Tag Archives: poetry

“The Lion’s Den”

You chose the space

to make your stand,

suited in your armour

of steely determination.

A room full

of pleasing pieces and textures,

and sheets waiting crisp and white.

The city lights

will twinkle through the glass

to remind you

you are still a part of this world…

…”that girl standing in the window”.

All is comfortable and calm…

enough to make you stay,

or keep you from leaving.

And there you will free your beast.

He leaps from the page

as you rip open the cover,

like an old wound;

to a guttural growl

of a million jumbled words.

But you will stare him down,

til the sound becomes perfect sense…

…afterall, you wrote his snarl

and his purr….


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“Secrets and Time”

I see you struggle

with the slippery creature

that is “time”,

feeling it pick your pockets

as you try to hold it still.

Yet though he is a thief,

he is a kind one,

for as I chased his retreating back

down the years,

he led me eventually to you.

And as we lie in the dark,

hands clasped in defiance of age,

I do not see the lines exacted by time,

only the gift

of love and joy in your eyes.

Our love is not

the selfish and impatient one of youth,

but a grateful and exultant one,

a gently rising passion that releases us

into peace and certainty.

So let time have his pound of flesh!

He cannot touch

the secret dreams and longings

kept pure and new

until now……

until us………


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My love was born

when she was,

pink and sudden,

and unfathomable as a new star.

But I stand before her pain

like a frightened child,

my love ridiculous

and crudely wrapped,


and ultimately useless.

I wait for the silent rebuff,

or the harsh rap across my soul,

stupidly forgetting

that love alone

is never enough.

My words

like caged lions,

destined to pace

roaring and toothless

in the spaces between us.

She cannot see her beauty

reflected in the frozen pool,

so I will give her a new name

where she Waits-by-the-River,

her true self running

just inches and time

below the surface of winter….


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“A Whittlesea Walk”

English poplars

grace the waterways,

tall in regal symmetrical splendour,

leaves fluttering shyly

in faded gold.

The native banksias

prefer a free-form dance

in confident profusion,

proudly owning the soil.

Russet velvet reeds

explode now

into small cream clouds,

like fluffy fledglings clinging to their stalks.

Frogs sing

from their hidden chambers

along the wetlands,

passing on some soggy amphibious secret

that is never known.

Grumbling crowds of cockatoos

eat the seed no doubt left

for prettier parrots and dainty finches,

their yellow crests curling upwards

in oblivious defiance.

Bronze-topped swamp grass

blurs into the softer hue

of an impressionist’s pallet

as I slowly walk away.

Almost leafless trunks

still haunt the top of the distant hills,

totems to fiery summers past,

the gentle hand of a wintering sun

no longer a threat…..

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“Little Lady”….(for Hilary)

You may be small

curled in your bed,

like a tiny sea-shell

rubbed small by sand and sea,

pink in translucent beauty

embedded now in the sandy shore

as life ebbs and flows around you

in inevitable tides of time.

But if I was to hold you to my ear

I would hear an oceanic roar,

of a lifetime lived

in all its joys and despairs,

peaks and troughs,

and the glittering calmness inbetween.

But even in your stillness

there is a quiet tenacity

to remain who you are;

a wonderful jewel of humanity

that has touched many shores…..


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“To Unwin St.”

Who says a house doesn’t have a soul?

rooted in rich composted memories,

reaching skyward

with tender-tipped hopes and plans.

But we had to leave,

and in the end they tore it down,

all dreams scattered to the winds;

all life gone without our breath

to fill each room;

walls like brittle lungs crumbled.

But still my eyes would look that way,

like a deep impression on my flesh

of a hand long held and cherished;

a ghostly tug upon my senses.

Who says a house doesn’t have a soul?


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“Beyond Doubt”

Your words

so plain and loving

I never have to strain

to hear their meaning,

and my imagination

is never forced to fill the gaps

with wishful thinking

or hoped-for intentions.

Your touch

given so freely,

and my heart still soars

in unexpected delight

that it is me you intend to keep.

Suddenly I know why

I walked down certain roads,

wandered in certain deserts,

felt the pain of certain losses;

so I would know beyond doubt

that it is you that I love…..


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