Poetry & Song Lyrics
A place where my poetic licence is practiced.
There are only minuses, my mind knows this. Yet my heart still longs for the smell, for the taste; for the tacit implication of wanting something I know is hurting me. But such is the drug,
In your secret smile, I see vixen’s teeth, Tearing at my hide To get to the meat beneath. In your furtive glance, I see eagle’s eyes, Watching for me to run
Another set of song lyrics I wrote in a single flash recently - sometimes these things virtually write themselves
According to some I’ve never had much form Always been considered a middle runner But you know what they say When your stand out in the pack You’re really noticed
The evidence was damning; There was nothing I could say To deny the existence Of the terrible deceit I’d hidden. I tucked it in the pages Of some forgotten book on a shelf
The night rained streamers, Red, blue and green, Out of gunpowder clouds. We held hands Under a woolly blanket Not to keep warm But purely for our own Licentious joy.
In the back lot Behind an old grease factory A hulking metal shell Is trying its hardest to return To the earth from where it once came Rust flowers on its doors Have blossomed and climbed
As I get older, I find myself less inclined to grace and tolerance towards those who show none for others. I teeter-totter on the edge, berating lack-of-indicators,
I wanted to give you something You’ve never been given before Something deserved To make you think Before you speak in future And bash someone else senseless
Thanks to those who offered advice - hopefully this reads even better now. Please let me know what you think.
If I was trapped under an avalanche If I was being thrown to the lions If I was caught in the middle of a riot I wouldn’t want to be with you If I was carrying a deadly infectious disease
It is a great distance for a single man to cover Between being alone in the world to taking a lover The intimacy required is never easily expressed
I watched a bird Regard a post Like it was an alien tree As I watched A thought occurred “What would the bird think of me?” Do I even rate In the bird’s view
I reached out Waiting for my hand To be slapped away As it had been before Even though mine was alone Despite being surrounded By silent stronger types You grabbed at me
I’m dining on memories, Snacking on snippets of conversation, Gobbling stolen glimpses, Eating up everything I remember Of you as you were. I loved the you I remember;
Underneath, there is a fluid Running through the soil and sandstone Blood dark and rich with tales Buried deep and weighed down with buildings
The tools for escape are many But we require only a few A beautiful day, each other’s company A pleasant repast and a bottle or two There is no scratching holes in walls
Where are my words? My considered responses, And the little pieces of wisdom I try to impart? In a single glitch they’re sucked up into the ether Before I can post them.
The only truth she knows Comes and goes The more she tries to reckon And the lads outside Laugh and deride her Yet her traitorous eyes still beckon She opens her doors wide
An entry for this week's Inspiration Point. Inspired by Nymph's story - see it here http://www.abctales.com/story/nymph/kissing-games
Buried amongst olive green leaves Pink camillias attract a brilliant flash Yellow and white but barely seen The Honeyeater does his mad dash Beyond, in the tall Norfolk pine
They gather in their winter coats; Stare off distantly. I nod and smile and stand a while; They say not a word to me. They strip the trees, raze the ground Give over all they find.
Summer is a drunk musician Playing our favourite song. Winter is a wizened man Trying to sing along. Autumn is a widowed matron Sitting off to one side. Spring is a hot-headed teen
I shall ask no more of you, For your scuppered charms won’t hold. Time has enveloped you kindness, Stolen your once-strong resolve. Yes, I shall ask no more of you
You laughed at me so hard, It made you cough and splutter; Tears poured from your eyes As you pounded your sides and choked. I woke in the night crying and wondering
Your mother, she wanted peace But your brother, he wanted war, So they put a gun in his hand Told him what he was fighting for. Truth be told he didn't care, All he wanted was the fight;
Your grasp of my logic is limited by the effort required for you to listen and not simply hear the sounds coming out of my mouth. I’m not here tomorrow; the show ends today.
When I woke up this morning, I couldn't find my happy trousers so I had to put on my grumpy pants instead. I didn't want to put them on, They're scratchy and itchy And make me cranky.
A mealy mouthed bird With hair so absurd I thought she was a he cross dressed Throws words like punches In garbled bunches She has so much to get off her chest Across the wide bar
Clock hands catch missing time As a new days looms and knits Into a sunrise on the horizon The ocean wears white caps Of tidings from faraway places Carried by favoured currents
I've been reading about different forms in poetry and remembered a Pantoum I'd written some time ago. I thought I'd post it here to see what others thought of the form.
Inspired after reading an account about contestants for the next edition of 'America's Top Model' rioting in New York.
You said I stank while I thought I smelt good for a boy who’d be playing all day in the sun with a ball and a stick and a small dog with a big bark.
I started writing this for the 'Red Dress' competition last year but never finished. Finally, the last stanzas came to me. Hope you enjoy it.
A first draft of song lyrics - it is amazing what listening to some great new music does for me. More to follow...
Yet another set of song lyrics - looking at trying to post a few of these on a music blog soon - for those interested, I will post a link here.
Olive-tipped white bones press up against the sky; release a haze of blue over the Great Divide.
Rambutan - a lychee-like fruit that grows in south-east Asia - particularly Malaysia, Thailand and Indonesia.
Its not even winter in Australia yet and I'm already wishing it were summer.
It makes sense if you understand musical terms.
On the 25th of November, Australia celebrates White Ribbon Day, a campaign to stop violence against women. This poem was written as a response to reading some of their stories.
What becomes of the rebellion if the rebels are no more? What happens to the message if the voice is old and poor? Where do all the good songs go if there’s no one left to sing ‘em?
I spend too much time thinking about what I'd do if you were here when your not. Then when you are, I feel kind of awkward and shy, almost like we've...
I watch as the vitality of the day slips into the grey lazy vagueness of dusk. In the backyard next door, some kids are banging on half a 44 gallon...
Life snatches batches of time; of rhythm and cadence; of lasting rhymes that crowd together and explode from my mind in verbal splendor, raw,...
Have you ever seen it rain in Sydney after a hot summer’s day at the beach, when the dark clouds roll in from the ocean so low they’re almost in...
You have the lightest step, you walk on clouds, make it rain. Down in the dumps I live with bitter smiles, collecting pain. But sometimes I look to...