Poetry

Tootsies and anti tribalism

I’m sorry, I can’t read

your long soliloquy

And I know this wants to rhyme

 

But it shouldn’t.
Maybe sometimes.

 

Because now my mind is

going through the racks

of the vintage store I loved, years ago.

Sparkly and kitsch

eclipsed by the pitch

black of memories in coat pockets

and the spark in eye sockets

as they held my joyous orbs

of sight.

 

(It took time and care

to find the gems there.)

 

There are many ‘clever’ souls

refining our fright,

our ear muffs on tight

as we step back in night

with our swords drawn.

 

But in this tiny blog space

there can be only one

tribe, that is.

If any at all.

 

And in case you were wondering,

it’s the human one.

I wish Tootsies still existed.
The craftsmanship was something to behold, and enjoy, and get lost in
(of varied conversations, I mean.
The clothes were rather beautiful, too).

 

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Poetry

watch me walk, sometimes running, sometimes skipping, probably some tripping…

 

I typed my thought in

to the search bar of my mind

and lo! it timed out!

~+~

My brother and I were discussing the Beatles, and I reminded him that in an interview, Paul McCartney was asked what it was like to be the best song writer in the world. He said something like, “I don’t know, ask Neil Finn!” Thus began another CH listening spree.

This song was, firstly, a Split Enz song, (1984) appropriately recorded at the end of their life as a band. Then CH re recorded it at the beginning of its life. It was a big deal (the dissolving of Split Enz) for Australia and New Zealand.

This Easter has been a time of new beginnings for my brother and me. Can you hear me smiling? And, as much as many talk about walking away from toxic relationships, or people we just don’t like, or maybe, we are just spoilt and things aren’t going the way we think they should, for me, this is about walking away from the terrible thought patterns I had developed over the years. I honestly can’t think of anyone I want to walk away from. I would much rather walk away from the bad way I have handled some things.
Here’s to new beginnings. And to wiser loving. Of others, and myself.

 

 

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Poetry

 

it’s funny isn’t it

the way we nod with our eyes

but disagree with the size

of an unspoken epiphany

and all the snips and the clips of we

trying to gather themselves up

to be examined

in the light bulb moment

that might change on the morrow

the nuances of sorrow

and the other venn diagrams

we find impossible to share

as we try to bear

the broken glass of the light bulb

in our hands

 

 

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Christian, Poetry

the aching sweetness of pierce…

in childhood.

Those tears –

crystallised
in hovered cadence,

unspoken
epiphanies’ radiance,

beyond the reckoning,
the reasoning
of fractured eyes
and thwarted whys,

bursting up through the belies,

the linguistic instant
of heartfelt cries

angelic.

(I remember seeing this on television when it was first performed. and the music wrecked me (no pun intended). I am not Catholic, but this small section was my favourite part. For those of you who practice it, God bless your Easter meditations.)

Originally posted: April 15th, 2017

(Just discovered this video no longer plays here, and likely other places. I found this one but the quality is not nearly as good, unfortunately. The snippet I loved is between 6:50 and 7:35.)

 

 

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Poetry

you are not alone

dwight

Summer stretches out

the viscous my mind’s pushing

through, enticing me,

 

to take a dive down

into the undulating

clarity telling

 

myself that it is

possible to take with me

what I know now and

 

swim without any

paraphernalia, (like

er, oxygen tanks?)

 

No, that’s not what I

mean. So I should take a breath

and when I find me

 

down there thrashing the

life I think is unique to

me in my naive

 

(but adorable)

youthfulness, I would say, “HEY!

You need to hear Dwight.

 

And wear these goggles.

(And don’t open that email.)

And trust me. I’m you.”

 

originally posted, March 21st, 2017

 

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Poetry

M.O.: if it sounds right, it must be (or, there’s always room for grace)

These rules baffle me,

makes grammar seem so grammar-

ly, while habitat

 

poetic should not

be stoic-ly honed, watch me

analysing some

 

prosetry there with

crossed toes, and spaces filling

not where they should be.

