Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Searching for the Sun

I wake with the aching beauty
of the world. The sunlight shines a
sparrow's silhouette through my window ajar,
but it is gone before
the morning's melody is heard.
The fact that every thing is profound
takes nothing from the unique, singular
profundity of every moment, fragment
and splinter of our being.
The path is full of gravel.
I shovel the stones because
I like to hear them clatter.
I don't remember which way
the sun comes up.
I hunt for it in the mornings
then I just sit among the rocks
and pick at the weeds, thirsting
their way up, hoping for rain.
The weeds get their wish,
and I wade back in wet and worn
The storm clears and
I'm left
still searching for the sun.

...Of our Time

Do not mistake what is being said for what has been said,
for even though time transcends the fragments in a spasmodic puzzle,
there is weight in each word
(repeated or not)
and with each imbrication
our individual actions implicate,
we are each of us
essentially the sum of our parts.

Monday, 18 August 2014


Children sitting on the cliff edge, examining
the ebbing tide,
tossed pebbles first, then flowers.
The flowers floated;
the children sank.


with thigh-rolled jeans he had strode
out to where the sea catches its breath,
forgetting the electronical device in his pocket.

And in that wind-plucked foam, 
made a father-pose,
though no sandal'd tussock bug rolled the dunes
waving the prize of a perfect wooden pistol,
and the shore was repeatedly planed clean,
clear of all gust battered figures.

The Noise That You'll Hear...

The hollow crash of waves on sand
is behind me.
now the sun, through sand,
sears my feet callused.
from sand to stone,
from stone to grass,
and home.
My skin glows like a coal.
I can still hear the water
as sleep slowly follows.

Sequestration at Sea

My aimless heart dances atop a tide-free ocean
with no pull to bring him to shore.
I know that he does not mind being at sea
but my mind's not as sure anymore.

I can't decide if I'm more frightened at getting stranded
or that it's what I hold deep within my will.
You see, at heart I am still a buoy
who is destined to stay innocently still.

With luck, I will be led to safety by a lighthouse
and arrive at your body of land.
A life spent avoiding being on the rocks
might prevent me caressing the sand.

So I will concentrate on making my life a speck
barely seen by hostile telescopes.
I will sail as far away as I can
then drop the anchor and cut the ropes.


The spider hung grotesque
upon his palace made of string.
My palace shuts out all the light
his trembles in the wind.
The maxim goes that I am strong
and he is weak and thin.
Yet here he sits, an emperor. And I am yet to spin.


Insincerity is society's greatest hypocrisy
and I cannot stomach the illusion.
A plethora of prepared pleasantries
to choke on in calculated confusion.

So spare me the sycophantic simpering,
complimented with a soap opera smile.
Remove the mechanical masquerade that custom has made
and display your human hatred without guile.

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Estuary and the Ebbing Light

Forget my thoughts floating down the river,
let the bank pick up stray reeds and algae
like an unrestrained dog owner with boundless and bundling
love. Let there be darkness,
allow the mouth to open up and pour brackish water
into a grey pool of jagged generations.
Clasp the sky's air, wiggle your dirty toes,
splash your knees, sing to the birds, tell my thoughts
to stop swimming upstream, where they might
find the source to be furiously underwhelming.

Night Shames

Composing conversations
in my head
with the ideal conclusions
to relieve dread.
But what I can construct
within a thought
is never completely construed
the way it ought.
And so I must recompose
with blushing shame
a peripheral panicked past
penned to my name.