Omens

A 12 AM, winter drive, under blankets of black sky

There'll be no sleep till Brisbane & I got exams, at 9

Cousin Dan drives while I sit tight in the passenger side

tapping my shoes, to the Higgs Boson Blues

We don't talk much, neither of us are the type

But we both know there's something sour in the sky tonight, 

It follows in the rear-view and looms the road ahead

But I've got St Chris in my pocket, keeping us safe till morning's light

We pull in to a servo, for a Red Bull and a quick bite, 

The baker's in early, working to dim lights 

He takes bread from the oven with a split and a sigh, 

while crows and owls perch outside and shriek through cedar pines

We press on as a storm rolls in through the dark

and the headlights cast patterns like veins on evergreen bark 

through the branches and limbs that grow and reach out 

to bring drowning rain down to kiss the ground

The rain pours hard and the windows fog 

and streetlights dance through them like wisps in a bog

They whisper omens with the cold wind through the window

that Daniel cracks to have another smoke

The highway stretches on for close to eternity 

like the forever hallway in a house of leaves

But we reach our destination around 4:30

and I let the last four hours wash like the rain over me

I dry myself off and fall into bed 

with the hum of the tires still echoing in my head

and I lay there sinking, into the doona, thinking 

maybe it's not us St Chris should've been protecting

The wisps are still here with me, 

glowing faint, through the frosted windows of my room

Guiding me, gently, as I drift off to sleep, 

promising, "those omens weren't meant for you"

Mother's Day, 2020

A legacy left over 43 years
You weren't here to change the world
but blessed the universe of many
You were the light when the stars disappeard

You wanted bigger things for your kids
That, I understand, but wish I could ask
If we too, were to rattle the stars,
wouldn't we just shake loose your mark?

So would it make you proud
If the answer that I've found

We don't need big ambitions
to make our mark,
if we lead lives, like you,
full of grace and full of heart.

Swimming

We all learned to swim,
held by the same waters.
And we've all been helpless,
standing on the sand shouting,
as the ones we love
get caught in rips. Watching,
while they're pulled out by the tide
and carried away.

But it's those odd days we find,
sea-glass, amongst the rocks,
that shines.
Beautiful mementos,
like shards from stained-glass windows,
sent from the ones
who just wound up
on different shores
in distant bays,
just to let you know
that things turned out okay.

Window Seat

I watch the world, from a window seat 

on the Tilt Train: 

The north star of the Wide Bay.

I watch the world from a window seat 

and see Unit caps crown the face tats, 

of parents who smack their kids, 

in the crack capital of Queensland. 

Out the window I see 

the same kids jump train tracks 

on dirt bikes and catch 

like deer in the headlights 

of oncoming railside crosses. 

I see heads in hands, 

people sitting on sidewalks 

by cops dolled up in high viz. 

They investigate busted up fenders 

and scattered glass from windshields 

on bitumen, stained two reds, and blue.

I see a glass bottle smashed 

and the sun beam through pieces 

like light through a magnifying glass. 

The train travels on 

through small Queensland towns 

as their brittle grass sparks, dying trees catch, 

and trails of smoke rise 

and become trapped 

as in a Greenhouse. 

On my tray table I read 

Dorothy Parker's Resume. 

And by my window I see 

an orange hammer, a skeleton key. 

I watch the world and I see the appeal 

of its emergency exits. 

But I get the feeling 

they're kept locked for a reason, 

and that it's best just to leave them be.

I watch the world, from a window seat 

on the Tilt Train: 

The north star of the Wide Bay 

on its way 

to its terminating station.

Silver Linings

The moon sinks behind 

clouds that drown 

in the flooded floor of Barmah Forest

Fish swim serene in the silver linings

I sit on the bank 

and even looking down 

can still count the stars 

in the sunken sky

More Haiku

A quick minute ago it was decided that I'd attempt to write a haiku a day, for an entire month. Shockingly, I failed that challenge twelve days in. Even more shockingly, of those twelve haiku, seven enough were good enough (read: passable enough) for me to cobble together another post. You will find those seven below.

Famine in Maryborough

Out in the dregs of Maryb’rough West

On rickety fence, ‘round playground dead

Sit birds in row, a murder of crows

Starved eyes stare me down, follow me round

We’re all skin and bone, no food, no hope

Far from our homes, in these parts unknown

Can’t feed myself, let alone starved crows

Out in them dregs of Maryb’rough West

‘Round playground, dead, sit starved birds, in row

Glad they’re on the fence, that murder of crows

A Crack In Everything

Leonard Cohen once crooned,
There is a crack in everything,
that’s how the light shines through.
Or something to that tune.

And I’ve been told that if walls could speak,
they’d tell me what to do.
But Nasreem Mohamedi took a photo in 1972.

The skirting board; a crack in the floor
just before the wall, from which only darkness seeps.
Like the hands of time, a twilight over life, that creeps.

Cohen may be right, but if so his cracks are few.
And maybe it’s not the walls,
but the cracks in the floor
I should be listening to.

Obituary: Moon

An erasure poem I completed for a university piece on the 31st of October, 2016. The source article can be found here.

Four Haiku

Four haiku I've written at various points over the last few years.