Tag Archives: poetry

Time will tell

Where is the laughter and joy. It’s behind a wall that cannot be torn down. That cannot be climbed over or dug under. Will I survive? Only time will tell. This too shall pass.

Where is the freedom where are the smiles. They are behind the bars that keep us apart. The bars cannot be broken cannot be moved. Will I survive? Only time will tell.

Where is the sunshine where is the rain? They are outside this box they are keeping me in. The box cannot be torn cannot be opened. Will I survive? Only time will tell

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Aging gracefully

I dont know when it first started
I’m unsure when it began
But the legs I use are not my own
They belong to a much older man.

These can’t walk fast as I used to
I’m not sure when they last ran
They complain when I climb the stairs
And grumble going down again.

The stiff knees click
And the old ankles crack
I think aging is taking over
Cause now I feel it in my back!

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Its time

Just a poem about nature.

We battle our way on these tracks we call roads, following all the other sheep going who know where to do who knows what, until we use the same tracks to take us back to get fed and rested before we all do it again. We live in concrete towers, in boxes within them, we work to earn money for the right to live there and eat processed so call food with plastic knives and forks, and spoon or shovel dessert into the gaping hole in the front of our heads. We wear coverings called clothes and shoes from people who are clever enough to get us to part with our earnings for pieces of material held together by the flimsiest of threads.

Those pesky Ibises have come around again, making a mess of our manicured lawns and concrete parks. The try to deprocess the food so they can digest what goodness if any that has been left behind. Get out! We shout. Go back to where you came from. But, they say, this is where we came from before you knocked down out trees, filled in our lakes and built airports so you can fly free like we once did.

We don’t like where this river is going. The river doesn’t like where you are going. Fill it in and it will flood. Then the people complain. Their habitats are wet. Go live on the plain says the river. This mountain is in the way, lets blow it up. But that’s not what God meant when he said to move mountains. You change the water courses, you level the mountains, you build your palaces and expect nature to comply. Its not gonna happen.

Ghost towns pop up where resources have dried. Land is reclaimed and rivers gouge out the paths they were originally intended to take. Bend with the land or it will beat you down. Bend with the land and it will feed you, shelter you and care for you like its own babies. But cross it, continue to cross it and ask for devastation. Man is not going to win this war.

It’s time. Time to reconnect with the land. Time to listen and no longer demand. Time to give back and not just take, until your back aches. It’s time to plant and to grow, then later reap the harvest that was meant for you. It’s time to let the animals run free. To allow them to frolic and just let them be. It’s time to listen to what the land needs. It’s been shouting for years, it pleads, and it bleeds.

Will we shut up and let nature have it’s say? Before it destroys us all and calls it a day. We can blow bits off it and leave it barren and bare. We up and move house to another part where the leaves still grow and the meat is plentiful, before we destroy that too and then we may know.

Oh shit, what have we done.

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How dare you!

Who are you to come disturbing the peace on winters night.
Don’t go coming around here stomping your feet and shouting loud at the trees.
Who are you to start shaking the floors and breaking the walls.
Then you cry your tears of rage when your destruction is not enough.
Hail stones fall from your icy heart,
upon us who have heard your anger and felt your wrath before.
We are still here oh mighty storm.
You have done your best but we have survived.
We know you will return with a fury, in disguise with an alias;
a new and different name.
But it’s too late you see.
We shall rise again and conquer thee.
We see through the cloak you wear,
and when the smoke has cleared,
we’ll still be here.
Run away with your tail between your legs,
grumbling as you go.
We laugh. HA!

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Poor Clown


Rain rain tumbling down

Down my neck and to the ground

Hope so much as not to drown

But it causes me to frown.


It turns trees and grass

To green from brown

And roads become wet

All over  town


Wet is the queen’s hair

And her glittering crown

Lucky she has a raincoat

Over her evening gown


At the circus there is a clown

Whose makeup is primarily brown

It made him famous

He is one of renown

But it made children want to frown

Poor clown

sad clown


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Automatic writing: sleep

I am currently doing a Master of Arts in Literature and creative writing. I apologise for not contributing regularly during my study times. One thing we have been looking at is Automatic writing, or stream of consciousness writing. That is writing without thought and letting what comes out come. I start with a particular theme and see where it takes me. This particular one  have done is called Sleep; primarily because its the other thing that has been occupying my time with my ill health.

So I hope you enjoy this stream of consciousness writing below. Please leave a comment.


Sleep is not the domain of the vertical alone, although for me it used to be. Now hold my eyes open by matchsticks. Lit ones, which will shine light into the dark places and force me to see. I sleep talking, I sleep walking and sitting, even driving. I am tired, of life, of rules and reason. I want to be unreasonable. I want to go against the rules. Risky behavior I welcome you. Let me step off the cliff into the abyss, blindfolded one foot in front of another. I no longer trust those who have gone before, who say they know the way. We all walk blindly forward, not knowing what is to come. Blind faith doesn’t work. The future is unknown, so let me sleep while it comes towards us or we walk towards it. We can dream of what is to come, but dreams don’t often reflect real life. Therefore, we go blindly into the future. We can plan, plan, plan but we are all subject to the dreams and plans of others, we are subject to nature. Who knows when the sign “Falling rocks do not stop” becomes a prophecy, or the prophecy becomes truth. A car is squashed, we spread over the road someone must use a broom, a hose to clean up the mess. They did not foresee it, we did not foresee it, nobody dreamt it but it happened, and happens and will happen. Warnings get old. Yeah yeah sure sure, its not going to happen. Then it does, and people are surprised even though it was told before. Nobody says “I told you so” but they get on and clean up the mess.

