Musings of the sweet in sour.

Silver Moon

That silver ball.

Hanging like a moon in the sky of her. Full. Open. Shining.Watching. Reflecting. Dangling to her rhythm.

Yet still.

Mirrors her worldly skin. The deserts of vast pinked and tanned lands waiting the seasons. Of touched dry. Of moistened spring rains. Of heat. Of cold. Of being alive.

Of taking it all in.

The ocean longing at her feet. Rippling love notes in her ears. Her breasts a slow and primal heave with the tide, the ride, the overdrive of reflection.

Nurtured by Gods hand. Her hands. Creative and warm, hold her strength to form. A mothers touch is her own.

The curtains fall to dreamland deep. To the twins that maketh so.

For a leaf to grow it must fall, and so be it for all.

No judge in place just the face of grace

With stories etched on her door.

Stories that change, that flow to her serving ways. This way, that way, hazy Sunday days.

These twins that embrace. At times disgrace. Yet are entwine the beauty of intimate lace.

And there it waits. White space to fill.

Sparse timbered rich love.

A space to melt. One cup, one wine. Eyes deep into their own. Embodied as the womb of warmth.

And as their feet entwine and merge to one, it is then they attract their soulful sun.


That Special ‘ Tree’

Often, when a homeless person approaches, a fear rises, like rigid hair at a kids fair.
Not all the time I know. But often. Some have open hearts and many do not. That’s ok.
But just watch yourself next time you walk the streets. Just observe your responses.

We all have our peculiar symbols of fear.

A goatie. A tatt. A meandering eye attack.

And what do many of us do?

Look down to the ground? Remind him of his fathers sound?
Look away to a wall? That reminds him of his war?
Look straight into his eyes with a tensioned stand off demise?

It’s human I know. My kids show me, tell me their fear. Yet like all fear it is born from not knowing. Not knowing what’s on the other side. Thinking we know what’s on this ( his ) side. This side because you’ve seen the fights. Heard the screams. Been frightened maybe by his depleted self esteem. Heard the language, the tone. The primal scream a saddening drone.

There’s an equation in your head.

Engage : risk + unknown = assumed fear.
Avoid : low risk + ‘known’ = momentary uncomfortableness

Yet, on your own…..

… see a tortured tree and wish to speak to thee.
What was its demise? A fire? A disease? Nutrients?

But there’s a life in its strife.
A spark in its dark. Texture and angles perform art especially after dark.
When your moon paints it’s glow way beyond the meadow. The shadow speaks to you and you feel a sunlit yellow.

Wondrous how a tree can speak.

Create stories in your mind. Glimpses with a camera and your time can be shared and shine. Maybe on your wall, at home for all to see. You gloat about that night when you felt that special tree.
A glass or two of red and your settled feelin’ good. One moment you expressed yourself and your friends stopped eating – stood.

Now imagine that ” fearful ” dude. Sitting at the table.
Eyes of warmth and love
Just grateful to be able.

Imagine that.

And yes you can still have your photo of that special tree.

A thousanth cry

I kid you not. I will myself. Force myself. Pick the dead weight of a confused man up off the floor to write this. To start something. Anything that may somehow, out of a life of conspired thoughts and meaning devilled by a gene misplaced, deliver the beginning of hope. A speck of understanding to maybe, just maybe roll itself into something bigger than itself. Something bigger than me. Something that speaks to me when I look in the mirror. Please I ask myself. I need your help. Please.

Easter Sunday, and the dogs are knackered. Spread loose and slow groany as I cry a thousanth cry. Its beyond pathetic. I know that. But its real. Its been real for too long. And with no language to counter its been left to linger and  fester til my infected meaning eats itself up. Eats itself to nothing. To a beginning. To……?

My boys are with their Mum doing the Sunday lunch. My call for them to feel family. I won’t see them. Let them feel the unity of the day. As much as thats possible. As much as that hurts.

Amongst my forest of black trees and stumps that crackle with heat I am still mourning  her. Not the boys Mum. The lady who said no. Her eyes afar to places she knows. Places of dark grace to her. Places I cannot see. I try to read them. I’m good at that. Thought I was. She’s got me nutted. All the right words. The silence of a bears den. Bar the hot slow breath of an untold story. What happenned? What the fuck happened?

I confused her so. All along. I wasn’t there. i couldnt be there. Truly there. I was scared of love. Look what it had done. Divorce just a week ago. New blokes and children hurt with templates of  pain over a past still living. Rife with subtexts, power, subversion. Ripe with undercurrents and swirls of undermining intelligence. All born from pain. Pain.

