"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Monday, October 5, 2015


Immersed, surrounded by plastic,
Told over and over
To snap out of it
As if it didn't exist,
Making me sick,
Striking me like a stick,
And cracking me like a whip.

The drugs work like umbrellas,
Blotting out the sunshine,
Blown inside out in the storm,
Blasted like the shrapnel
From a land mine.

And Hamlet's soliloquy
Ruins every escape plot.
There's always another excuse,
Apologies obligatory,
An email awaited,
A phone call coming,
A random possibility
From another dimension,
And the terror and the fear
Beyond all comprehension

Always there is the guilt -
Punishment for every time
I decided what's best for me,
Penalties for another's crime,
Friendships lost
On the monocline of decline.
There's so much space for more remorse
In a mind that stretches with every regret
And files failures in display stands
So that I can never ever forget;
While achievement is consigned
To an archive where I'm blind.

How laughable are my rhymes,
So crude my boring story lines,
Read by no one but me,
Understood by even fewer.

We all need a cliché today.
If you haven’t got one – or some –
Then get one – or some –
They’ll go a long way,
So they say.
Much better than being original
Or saying something visional.

And this came to me,
Although not in a vision,
Nor by way of the voices' sounds,
Just this, and no more,
On the shark-ridden shore
Of the nevermore -
There is no reason to live
When there are no grounds
On which you want to live.

Saturday, September 19, 2015


Along a sandy grey track,
Amongst the big bad banksia men,
There are the ghosts
Of Snugglepot and Cuddlepie,
Waiting with the spirits
Of a million gumnut babies,
For another generation to read -
And to be enchanted by -
Their stories.

Above the tune
Of the songs of the sea,
With its crashes
Like cymbals' clashes,
Whipbirds crack,
And magpies answer back
With a symphony,
And then, again,
More of the ocean's tympani.

And the breeze is so fresh,
Almost wet,
Blessed by eucalyptus
That blurs out
The hinterland in blue,
And makes the lake
Into a dappled mirror,
Reflecting scans of sky
And cumulus clouds,
Promising the sweet relief
Of shade
And, then, showers in the night.

Thursday, September 17, 2015


How can you judge
A face that never smiled at you,
A mind that never thought of you,
A heart that never loved you?

Why can we never see
Our own distortions of the real,
Our own failures to learn,
Our own blessings at hands
Of proximity and chance?

How can we decide
Who is a waste of space,
Who is a coward,
Who cannot be liked
Because there's something
Not quite right?

Monday, September 14, 2015


Sharks in the surf,
Dogs' droppings on the beach,
Houses of hosts of guilty holidays
Skirting the sand hills,
Well beyond my reach,
Laughing at me
Hobbling 'round turquoise bays.

A pregnant woman
Smoking on the lawn,
Basking in the sun,
Bourbon on her breath,
Tattoo above one breast,
Jeans custom torn.
What's her quest?
Perhaps a living death.

Drunken man,
Soundscape by The Residents,
Noise at limits
Of taste and decibels,
An erect middle finger his defence,
Plus Anglo-Saxon curses that he yells.

But the sun still shines
On those bright waters,
While cool breezes fan
The hot summer’s days -
Heaven for fortunate sons and daughters -
And twilight brings a splash
Of mauve rose haze.