Saturday, 27 March 2021

Love Motes Map

 


Motes,

castle dreams 

Lazily ascending float.

As end portal

 phone line of light is

Telling me these

afternoons 

stay awhile.

So live 

like magpie 

chortle captures

All fray nights as flights,

As he insights 

air back to freedom.

A live reclining chair whim

 on mind of breezes 

humble beginnings

 and tiny shifts grinning 

poised for

 all one -

 no reason.

That which breaks lengths 

of photonic waves making

Platonic spider caves of sunsets

Into learnings.

Which are burnings 

shriftful-pupil of paramour.

Which breaks to write!

Autumn smiles,

 old balances,

Go!

Harvest!

 magnetica!

Take this poem

 to your dust bed,

I will know you tomorrow,

The place space port

 orb flung will fall back,

align gaze signatures.

Charred ships 

may smoke

From hope, 

running along

Our contours.

No tv capitals inside

Our bubble brackets

 of time. 

That

Forever...

 all movies are ours,

Your wings to fill my home,

The dot

 in the dot 

in the dot...

The perfect spinning of us,

The celestined unlock,

The slow big momentums

Life-slide-dock, home,

Mandelbrot...


#lightislove #poetryoftime #poetryoflight #poems #poetryofsunset #poet #poemsofloveandlife #poetryofinsta #poetryramble #mystylepoetry #poetryofsoul #poetrymagick #poetryofautumn #poetrydream #meditation #poetrylover #melbspokenword #melbournepoetry

Sunday, 22 November 2020

An Apple falls in a Dream of our Forest


Poem made for the prompt group "Pendemic" by Fleassy Malay. Discussing topics such as erotics, Lillith, and equality. It explores and reimagines the apple and tree metaphor of Eden, while in a dream of making love out in a forest meadow.   

Saturday, 30 May 2020

Family of Light Poem


Peom made amidst this years April prompt group; "The Dirty Thirty," hosted by Abdulrahman Hammoud. The prompt if I remember correctly was what I would do if the world was empty of people. 





Thursday, 17 August 2017

Anyway, Waterfall...




#oldpostbeatpoem #odetothedreamer Stuck on the last page of the poetry book blues, BB king died the other day and Nuthin new to be news but news is a trap, Now is like my kids today while autumn Not yet falling to winters crystal sunlight and the some leaves still clinging, Like how now is too beautiful to express And a violence in splashing too many rocks into a side of the forrest walk wishing pond, so small and graceful it could be for fairies, now is I can’t tell you what they wished for nor what they’re dreaming of now in peace spacesuit breathings beatitude, now thinking my adult attitude over complex, rememories of why I had to leave the poetry gig early and caught all Lego piece light words for moth switch right anyway upon just the right metaphor, two Hindu men that day pointing to my aum badge and saying things like O that’s the why of the world! The fork of the river! and yes it had a beautiful longer version anyway and the beautiful people were too painfully curved into bad capitalistic machines not toys made of the parking metre, yet, why is always too beautiful for this old tree stone from the hills… all the meanings left behind I can’t remember, for now is a silent deep well that the moon leaves in the sun, especially when that girl who I thought connect realizes I’m gone a leap of the last verb, And cockatoos are some of the most playful birds for no reason, spirals for any no reason there on facebook in no one’s everyone, simple wondering what stuck together songs and stories gunna build themselves tomorrow outta ordinary, what excuses for air currents swirl on end-of-light shadow ball wall outta memes and themes such as Whitman randomly poking his face out of a frame on my table and with lifted bushy eyebrow, telling me; “why yes son Maya is the dreamer and Heidegger is a hydrogen seashell left upon a powerline on Brunswick rooftop near a waterfall, but you knew that didn’t you?” and yes its all gunna collapse when ink pin steps forth and drops anyway, in the mean time I finally lit my writers candle in my darkness and am breathing, so look; the unicorn herds run across the blue grass sky, the naked men and women who ride them never needed to wear clothes their whole lives and the cashless catchless knowing of who does what in their society, and the don’t worry, now is the hazy ‘ol green not-too-real ground in fuzzy smile, a centre up that thinks it’s all too perfect to anyhow, and so spaceships with Elizabethean bathtubs fly by…

Friday, 4 August 2017

Journal Entry 21st May 2015


Ok trying to do this quickly, got too much work to do. Too much on my mind too much in the world pace, but 3 pages every morning is the jam. The sticky sweet goo of mind encapturment. O but you spelled that wrong! And every day contains the same old discomfort and inaccurate blashmamy that is description. How exact can the swan flight into storms of grieg’s piano, how well does the grey leech out of the sky and exact its presence everywhere, as if to say sorry son the colours over so you gotta get to work. 

