…and the plot thickens

…and the plot thickens

as I’m wondering
which mask you’ll be wearing today
and around which frame
will we play?
the one out in the lounge on display?
or the one on the bedroom side cabinet
for no other eyes than the safe.
For no other eyes than the safe.
And I’m wondering which words
you’ll be conversing today
and around which notes
will you play?
the ones that sit in the heart and cry at dismay
or the ones that linger round the back corridors
where no one is safe.
No one is safe.

Untitled

Untitled

Momentos
are dog-eared in the diary
like souvenirs
of yesterday’s memories.
I’m thinking too much
into a deserted coffee cup
and the day hasn’t even
reached seven a.m.
yep, it’s off to Mind Town again.
Never a welcoming town
with no border messages
saying, ‘Have a safe time’ or
‘Enjoy your stay’
- a place that manages
to swallow whole days
- a place where all the
lights are on but nobody’s home
- a place that’s hard to leave
once in.
Yep, Mind Town: I’m here but
I’ve gone again.

Haiku

Haiku

Times ticks all the while
we dance with shadows swaying
thus losing ourselves.

Winter Lion

Winter lion

Out under the sunrise
I happened to pass a winter lion on
my lawn,
and he lazed around the sharp green blades
and tiny drops of dew
knowing that the day would provide
warmth tied up in a ‘list of things to do’
which made me smile.
He followed my eyeline to the sky
and wondered.
He yawned a roar but
only to gain my attentions.
He laid beside me knowing he was safe
in my surroundings:
the winter lion and I.

Our Neighbours

Our Neighbours

The garden next door is always clean.
No loitering leaves.
No tall blades of grass amongst the short.
Even the birds bathe in the bath
gleefully – instead of our concrete pond
and the flowers, all correct in their
colour coordinating places.
I watch on as other neighbours
all tilt their faces
to the garden that is always clean.

Morning Light

Morning Light

It gently leaves night
letting go ever so carefully by the
finger tips
to expose a new dawn
and bring new hope to us all.

Revival

Revival

Raising
an arm
above
the water
for him
to hold
on to
me, was
the day
of rebirth.

Regret

Regret

Maybe when you said “sorry”
I thought I could run.
you had me out in the street,
facing cars
and screaming out my lungs.
I know now
you were hunting everyone.
Pretty precious night owl girls,
lined up one by one.

Maybe I thought I could save you.
I was wrong.
Been down that corridor,
too many times before.
I must have been faced down,
as you preyed on your own.
Pretty precious night owl girls,
lined for an encore.

My heart is breaking
I feel like I could run.
I was your daybreak
and all you wanted was the sun.
Five long years
and look what you’ve become.
A fox out hunting wild birds
out in the woods.
The woods.

Mix Tape

This is one I wrote ages ago, so enjoy.

Mix Tape

It sits in my ears,
softly speaking
playing song by song
carefully chosen
only to belong
on the immortal compilation
made only for me.

Meticulously examining
every single syllable,
word, break, beat
I pause to think
that every song could
contain a layer of deceit
created by my own doing.

I lead myself
around your chosen setlist,
down the trails of melody
coming across crossroads
of subtext and suggest
to myself that maybe
a tour guide
would be appropriate.

And then arrives
the secret track
hidden from your
handwritten insert.
A nameless song
waiting in the dark,
disguised as a confession

tying the other
seventeen songs together
with the conclusion
that maybe,
just maybe
you might
love me.

The Half Light & A New Tide

The Half Light

Sunrise and the belief that it would be coming the morning after is why I don’t remember. The eight years or so of continuously monotonous assisted sleep filled with numerous interruptions from your visits (note 2:30 am) haunting my bedsheets, is why I don’t remember. Night, thick with your voice exclaiming “George Harrison is dead!” is why I don’t remember. Things that you may have thought had happened between the half light and the silent sigh is why I don’t remember. The cross hanging from your neck with both eyes tight, is why I don’t remember. Birds steadfast in their song, drowning the corridors where thoughts of you happen to linger, is why I don’t remember. Years pass, dancing bewilderedly in your memories – my memories are why I remember.

A New Tide

As dawn sweeps across the red soil
we watch light race on the new tide.
The gateway to the weekend standing
solid as twenty four hours
will pass slowly, our eyes
and enter into a land of play and rest
-the long evening, and sunday best.