Love for Scar

27 06 2011

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The silence knocks

and knocks

a book is open at a page;

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‘there is no more room

you cannot stuff in anymore

love the scar

touch tenderness’

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lily © 2011

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When The Death Train Whistles

20 05 2011

Death sat on her shoulder hitching a ride everywhere. She would put it down when it grew heavy and made it walk on its own.

Few words for the way i am feeling, i’m letting the madness take me to the garden. Count the i’s, give me a flower for every one.

I’m a barrel rolling killing off the moss, i’m a warm pie that everyone tucks into, i’m a little bead waiting to be strung.

The heavy curtains closed in the rambling rose theatre, tickets whirlwind under the billboard, the patrons walk home in a daze kicking cans.

Death muse is at the breakfast table, running rings around the reverie children’s souls. We shall allow her voice when our cries die down.

I watch the blackbirds picking out seeds from the autumn flotsam, and I weep as I hear their silent joy while I grieve for you.

We tried to whisper our hidden screams and ended up screaming our secrets.

excerpts from @myarspoetica (twitter)

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lily © 2011

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A River of Stones: January Musing

5 01 2011

pebbles

I suffer from that malady many of us writers and poets suffer from. The dreaded writers block. It can destroy a writers soul. I believe that poetry comes to us, it’s less excruciating to wait for the butterfly to come to us than to run about wildly, catching bugs and bees and bark and swirling leaves, though they are nice too, but not when you really just want the butterfly.

Last year writing was like pulling teeth, but I learnt a lot about acceptance and waiting, but only after vowing I would stop writing altogether to put my self out of my blank page misery. I’m no Charles Bukowski or any of those other prolific writers, all I wanted was a butterfly. Maybe we expect too much of our muses.  Maybe we should be grateful that we can still imagine and dream even if we never write a word of it down.

So my muse was slothing around my house eating peanuts and making a deep impression upon my couch, when  I stumbled upon this project through twitter. A River of Stones, the idea to write one small stone a day for all of January. The intention is to really pay attention to one small thing, and write a ‘stone’, a small piece of writing about your observation (eg. a sentence, a small poem, a haiku).

Read more about  The River of Stones here, it’s not too late to join if so inspired. I’ve found it harder than it sounds, but if I stay still long enough, a stone  appears. Sometimes if it doesn’t and i’m pushing boulders uphill, I forget about it and often an essence will reveal itself later.

I am dropping my daily stones into my @myarspoetica stream at twitter (hashtagged #aros).

Here are my first five stones. I will update them to here every few days or so.

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Curtains drawn in a darkening room; the TV, a computer screen, the dying light outside the window.

~*~

The Sea is all I see, a dream stone in a crumpled pouch, I wave to a bright yellow yacht.

~*~

Cockatoos screech violently at the Sun as it rises above the sleeping mountain.

~*~

Holding a small bottle of vitamin E, she shows me her forehead scar, healing.

~*~

The floods reach the top porch step, a blank faced man waves to the rescue boat.

~*~

The phone call, blood drains from her face, she curls up with a heavy stone embedded in her chest.

~*~

‘Her poetry was always so dark’. Yin and Yang glance at the boxed girl. ‘Disturbing.’

~*~

Sap drips on the car, birds dig up the garden, spiders crawl in uninvited. At least the remote control obeys.

~*~

I admire people who can just say things and it comes out right and fluid like turning on a tap to fill a glass of water.

~*~

My tap splutters and the pipes groan and I let the dirty water flush through and then I collect the water.

~*~

She wished her gravely ill father was an exemplary man so she could speak of his amazing selfless loving life but alas he was a brute.

~*~

Last week they climbed the tallest building in town. Today a little girl closes her eyes tight wishing her family back there.

~*~

Rain, blood and tears, I have no words left. http://twitpic.com/3poclu (Art for Queensland Floods)

~*~

Jim Morrison singing his own kind of scat, from the other side, subterranean poetry [save our city].