 

I’d rather splash ’round

before diving into this

language embrace of,

 

of finest syntax

enveloping me, bathing

astonish-ed-ly,

 

your words of divine

crafting, filing pieces of

your soul. Absorbing,

 

inspired, what I am

trying to say, is that my

heart has grateful eyes.

 

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Poetry

exhale

If I throw out these words, will you arrange them?

If I scour these flakes off my thoughts, will you x-ray them?

Am I lazy, or just tired? So tired

I want this pain psychosomaticly fired. You’re fired. 

It’s time to find

the coloured pencils again,

and I want those ones

with the erasers on the end.

Is that a thing?

It should be. 

 

But maybe, instead,

a soft, downy bed,

and catholicons that rhyme,

making perfect the climb

out from cellular breaths,

releasing those deaths

that long to be free.

 

(Good night ❤)

 

 

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a little fun or something, General bewilderment, Poetry

let’s try breathing

passing around

these truths like hot potatoes

coming aground

on sooths from tenured sayers,

 

this chartered territory

is predictable and free not free

 

let’s try this other fork

in the road, forestdesertWiggles songsocial media

mind map

to our lungs…

 

 

I, oh so love, that Murray is in this…

Lyrics:

Continue reading

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Fiction, Poetry

disappear

this rake isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be,

I feel your suggestions as you’re watching me

make these corrugations –

portal permutations,

at least,

they were in my dreams,

the ones

bursting from the seams

of my mind’s eye.

 

From here below periphery,

silent door’s epiphany,

you hear my eyes as you look at me…

 

one of my current ear worms. if you need a little energy boost, or a push through a portal or something…(and if this video doesn’t play for you because you don’t live in the best country on earth 😉 there is this acoustic version:)

Lyrics:

Continue reading

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Poetry, reblog

So after FFP and I figured out how to share this, because I am a bit share illiterate, and we are staring at our screens wondering where the ‘reblog’ button went…I am giving this a go…

If you are so inclined, click on this. I thought it was a gorgeous piece. And by piece, I mean the poem, as lovely as the artwork is.
LOVE it FFP!

(Also, I love that it’s not on Valentine’s Day).

 

Enigmas like this Don’t come ’round every bend: How best he be told, (In language aptly bold) Of the love, The constant LOVE I have for the storm of him? My impassions brimmed, I aim at words to tell it all, Make other love-claimers ashamed, Inadequate– Though even my claim is not Commensurate To the […]

via Alp — Fitful, Fearful, Phantasmal

ALP

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a little fun or something, General bewilderment, Poetry

title? but I’m trying to restrain myself

Life, its cruise, untils and snooze and streams of semi-consciousness,
time and ruse and bills and flus and beams of demi-righteousness,

cracks and crevices,
furtive nemesis,
falling in
deceitful fetishes,

the current, it fools
in ego pools

and just how many tsunamis can fit in here,
exactly?

I’ll be over here with my tea,
retracting
ly

 

 

im sorry

Remember this? I mean the meme. I mean, I hope you didn’t drive your truck into a tree…

 

 

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Christian, personal, Poetry

something (revisited)

I need a moment,
a moment measured only
in light years,

the oracular thread
through centuries
and non,

encaptured, enraptured
by deepest tones
geographically strata-ed,
through past and present,

eyes so gently gently replaced
with brushes archeologically
bristling with Him,

joyful in newborn
reunion

the blind man was healed
and the tenses were spilled

and millennial mysteries unravelled
into new ravelling of me.

and the blind woman was healed

 

 

originally posted 26th March, 2017
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Poetry

why don’t I get you?

Perplexed
and kneading
this air with my thoughts,

desperate
to soften
the impact from fraught-

ed years
of unconversation,
now hurling at speeds

alarming,
non sensical,
vengeful misdeeds

of mishearing.

I watch
syllables peeling,
disarrayed.

Natatorial surprise –
those little ________ can swim
in the blues of my mind…

 

This song popped up and I love how Anne-Marie covers it. I had to write something…

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