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.

 

 

what are the words for mothers’ day?

ponders myself

a day that’s already bled in
(365 times Hallmark)
to our psyches’ movement
through mountained plains

perpetual translating
of the countenanced refrains
that echo
after birth.

The depth obfuscated, unsung
fully,
we play punctiliously with undone
really
and the cardium layers hold hands
tightly
tremoring with the ache
of a thousand forms.

For nothing is what it seams
we wake from wrongly so/ewn dreams
in that cold sweat of generations
we honour with strange venerations
those undeserving.

And there’s no way to finish these lines
kaleidoscoped mystery of a child’s eyes…

 

IMG_20170515_141250_588
My beautiful mother in the 60s before she was married. Always loving on everyone. One of my biggest regrets was never recording her angelic singing voice. She won’t let me now! We’ll see…

 

Why…

the explosion?

You’re deafening my dreams,

the yelling is sewing up

sarcastic seams.

I’ve grown into pink

and warm, loving streams

of consciousness, lost

in childhood low beams.

I’ve come to cherish

a colour so rare,

it’s often disparaged

and stripped to its bare

misunderstood essence

left beating to fare

in a world that translates

kindness

as

weakness.       Care

should be taken

to hearken the voice

that speaks so much closer

to ears and hearts moist

from beatings relentless,

frustrate in defenceless,

it’s time to put value

in not kicking more ass…

(when did that get cool anyway?)

I’m so sorry, what did you say?

No need to speak louder

put your guns down instead.

Let’s speak in a whisper,

nuanced tilts of the head –

(watch those mind bullets fall out…)