~*~

Night light, white noise, books, nothing could persuade her to close her eyes to meet the dream master. Please leave the hall light on.

~*~

This will be your year, things will get better, I hope you find your happiness soon. Things they said to be free of her melancholy.

~*~

The raging river and panicked faces took over her mind, the fading sounds of helicopters were the last to leave.

~*~

The mutinous river broke through the levee of her mind. A full bellied lake sighs, the fevers were back.

~*~

Paintings of puppets & robots lined the walls leading to the auditorium door, opened by a man with splintered hands. Her palms itched.

~*~

The great pearl has been rolled into the inky sky just above the eucalyptus trees. the stars are closed, the garden flowers are open.

~*~

Moonlight snaked up the road, slithering over shadows and around the silhouette of trees.

~*~

A six year grudge became sludge, the rains came and washed it all away. He did me wrong in a song, now I sing my own words.

~*~

She dyed her hair bright red, tattooed a tear beneath her eye, wore a bouncing tutu and a t-shirt that said ‘don’t look at me.’

~*~

A little girl believes she can change peoples hearts with her songs, singing as an angel for her mother who watches from heavens wings.

~*~

The spinning death cloud loomed on the horizon, all the animals silenced & folded themselves into peoples hearts to give them strength.

~*~

Hard stone, weeping stone.

~*~

Fold up your sorrows, throw them into a safe burrow, hold close.

 

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Fragments of Christmas

22 12 2010

 

The note on the back door said it all: ‘You cut me down, made me beautiful & adored me, then you threw me on the bonfire. I feel so used‘.

~*~

At least you don’t get pulled until you pop said the bon-bons. At least you don’t get left on the plate said the mince pies.

~*~

Fairy lights draped over the neighbors hedge. neon blue, stop light red.

~*~

‘Can we plant the tree after christmas Mum? you know, recycling’. ‘No dear, we’ll have a bonfire after the bushfire season is past’.

~*~

Fake tree branches fallen, missing lights, baubles under the couch, creased stockings, broken angel in the nativity set. Santa was disgusted.

~*~

His favourite, a lamb roast, he wipes his chin as she nervously eyes the presents under the tree, spilling a little whiskey as she pours.

~*~

Finally under the weight of all the tinsel, his mind collapses, defaults to reverse and is towed off to the junkyard of broken lights.

~*~

On Christmas morning she heard scratching noises in the hall, bundled near the door was a pile of tree baubles.The Earth ones.

~*~

Memories of Christmas are bittersweet, like Moonface from the Enchanted Forest sucking on that lolly, sweet, sour, sweet, sour.

~*~

The look on her face could have sunk the Titanic, but she forced a smile & said thank you, just what I wanted. A self-help book, & deodorant.

~*~

You are positively glowing, she thought as she saw her reflection in a christmas bauble. Then she remembered the tree lights were still on.

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~lily © 2010

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excerpts from @myarspoetica, twitter





The liberation of cats and dogs

27 09 2010

sometimes

we can’t hear the purrs

for all the barking

this is the most brilliant poem I’ve ever written





Black Dog Yard

4 09 2010
Running with the dogs down to the pasture afte...

Image by Stevesworldofphotos via Flickr (click to Zoom)

Black dog yard

a few grass patches left

the rest worn away

by the pacing

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of a dog so restless

it cannot wear a leash

lest the same fate

fall upon the neck

as the yard

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the sun will peek through

and scented winds will revive

and we will break free

and walk for miles and miles and miles

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~lily © 2010

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bite on this

7 04 2010
i want to write a poem
for bees sake everyone else is
but my muse is being a
complete bitch
her arms full of fruit
she holds it close as
it spills over her arms
she drops me an apple
and teases, ‘here lazybones
bite on this’
even as i write this
i hear huffing
i am being ordered to dust
the shelves and put
back all the books i left
open
[an apple is fine by me]