Drifting

Alone I drift
Through a life of change
Seeking no specific answers
Reacting only when necessary. 

The constant flow of time
Sometimes quicker
Other times painfully slow
Marks my passage. 

Sometime I drift
In thoughts
And dreams

Sometimes I drift
In simple black and white
And then in colour

Sometimes I drift
In meditation
and sometimes in confusion

Sometimes I drift
On clouds
Of ecstasy and pain

Sometimes I drift
And build
Fantastic structures

Sometimes I drift
Alone
And at peace

Sometimes I drift
In ideas
Of transcendence

Sometimes I just drift

More words

Am I a witch?
A word witch
Capable of casting
Protective spells 
To distract a troubled mind?
To make eyes smile
While faces weep.

To rip concentration
From the memory
Of a roadside accident
And highlight the colour –
The amazing colour –
Of that pedestrians hair. 

Could it be that I give freely
Or am I somehow paid by the simple act
Of writing these words,
Which distract me from
Personal demons and
Discomforting thoughts?

Could it be that my words
Are like the spray paint
Of a street artist?
Loved by some
Reviled by others,
A simple distraction to most.
 
Inside me,
Words are pleasure and pain
Joy and fear.
And the surprise is,
Those same words to you
Can create the opposite…

Move them around.
Let them settle.

Maybe then I will be paid
With a gentle smile
At the corner of your eyes. 

The last beer

In the fridge

Beside a plate

Upon which lays a pizza wedge,

Is a beer.

It’s cold right now, but it

Will soon be beside

The warm, empty bottles

On the coffee table,

I know that for sure.

The table also has room

For an ashtray and a form guide.

The TV flickers a reality program

On silent,

And the radio plays race 7

From Randwick.

It’s hot and the fan clicks

Slowly overhead.

The lid twists familiarly off the bottle,

Which has started to sweat,

In my slightly shaking hand.

One quick mouthful

Then the bottle is against my forehead.

It slips against waxy skin

That is the same colour as

My once white singlet.

Sitting down I reassure myself…

I’ll clean up tomorrow.

Frangipani

Frangipani fragrance

Hangs heady in humid air

Cotton shirts cling

Bare feet brave bubbling bitumen

Christmas Day in Australia.

on love (a List poem)

 
 
One word, more meanings.  
I love that about words.  
I love my barista 
He makes the best flat white.  
I love the colour orange. 
And the taste of orange - 
But not together with chocolate.  
I love chocolate.  
I love the way watercolour paints 
Flow together.  
I love motorcycles.  
I love my dog.  
I love crunchy peanut butter 
And Vegemite - 
But not on the same piece of toast.  
I love my colleagues - 
Some of them anyway.  
I love cheese and wine.  
I love beer and curries.  
I love the beach, 
And the desert, 
And the forest. 
I love meditation. 
I love that you are still reading this, 
thank you. 
I love the smell 
of freshly tilled soil 
and newly mown grass. 
I love birds.  
I love lists.  
I love my son. 
I am In love with my wife.  

Daydream

A gentle breeze stirs
Carrying the scent of salt,
Touching my skin seductively
I drift back into sleep
Where she visits me again,
Just out of reach,
She smells like the beach,
A mixture of salt coconut and sand
And she dances slowly
To some internal music
That only she can hear,
Sunlight glistens on damp skin
And reflects off white sand,
Too bright,
I turn my head,
The sea breeze
Lifts me from this wool-gathering 
And surrounds me once again –
In cool fragrant air,
The distant call of sea birds,
And the oceans gentle sough

No

In a bed

Or a car.

On a plane

Or a train.

In the long grass

Or a barren beach.

Against a wall

Or a kitchen table.

As long as it isn’t

Against a will.