The stream (all workshops)
She found them right at the back
of the wardrobe
when she was having a clear out
They looked brand new
tan,pointed,low heeled ankle boots
They still had the stickers on the sole
the buckles still shone
nade of fake gold.
She held them
She sat down on the bed
with those boots in her lap
She recalled the day she got them
Her Dad had given her the money
a way of saying sorry for something
She couldn't remember exactly
It might have been the time
he'd walked into her bedroom
I water the garden with the old green hose
earthworms only breathe in dampness
the tank is nearly empty
I rake dry veined leaves and find
such treasured things
snails's shell cracked teapot
fan of magpie feathers tied with string
spoon from your house my love
dropped one day
I stole it in my pocket
blue glass blurred to softness from the beach
small piece of coral
else where a dingo howls
howls on the south wind
and on my weary face
the last raindrop dries
Gone and now cremated,
I wait for my sister
to meet me at his now-
once bungalow. Searching
through the remains,
sifting among clothes
he left behind,
I put on a jacket
hanging in the closet,
turn toward the mirror
on an opposing wall.
I see gray hair and a beard,
half a century old,
but below that,
I won't be buying £4 ketchup,
Nor any other over inflated thing.
I won't be buying expensive coffee,
Greedy people can go swing.
I won't be giving my loyalty,
Not to those who rob us blind,
I won't be lining the pockets,
Of the greedy and the unkind.
I won't be sorry for my opinions,
Nor the decisions that I make.
I won't feel sorry for the greedy,
Not the actions that they take.
A lovely you are
Show me your
exquisite beauty
In the splendor view
of a growing field that
it stands out from the crowd
with the exude of innate beauty
from the blooming flourish
nurturing care
and rapturous personality
That never ceases to showcase
With its passionate display
That it brings to show the comfort
From the uplifting one spirit soul
To claim you as my special one
For all the years that my admiration
grow for you
For that, I shall never forget
shooting stars and satellites -
the forest rustles with their stories
feathers on the ground
I falter
this place was never mine
woven with the language of wild others
in forests and forgotten places
flick of snake in grass
night eyes watching me -
curiously
those open mouths of shadows
my footsteps crunch pebbles on the riverbed -
that sudden rush of water
"Welcome to the collective hive,"
the M.C. from the center ring cries,
"where being numb means being alive!"
Acrobats, jugglers, and clowns arrive
with no festive feel—as everyone sighs,
“welcome to the collective hive.”
The crowd below climbs the high dive
grateful to lunge to their own demise
where being numb means being alive.
Individuals could not survive
from consuming the ringmaster’s lies.
Welcome to the collective hive
Black wings and bad boys
Loud music and crumpled paper
Born a secret and died the same
Here lies RoseBlack, what a shame
Yer lies I gurt 'ead and blunder
Never seen the lightnin'
Never 'eard the thunder.
Oft times as I drive along
I top a middling hill
and spy where I think that I belong
Mountains tall and blue and still.
Less than an hour I could be there
Where narrow roads all wear switch backs.
Where I once roamed without a care
Where rivers churn from boulders' stacks.
Yes. I see them and they haunt me
with memories of a youth long passed
along with those who used to be.
I see now time passes far too fast.
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