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.

Quiescent

I hope this to be the final part of the Mother and Daughter Eternal / Robert's Creek / Genesis saga. This isn't to say I wont keep writing about 2008 and how much of an interesting year it was in my life... I've still got a few more planned relating to certain experiences, but this poem is sort of closure. I'm at a point in my life where everything is working out - I moved to Sydney to do one thing, and I did it, and now it's not so bad staying at all. Things that are dragging me down seem to be keeping at the surface too - a nice balance.

Quiescent

I: Cannon
In summer's haze (blinding associations
and wood-splitting arguments) I gathered
the shattered pieces of 2008 and
crammed them into my head:
I knew I would need them as much
as I needed to breath.

From broken sticks and crushed,
decomposed leaves (the years's
debris) I labored
an ark able enough to carry
me across six-hundred kilometres
so I could hold a candle to her.

II: Peacemaking
Sudden realisation: a final embodiment
I've what I'd came here to do. It was when
She held my hand in that dream as my guardian,
that Robert's Creek and all the stars that clung
to its waters flowed unharboured.

At the close, another thing to do
and another way to be always emerges and
this was more gratification
than I could ever have asked for.

Morning Duties

Morning Duties

The light and I are
chasing rivers until they become oceans:
before that they are just twisted fingers
of water bound.

Oceans are the open palms of water freed.

The mouth is where I
i spread my arms like wings
and dive into the blue-brown undertoe
of the unknown.

The light stands pivotal for a moment,
flickering and cometary until it
changes its mind and lulls back to sleep.

The world could go on for one more day
without light - getting up is too much
of a challenge.

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