Walk on blindly. Do not reach your hands out, darkness is darkness, you can’t feel it, can’t feel the danger in front of your eyes in the darkness. Welcome darkness as it comes, or as you go into it. Don’t walk backwards, the past is no longer there and you will fall off the cliff where time has crumpled that path. The past repeats, but we cannot look at the past and predict the future. Nobody knows the day or the hour does not talk of the future but talks of the present. Nobody knows what day it is or what time it is in the scheme of things. Darkness is coming if it is not here yet. You say you know when things are going to happen. I will get paid on Friday. These are expectations, but I have learnt in the past not to hold to expectations. Life does not always live up to expectations. It often disappoints. Therefore, embrace the darkness. Embrace the unknown. You go into the future blindfolded or walk into the complete darkness. Close your eyes and sleep where you are. Let time and nature wash over you. Wake when you wish to see where you are in that journey. Was expectation fulfilled or did it fulfill its purpose to disappoint, surprise, or do the unexpected. Then close your eyes and sleep again.


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 Haiku for the rain

Light rain forms puddles

Gathering on the bush path

Splash splash a birds bath

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In light of viruses

Fear of flying

Fear of dying

Fear of living, life

Cancel everything

No chance to sing


Don’t touch don’t breathe

Healed if you believe

Shake hands, no

Wiggle a toe

Give a wink or a nod

Don’t cry

on my shoulder

Your grief could make me die

Will we get older?

Shout to the Gods why

Isolate, vegetate

Don’t be late


The arts are dead

Its all in your head

Blame the president.

Image result for president trump with a medical mask on


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Writing, IF Maitland and freedom

I thought that when I was granted disability pension, that I would be free from the hassles of looking for work which I couldn’t do anyway, and have more time for me. Well, although the engagements I take to read some of my poetry, memoirs or short stories have been enjoyable, there are many. I barely have time for a cuppa or an afternoon rest. I’m so glad to have been accepted and welcomed into the literary community of the Hunter Valley.

Last weekend I was at the first ever IF (Independent artists Festival) in Maitland. I couldn’t help but fill my day and early evening with Seminars, workshops and readings. I participated in the Open Mic Slam Poetry event in the early evening, before going home to collapse and sleep right through the next day.

20200229_105131I started the day with a hearty farmers breakfast at Maitland Regional Art Gallery (MRAG), where on the lawn outside, a gent was reciting to a young audience some children’s stories and an art installation called Visual Busking was  taking place.

I went then to Sun Street Studios where I was blessed to hear writers of three different genre discuss the process of writing and producing their works. The MC was Karen Crift from the Hunter Writers Centre. The speakers were a music and lyric writer Ricky, who used music as a therapy with disabled and marginalised people at Mai- Well, Michelle Reidy, a writer of short stories and poetry, which she used for therapy and Liz a film script writer as well as working in clay and dance as therapies. The Seminar was entitled Image may contain: possible text that says 'The Power of the Pen & brush!' To of the three writers also used art as therapy. We heard how the writers used their writing not only to convey a message to others but at times the work could be cathartic, healing if you will, to help them get something off their chests and out of their system. I could really relate to this as I do the same. I use writing to express anger and love alike. I generally can write a piece quickly and after a glance and quick edit, I get almost immediate relief from the issue that has been plaguing me. Fiction can be used as a real escape and a safe place to explore an issue outside of self, letting the characters in the story deal with things that we in the real world find difficult to handle.

Sometimes writing is not for others but for an audience of one, yourself. Somethings are not for publication whereas in other cases, our writing could be something that we want to share with the world.

All agreed it was healthy to seek others out who write, as writing can be a very isolating occupation. Being with others in the same occupation can assist you to discover how to improve or do things a little differently.20200229_121809

Artwork to me is like a reward. I don’t really allow myself to do major works until I have accomplished something significant. If there is a challenge which I have finally met and overcome the procrastination bug which is buried deep under my skin, I allow myself to pick up a brush, put some colour on it and throw it at a canvas. It is often something that I cannot express freely in words but find easier to express in a picture. A lot of time I draw wild animals or native birds, just to represent the freedom that they have and that I long for.

The next event at the IF festival was a workshop which was held by Michelle Reidy. It was to further explore writing as a therapy. We discovered what it was to write stream of consciousness. Letting the mind and the pen go where it will. We did exercises where we were given a prompt in the form of a word or picture. It amazed me as to what came from my hand when I am just letting it flow.

From there I went to enjoy refreshments and the Poetry Slam event at the Pourhouse which had some wonderful guest poets including Tug Dumbly. Poets from all ages and genres recited their works which were designed to “comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable” (Banksy).

I’m afraid I was unable to stay for the whole session and had to admit defeat. The mind was full of new ideas and and story lines I would like to run with, but the body was weary and so I succumbed to the need for rest and the land of dreams


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Lest We Forget. Friday Fictioneers

Word Count 93.

I wrote a poem for this prompt. I hope it is acceptable. Thanks to Sandra Crook for the photo prompt.

The rugged tower of rock

stood reaching for the sky

it was made to remember heroes

Men, much braver than you or I.


Blindly they ran, walked or rode

into battle with the enemy unseen,

men also brave, onward they strode

whose intent was just as keen.


They clashed on the beaches,

and the rocky hills above

They fired guns in anger

for a country they so loved.


Among them was no victor

no winner could be seen

just rivers of blood which flowed

over hills that once were green.

Lest We Forget.


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