Hmmm?

Instead of writing new poetry, maybe I'll should drag out a few oldies and post them? I started writing this blog when I'd already had a substantial amount of poetry written. Here are a few that I admire most (hopefully they haven't been posted previously).

The Beekeeper
The sun might shine
right through you
when you step outside
but I still see
the tortured bees
buzzing around
behind your eyes.



Incantation
I know
you said something important
at the same time

that all the smaller things started
shifting towards the fire to
burn into bigger things so
they could be monuments
to erase all of this

away.

But I was so in awe
that I couldn't hear
what it was.

In Limbo.

So it was brought to my attention today that I haven't posted anything in quite a while. And looking at the last post date, I suppose this is quite true. The reason why I haven't posted in such an extensive period of time is probably because I haven't written any poetry since 'Something Abstract'... Well, more accurately, I haven't completed any poetry since 'Something Abstract'. And why I haven't written any poetry? This a question with a number of answers - some clear, and some not quite so clear. Uni work is probably one reason, yet last year I seemed to do fine with studying and writing at the same time so what's different this year? Stress is probably another reason: I've recently starting have panic attacks for no apparent reason, so lately I've been massively on edge about everything you could possibly think of. I suppose poetry has taken a back seat in my life... No, it's probably taken the boot. Eating well and exercising have taken a back seat, but hopefully I've started to turn those things back into passengers.

Awesome! I'm using a metaphor. This is one step towards writing poetry again. Maybe later after I finish some school work, I might gather up a few drafts and try to forge something like poetry. Maybe. We'll see what happens in the next couple of days.

Something Abstract

Something Abstract

What was once a timber kingdom,
and was then a fractured bone
and recently a tolerable debris
is now air: breathable but just
a vanishing point on the
horizon.

Every leaf and branch
I clung to at the beginning
(timber kingdom) now
treats me as a ripened
fruit ready to fall to
hereafter.

Every leaf and branch
I could gather at the middle
(tolerable debris)
can no longer be gathered.

Because
every leaf and branch
is ancient vapor and we are all
breathing it in as if
the next breath shall
be our last.

Forge Equilibrium

Is what I do equal to everyone else working in any field of expression, including music and art? Am I equal to my counterparts, be they musicians or painters? I've struggled with this question almost all year, and it caused a bit of writers' block as you might have noticed if you pay any attention between the dates between my last and second last posts.

Forge Equilibrium

If I'm a paper mill
and others are workshops of song,
can we both be beholders of light
and shine the same?

Will I be a saviour
just as those who save me every day are?
And with no answer to this question still,
the end of this year is just a deadlock:
a dead end in the road
that seemed to pass endlessly
beneath the wings of birds.

"You can be whoever you want to be".
"You are my son, you can do anything".
"I cried when I read that, son".

Like ropes in my hand you people are: knotted
and bound, bonds across centuries of memory.
Like songs in my head, when I slither out of bed,
these are those everlasting words.

And to hope that someday I'll compare dreams with her
and forge equilibrium
so my thoughts can be safe in sound
is probably the greatest task of all.

Because it signals both the day
I will cease chasing the horizon
and the day it begins chasing me.

"I cried when I read that, son"

Sitting on the Hill

Sitting on the Hill

A higher view;
a new-found confidence.
Friends become better friends
and I shed those inhibitions
like tiny flakes of skin.

I pretend they are in
the sky, floating
further and further
away.

One Year Ago

Tonight was your last night
on Earth, one year ago.

I wonder how you spent it.

Walls End

I wrote this poem about spending time with my good friend Mitch at his place in Newcastle. There's actually a lot more that I want to add to this poem, but I've just got too much other stuff on my mind at the moment. I'm in one of those points in an arc where you swing to the other arc. It's pretty shitty, but hopefully the next arc will be worth it. :)

Walls End
For Mitch


When I pulled into your
driveway (having driven past
already, much to your amusement)
You jumped down from
the hood of your car and
showed me your new tattoo.

It was tribal, just like school was. It
swirled and curled just as your
kind spirit loves to do, even though
neither were yet complete.