
Really.
Reality is stark; it holds no glamour, but
A life well lived holds the tensions of
Reality.
Hand-in-hand the joy in the pain,
The reality that this is life,
This is what we’ve been called to live;
Loneliness in the ordinary,
Joy in the pain of the everyday.
This is life.

Strain, after strain, causing pain with no gain.
Fight it with love, patience,  
kindness. Rise again.

Yesterday,
On our way back thru Yack
We drove along 
On a bumpy and windy track
On the side of the road
Was a rundown tin shack
Where the wind blew through every crack 
We drove gently by
Trying to leave it intact
On Bells Gate Road hid that idyllic track.

The clouds look old today, grey and sagging.
They hang lifeless, bringing everything down with them.
I shiver, not with potential, but with bitterness
About the bleak foreboding that looms.

You tell us, ‘Fix your eyes on me,’
Yet, I let them wander...
To others, to socials;
To the eternal slumber —
To anything that will distract,
What is this hole in me that gnaws at
me so deep?
Fought so hard to be alive;
even in sleep* —
Lord, open my eyes,
Yes, awaken me again
from this earthly  ‘freeze’
so that I can live,
thrive and fix my eyes on thee.

It's been snowing last
Night, golden leaves of Autumn
Cover the once-green grass,
Hiding the Summer days.
Button-up, little lady,
It is time to go into hiding.

Do we all need a season,
Of hiding? Cocooning? Intimacy
With our Creator? To be remade without hesitation
A squall of geese squawks
Overhead, moving on...

With Mother Nature.

We just gathered,
out in the sun
coffee, play equipment, and water fun,
mothers, daughters, father and sons,
monkey bars were spied,
my inner child went wild
as I threw my legs up, up and over,
swinging and hanging smiles more than mild.
Why don't we do that,
more often than not?!

People say things like:
Where did that time go?
Things are moving so fast...
and it's true, and they are,
but when you're in the moment
they're not. It is only when
you look back or look in the mirror,
that you notice time has truly passed,
and you see the grey hairs;
and exclaim: "Oh, I am old now!"

life is a series of edits
and re-edits.
nothing uneditable;
perfect.
life's not over, yet
so I will allow myself
to keep editing.

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.

We were created uniquely,
We prize individuality.
Yet we cheapen it by cloning.
We strive for innovation,
Yet we sell it to China for cheaper.
We dull our senses,
So we don’t miss what really matters.

Token:
“Love your enemies!”
Until the Spirit has awoken,
Life without the invisible strings, keeping us latched to disasters
But peace is spoken.

God threw me into a pond of grief;
And I felt like I had sunk —
But, in fact, He held me,
Holds me still, in a reef of love,
Where the raw ripples reach far and wide,
And not submerged, nor sunk.

Those wavelets are forever,
Reflecting kindness, goodness and grace —

I grab them now, drawing them close,
Wrapping them around me sashaying
Garments of praise released —
I wear them proudly and from my hoarse voice
I roar and sound from this free-state,
The trumpets ; a new toot
And the fear and guilt cease.

Wander with us; there’s no right or wrong, it just is: justice.
You just are. You’re not good or bad but: daughter.
Keep walking with me, along the twists and turns of life,
We are breaking off the hurt and pain; till there is laughter.
Everything is significant; just keep walking.
Spirit break my walls down; Your blood heals every disease.
Stay with us in the present, then,
Even the difficulties will become pleasant and you will walk with ease.
There’ll be times we’ll stop: rest and we’ll chat.
We’ll tell you why those things happened,
We’ll tell you which way to turn next,
Then there’ll be no more struggle; just continuing to heal and mend.

It's okay to
be
Ok.

We’re okay,
We’re alright.
Just hold on,
I don't want to fight.
Okay, alright,
I don't want to lose you
with all this might.
We’re okay,
We’re alright.
Hold on, don't lose sight
Of what we’ve had.
Its gonna be...
Okay and alright.

In five seven five
We watch the wave reach the shore
And watch it tumble out.

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.

Poetry should  be taught —
But it's better to be tried.

Poetry can be taught;
But it's better to be lived!

Black and white was my modus operandi;
Clothes, shoes, people, thoughts and religion.
But then my perceptions became distorted in pursuit of perfection;
Trying to avoid anxiety, depression and feelings of inadequacy.
I arranged myself: straight-jacketed, restricted, a life half-lived.
My vision is clearer now, despite being doubled, optical nerves damaged and my peripheral limited;
Seeing things not as black or white, but as grey, and fragmented,
Strangely, my vision has become more enhanced, clearer, freer, and more nuanced.
Grey is not bleak but the platform,
Being present is better than being perfect.

words rattle
around in my
head
but they sing
in my
soul.

Loose curls —
found scattered throughout 
my house
DNA traces —
Declaring existence
Beyond these poems;
Manifestations.
And fleeting interactions
In tight and wide-open 
Spaces.

I am so irrevocably flawed,
That it should lead me to depression!
Perfection and not feeling worthy,
or good enough are like shards
Of broken glass, causing pain where gnawed.
But I'm reminded, of what beauty,
and reclaimed brokenness are; kintsugi,
And cry out more freely: I am flawed!
And how happier that makes me.

The trees stand, clustered behind the clouds, their trunks and branches forming streets and towers, like a city on a hill.

They part just far enough apart to reveal a hidden story—
Is that Summerland?
Is that reality or is that just a dream?

I keep looking into the distance, hoping to see You coming,
Down from the clouds,
Into the city of trees—

We are but a speck of dust,
Gold and valuable, but
Small and crushable.
Worthy of all love, and yet
Wounded we live, held.