bittersweet

i've lived in the arms of springtime
and the steel legs of winter streets
i danced in waves of gray and white
and rested in the blue pacific.

sometimes I yearn for the ugly

i am a girl

who is not always very sweet.

Did I mention...?

Some things never change....

did I tell you that the grass
has grown,the weeds
in the back paddock are falling
under the teeth of the plough,
and the seeds are being sown?
that the frost on the window
of the dairy this morning
was so thick I could barely
see the sun rise.
that I'm growing used to
solo conversations, the dog
keeps me sane,and you're still here....
did I remember to tell you
how much our memories keep
my head above water,
do you hear me say I love you?

a liar's words

From me..to you.

you play with words
like blades of grass
in a sunny field.
planting the seeds
and watching what
they reap.
you're a friend of
the environment..
never using artificial
fertiliser on your words.
just pure bull shit.

Mikey Paige

I wrote this poem about a friend of my Dads, based on the story he told me about him.

Mikey Paige had a funny grin,
a row of crooked tiger teeth, black
with tar and the deprivation of
hard Belfast childhoods.
Standing on the heath, skinny arms
raised to the sky, crying the freedom
of the wearin' of the green
Mikey declared himself the King
Of Ireland...
While down below in Ulster, his
best work to date exploded into
a thousand fiery messages of
a challenge accepted and met.
They let Mikey out of the scrubs
Twenty years later, his debt paid in full.
The heath was unchanged, but they tell me
that Mikey's grin was gone....
toothless tiger tamed by the Gardia zoo.

Rain Cloud

you leave me
tender and dark,
a rain swollen cloud,
weeping questions you
won't answer,
disturbing secrets
that laid dormant
trespassing upon
pain resurrected
by your intrusion
into the basement
they skulk in.
no words when i
needed them most,
then you complain
that I'm broken..
you've been cut
by my sharp edges
and you want me to
lick your wounds
until they're mended.

Never forget who you are

A short story for my Dad.

Mellow winter.I don't remember it ever being this cold in April.I'm shivering. The rain
is soaking through my hair, the heels of my shoes are sinking into the ground and I'm desperately trying to escape the sympathy of people I don't know anymore.Standing right here, leaning on my brother for his warmth,I take in the words that have no meaning. Nod and smile, nod and smile. Thinking of a good stiff drink. Somehow I don't think Catholic Father Solemn would appreciate that thought, he doesn't look like he has much of a sense of humour, and we must remember the "occasion."

I can't help thinking that you would get a laugh out of this whole scene; it may be macabre, but it's funny. Sitting in the family pew, all the bereaved together while you're eulogised...they're leaving out the real you, the man that you really were.
I'm recalling the speech my Aunt gave me this morning, just before we left, about respect and "making a good impression".And I recall you telling me, time and again, "never forget who you are." Decisions, decisions. I don't want to speak about you as if you weren't here, don't want to forget the life and the vitality of you, won't let you fade into a ghost, forgetting who you are. No yearly reunions in the cemetery for you, no duty visits and flowers that made you sneeze. I want them to feel your essence, to see you as I did, dancing in the downpour after the drought,delivering lambs at midnight,smoking on the verandah in the late summer evening with your dog at your feet.That was you...IS you.It has to be told that way.Not all loss should end in tears and mourning.

My family are staring at me like I'm a headless chicken,and I can sense my Aunt's dissaproval,although she won't meet my eyes.The priest coughs and speaks more words without meaning, and I can feel your arm wrapped around my shoulder like it often was.I wonder will it be a clear sky tonight? I'd like to just stare at the stars and the moon for a while, and remember who you are.

The Reader of the Rhyme

do you ever ask yourself...what am I doing here?...why am I reading this?

youve never owned a book of poetry
only borrowed from pages that
other people left crumpled
in their wake.

you've never read everything written
but mined through a writer's soul
visiting thoughts you can't
think of yourself.

You don't understand the thoughts provoked
but you aim for the profound gesture,
spewing broken dreams to deaf witnesses
while you're suspended in
your vacuum of disregard.

every time you move it's part of your mime,
playing out your role of the stricken one,
delivering a message no one can interpret
and your existence seems to recede
into the lines you read between.

William Butler Yeats

Yeats is probably my favourite Irish poet. And this is one of my favourite poems by him.



A Coat
I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.

girls don't hitchhike-a short story

I guess this is what they call a "found" story. I read a story similar to this one but told from the perspective of the driver not the hitchhiker. I thought my version of what can happen was much more appropriate.







I don't hitchhike anymore. According to my mother, it's much too dangerous, especially for girls.
Just lately she's taken to sending me newspaper clippings about the back packer murders and other assorted violent crimes in the big bad city. And now of course, there's the serial killer.
Everyone's talking about it. There's daily stories on the news, in the papers, and of course the crack pot theories of the general public. The police are denying it of course, claiming that the dead bodies aren't neccesarily related, that they're "continuing investigations"... but it's true. There's a serial killer,and he could be coming to a location near you. Or worse, near me.
So I don't hitchhike anymore. Besides, It's too hard making conversation. If you're too friendly they think they're going to get something for the lift, and if you're too quiet they accuse you of not being grateful. Then of course there's the religious freaks, the motherly types and the middle aged men with wandering hands syndrome. I've had a few bad experiences on the road and at least one very lucky escape, I can tell you.
Thats why I don't hitchhike anymore. Especially at night. On some lonely roads it's so dark there isn't even starlight to see by.It's totally black and still, and you feel as if you're all alone in the world.When a car comes along,I get caught in it's headlights like a startled 'roo . The night is far too dark to be out here alone.
I don't think I'll hitchhike any more. It's too late and the traffic is thin. The only rides I've been offered are ones with truckies, and I never take lifts with them.They never want to stop anywhere except a those big,well-lit truck stops and their CB radios are constantly chattering in the background. Far too distracting.
I don't think I'll hitchhike any more. walking for hours on this endless, empty highway, standing by the off-ramps hoping for the right lift to come along, while the police are everywhere looking for the serial killer. No, I don't think I'll hitchhike any more.
Then he stops... backs up to where I'm standing on the shoulder of the highway and rolls down the passenger window. He's about fifty, with a beer gut and a stupid grin on his face, asking me if I want a lift while he's checking me out. Like I don't know what's on his mind. And I smile a big cheesy smile and open the door, making sure he gets a good look at my legs while I think about the knife in my back pack. He wont know until it's too late. And neither will they. And I promise you mum.. Just one last time. And then I wont hitchhike any more.