She witnessed it all as I struggled to be male. No money or job. A day to day existence of staying just emotionally alive to appear normal. Stressed but normal. Passionate yet flighty. Wagtail shake beauty too delicate to land..

Strong enough to not buckle and die. Not ready enough to touch the sky.

She smiles at me anyway. We do blues and laugh. I tender to her needs as much as i need her tender. Shes not my type. That tugs at me long. Im sure it shows with my comments and inflections. Yet she is. We compliment by contrast with evolving interests. I thought.

My actions are needy. Loving too. I want her touch, her breath in my ear as I watch her sleep the most beautiful divine portrait i fear.

She’s taught me. My gift from above. She allowed me to be open to love. I changed my ways. But still spoke with haze. In my heart I was there. A future to care. I just couldn’t shake the shackles of the past. With ex’s and men in my ear with disgust. I looked like a luckless lad with a bust. Obscured by a life of the un-Dane. Obscured and sanctioned by the brain fed the oily slick of diesel wine.

My mind so intense. Lost in my head. Too much in my life to handle. Strung out brain, fence post strain. So steeped in mud with a weekly thud.

My life. Joseph’s Campbell’s Journey. Still is. Highest Leverage for me. Going down. Thinking up. Thinking down. Going up.
Giving up. Giving in. Giving back to the “sin.”

Surrender the card I draw from the Sun. On my way to profess to her. Deluded, I embrace. She’s gone. Last touch of the lingering lace.

A soft cheek kiss. Bliss dulled and culled by destinies veil.

I didn’t see it coming she stopped.



Amen to the Call

When you cry

When your dog notices and nuzzles,

then you know your not alone.

And you know you are not alone without your dog.

But still, you feel you are.

Just now.

You feel like a Sow.

Lying on herself. Short breaths to reluctant sleep.

In the wet glory of a sodden Friday night.

When your head aches and stretches to answers not asked for.

It came from nowhere.


And that makes it somewhere.

Rejection from one who doesn’t do love well.

Been parched for so long.

Joy lost in the sea of the mundane.

Rain soaked up to dry again.

A castle with no view.

The one with gun holes looking out, looking in.

The one with 10ft walls. That stand tall for the fall.

You scream.

Scream from outside. Slide a poem on the farside.

Throw a flower over the top. It lands with a flop.

Into the earthly inside. The place you can see. But don’t touch. It’ll sting. You’ll see.

One of the worst pains for sure to be mistaken for the jaw

of a past you haven’t lived.

To think you’re showing love, at worst an aware care.

To be ousted and jousted out of the Kings chair.

You think you can see it right. Shine the light. Create delight.

Maybe she just doesn’t want you. Maybe she just can’t say.

Maybe she’s scared of what the preacher would say.

The one that taught her “godly” truths from a mantle of flufflebears.

That raised the heavens and crashed them to despair.

Do you wait and see what the clouds will expose?

For how long I wonder will this dark shimmy transpose.

A paradox so real it’s convoluted zeal,

Fucks my head up

Turns it to steel.

But not before it’s pounded by my hand. The biggest in the land. The only one allowed to torture grand.

To peck and pick and feel abandonment thick. To wallow and swallow a bloody farmers pick.

To think it’s all me. So much I crave.

No justice in a cave marked with a sign ” my own slave”

And we walk in circles round the streets of known towns.

Each with our name on borders frowned.

There’s truth just beyond. Can see the glow from here. No chains stopping you just the gates of fear.

Of losing the known to freedoms thrown and being so more of who you are.

But we choose to stay in the pit

and squash our heads with a razor like bar.

The circles will ground a deepening dirt rut,

The circled will stride a mournful strut.

By accident or fate or conscious formulate, a sudden mood or spiritual coup

We may just may venture lost beyond our groove.

Better still to practise and move our souls our feet.

A journey to meet for all.

Amen to the call.

The Petal drops

The moment his tongue dropped like a petal it was over.

Her flesh. Her deep spring pulsing with life.

Her hands balanced with gentle firmness. Easing him to the rhythm that was theirs.

Slowly her tide rose, thighs tensed on his jaw. Rough with growth, she moaned at the glory.

His fingers spread with purpose, lips parting to the sun. To such honest warmth. Such wet desire.

His groin, grinding its own groove as he moved to her heart. A beating drum in a jungle now born.

His tongue and lips devouring her lust as her hips rise up.

Her back, arched like a sprung willow.

Her beauty, her face, her grace, born to be her. Eyes glazed with ecstasy, cannot see.
Can only feel the birthing of rivers and torrents –
anchored to her soul.