And that’s what I fear and crave, desire and dread, work, good work bad all work all the same work, here I’m working at my mothers house making kimono bags for no real reason whatsoever it seems cause not sure if they’re even selling, and all a meaningless exercise except I’m getting to pay off the debt to my mum. The thousand dollars I owe her for living beyond my means and having a massive holiday in Vietnam. And O the reward before its earned, my life, the out door ed scuba diving bush walking etc… the doofing massive psychedelic experiences, the kids beautiful and healthy, the time off writing poetry, all time without real employment.

Now don’t get me wrong I worked freakin hard in those vinyards and for that –hang on coffee break- nursery, but it was all for naught in the real career sense, and yes they say that the average human goes through about 3-4 career changes before they get to the one they are meant for. But really, how many others do all that in their teens and stick to something, become successful and some even rich. See I don’t even care about being rich, I just want to be successful, that is, make a difference where-ever I place my time.

 This success, this striving O how can I put this feeling into words, like walking into a sunny room and having this 12 flocks of sand pipers land at once and look at me through their branches, waiting for me to send them on the winds of literature analysis or English, like the din of the class fading into my dreaming out the window and me just closing the window subtly and the whole class, stopping their little games of inattention and social rages on a 34 degree day in the afternoon and launching into fine focussed performances of Dylin Thomas. 

And me tuning into all the different personalities with mutual respect that each is craving channel, needing a way for them to accept the world in its mad chaos, its inexplainable misunderstood turmoil. The idea that’s its ok not to know something, that its ok if one doesn’t know how to learn, that it can be found, that a way through the dark forests or the bright neon clubs or the desert winds of the mind in the midst of chemical mayhem, the midst of becoming a man or woman, that a way can be slashed, forged, barged, waltzed. 

O all these the symptoms of me right now, the mega teenager, the raging hipster jock nerd that never grew up at highschool cause the ceremony didn’t fit, I never got to waltz at the graduation, never got to respect the classroom cause of my social inadequacies, and the run away from the art class, the run away from all of it, under bridges with a bong in my hand and an ego to supply who ever needed a likewise escape. 

O there is no escape now, whether primary or high school teaching the desire to go back to school is strong, but is it just in the shadow of not knowing what else I could do or be happy with? Is it all just a trick of association, cause of course if you are interested in poetry, teaching is the natural option? What about the fine art of the kitchen, the delicacies of the plate art? Or the love of massage and health? What about the garden, or the publishing industry? What editing or literary agency or copy writer positions will be made available when I finally graduate? 

One thing is for sure I don’t want to rush, and yet some part of me does, says o you have no time! Just do it it’s a great idea etc… but these next 40 or 50 years or whatever of my life, I want to spend in love with my life… O I want to do it all, the great romance with ground, sound and sky, the forrest and expanses of existence… fly on…    

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Lonely Soul


"Just keep on flying" sings the Shadow sample, and so I dance here for all introverts like me. Those who, through great flights of consciousness and time current, end up alone and dealing with the prison/comfort paradox our brains can become. O and my thanks to DJ Shadow for this and all our tune experiences...


Tuesday, 25 July 2017

Cold and Reason


Jammin with a mate long ago, this poem is made of many smaller poems. So while alittle random it talks and sings about the cold darkness of time and age, and ends by renewing old prophecies of love.




Sunday, 23 July 2017

Ode to Evolution





O what nourishment divine fractal core thread,
 what sap root sun feeding do they deserve?

 Those who skyscrape to ghost bleeding
 mitote maddness the skyfather's flesh.

 Those who watch the acid rain of
human darkmatter falling and
 piercing the earth.

Those who crack the bone dragon eggs
to still-born peace and speak unholy word
 in their bomb hearts.

Those who manipulate
to produce death products in
cycled desert cracks creeping,
searching for another
farmers suicide.

Those undead armies
of Hitler's scientists for profit.

 Those who made headless
the spirits of the forrests, now
 wondering the felled wastelands
 amidst the lost paths of the extinct.

 O those who committed sane
 the Banks of Wall St's fraud,
the trillion headed axe.

Those political frauds the billion edged bulldozer,
policy dying beneath drama, hypnotized consent
 a blasphemic core sin against the meaning of light
now imprisoned in smart TV's.

Cowards!
 Death clouds of obscene chauvinism,
 all you do is feed on our suicidal tendencies.
 All you do is kill the new gods our children
 deserve to create.

All you will ever claim in the holy name
of water's flower fruit is your own destruction.

 We will survive you.
We will survive you because we give back our umbilicus,
because our tree core is permacultured to every fellow
 spirit kin, every animal saint, every ray of the universes
 star seed in our beings eye.

 We will survive because of
 how we weep as your teachers,
forgiving but never forgetting
the witness to your own suffering
 and its exponential virus teeth marking.

O yes, you will hear us now you
the 1 percent, you the careless,
you will not bite again,
 from now on,

you will be the one to starve...