Her body tort with explosive delight as she clasps firm to release.

An animal now (in all the right ways). Letting loose.

His mouth pours itself into her.

Deeper and deeper his tongue licking her virgin walls.

The rivers collide like a new earth is born.

Her body yells it’s primal glory as she tremors into a new dawn.


[ Inspired by some playful homework set for me by a friend, Elisabeth. We are challenging our sleepy creativity by acknowledging it. Her subject for me was simply, Understanding, born from my overuse of the word during recent conversation. ]


Trying To understand a dream makes it not. A tree cannot be a carrot. It can only listen. Imagine. Seek to touch common ground. To emote the energy whence they came. But not understand. Or maybe it can.

We can’t though. ( or maybe we can )

We want desperately to be understood. We ache, we depress, we long, we re calibrate constantly to our calling to be understood.

Some better than others. Some worse than others. Some Sam I Am.

With puppy eyes and weeping skies we long.

With a rabbit tear a sweeping fear we tear at reality. We demand. We plead. We battle with creed. We are pathetic with our deed.

As I write. I feel. I articulate for you to ‘see’ but only from the window I call from thee, high on level fifteen. Whispering and blowing petals of me. Into a wind of synchronicity.

Maybe you will maybe you won’t. But the call is made.

We blame. We purse. We breed an ugly curse. It grows and seethes its ghastly sneeze of neediness. Spits and fits on the kitchen floor. A rampant child throwing dishes ‘gainst the door.

That’s closed.

What a shame. Blame spewed on the tiles. Wreaking of death. A sticky breath stretching its gaul.

But there’s a breeze. A springtime hue. A lightness an eagles feather knew. As it fell. Arcing its way. To your heart. You pray.

It doesn’t matter it loves. It doesn’t matter it doves.

Let go….let go….of your led kite you so heavily blew. To keep upon high as you. Let it go. Open the draw. The scissors will do. Cut the string. The wire, the spin. Cut it now and grieve awhile. Then ready yourself for a BIG FAT SMILE. That goes a mile. That will never leave you.


Darwin Calm

There’s something strangely comforting accepting the peace within above the banter and daggers of hurt ego. Even when others continue to throw crudities, discourtesies and powerfully delivered yet subtle messages at you, the temporal power of acceptance is liberating.

Temporal because I accept my humanness. Accept the transient nature of mood and energies beyond and within my control.

I’m leaning against a palm tree in the park at Darwin. Metres away from a city lagoon. Bordered by buildings, filled with families, couples, backpackers and me.

Minutes ago I was in the back seat of the hire car. Youngest in the front. Eldest with me. Mum driving. It was tense with the usual rumblings of tiredness that turns mundane actions into evil entities torturing peace.

Each was to choose a song. Mum was the second to choose.

The words clear in their meaning. Clear in their blame. Clear in the intent to express pain under water. Express through the white noise of the last day in Darwin where the surreality of separation was lived out in vivid colour.

The words in part :

That I should’ve bought you flowers
And held your hand
Should’ve gave you all my hours
When I had the chance
Take you to every party
‘Cause all you wanted to do was dance
Now my baby’s dancing
But she’s dancing with another man

My pride, my ego, my needs, and my selfish ways
Caused a good strong woman like you to walk out my life
Now I never, never get to clean up the mess I made, ohh…

It was blatant to all but my youngest.
I asked who chose the song to make sure I knew who’s message it was to me or them.

” Mum did”, my eldest says. Seconds later he pauses it. Now sensitive to its inappropriateness to either him personally or me. I’m gladdened by his awareness despite the scolding from his mother.

As a photo stills a smile, a frown, a sadness a beauty. A song does the same. For emotion. Simplified beyond accountability. Beyond the larger story embedded with swells and swirls of buttons, masks and fears.

My temporal beauty of acceptance acknowledges the words. I gently open the door to egos room. Peeking in to see what I knew I wouldn’t like. I close it with just the sound of metal clasping.

A 2 inch thick bullet proof glass pane slides between us. Between my past and my present. The part that yearns to be heard. Yearns and burns for my children to understand the complexities of why it happened. My sketched face leaking stains on the paper. Knowing it wasn’t as simple as that.

Yes it was that. It was the lack of flowers and so,so much more from other sides.

Muffled though is the scream. Blurred is the image. Holding no power I hop out of the car.

Walking bare foot on the cooch. Settling into Sunday mood. Lagoon a face of being today.

I bask in the strength of me. Just now. Just for now. In the Darwin Calm.