Poem 30: Siri and Me

Siri and Me

The dangers are not immediately apparent.
You caress my palm oh so gently; I feel safe.
Soon your glowing screen moves from my hand
to nestle cosily inside each neuron and I
experience withdrawal when parted from your weight.
Angry Birds gobble my hours. More are wasted
listening for the chime that means message received;
I exist in the world! I left my iPhone
behind today and after the tremors passed
I really didn't miss it much. Now where did I put it?

Poem 29: Paris in the Rain

Paris in the Rain

Is a cliche that doesn't wipe out
the warmly glowing sandstone buildings
or the shock of white pyramids
painted against an inky sky.
People throng the streets, dashing
between drops, pinpricks of laughter
floating upon a river of red wine.

Poem 28: Morning Coffee

Morning Coffee

A small insect dances on the edge
of my coffee cup. I brush her away
and wonder whether she likes caffeine.
Or is she just taking a rest?
My hand has the power to shake
the foundations of her universe.

Poem 27: Clouded

Clouded

The sky is steel wool this morning,
pressing down on thoughts that run
quicksilver in sunshine. Today, putting pen
to paper resembles wading through mud.

Poem 26: River

River

Water flows while birds
chime crystal sound tapestries
between the clear drops.

Poem 25: Sticks and Stones

Sticks and Stones

To avoid swallowing sharp sound stones I veer round
your words and sketch out precious space between them.
Equilibrium is easily spoiled by words or crunching feet.
When twilight's quiet glow powders rocks and trees
with pink and grey the stream of conversation
stops and silence unfolds within the velvet dusk.

Poem 24: Revenge in a Sophisticated Form

Revenge in a Sophisticated Form

It takes place under fluorescent lighting,
not in dark corners. Key performance indicators
and neatly pressed suits and ties are the tools
of this trade. Everyone sees you leave and they
cover their shame with clickings and murmurings,
a hive of bees busy choosing a new queen.

Poem 23: A Stupid Tree Frog Daughter

A Stupid Tree Frog Daughter

You're an unemployable lazy little shit.
Stop wasting time, be grateful
for what you have, don't be so negative.
the refrain batters through my skull
in sharp red sparks of strident sound.

Now I have legs and a voice I'll damn well sing
and leave you to measure my distance from you
by its chirrup, chirrup until it dies away utterly
to silence steelier than any bird's beak or wasp's sting.

CHIRRUP!

Poem 22: On the Beach

On the Beach

The wind teases hollow bones,
gets inside our secrets and disturbs
our waters. We are forever pulled
backwards and forwards by the ebb
and flow of moon tides announcing
our kinship to the fixed stars.

Poem 21: Fade

Fade

She can't move the bow steadily across the violin strings.
Not because her black dress isn't really warm enough
for this autumn day. Not because the hymns she plays
seem scarcely to penetrate the thick silence with thinned
out sound. She is shorter than the rest so all she saw
of her grandfather was a waxy nose poking out
above the sides of the coffin and now she can't look
at her mother's face. She does not want to see tears
and be reminded she is still an outsider to this grief.

Poem 20: Dialogue with Donne

Dialogue with Donne

Batter my heart, three personed God;
slice through doubts lovingly erected
brick by brick and let them breathe.
Of course, we often don't want You
too big to understand. We like tidy
packages. If You still knock, breathe,
shine and seek to mend, its no thanks
to us. Our door stays firmly shut.
We are afraid our lives will never be
the same and prefer to remain chaste.

Poem 19: Exhibiting the Floods

Exhibiting the Floods

One year on, a chaotic week
has been tidied neatly into graphics
videos, shiny iPad screens and maps.
Virtual mud leaves no mess behind.

Then I notice Anna Bligh's notes,
hastily scrawled, and the glass box
can't cage the nervous energy
and I remember We are Queenslanders,
the people they breed tough north of the border.
On the screen, voices break,
shaping tragedy into quavers of lost sound.

People approach my desk, leaving technology
go, because they want someone to hear
and hold their words within the silence.

Poem 18: Immolation

Immolation

This poem is naked.
I tried tamping down the muse's fire
using a flimsy plastic colander
of grammar and form while the flesh
of my idea melted beneath my hands.
The smoke has reduced my voice
to a hoarse croak, yet I still move
my pen across the page
inch by painful inch.

Poem 17: Olympia

Olympia

There's no avoiding her eyes.
She is naked, but what you see
is her face. She is the subject
of this picture. This is not a performance.

She almost leaps out of the frame,
her head severed by the ribbon
resting upon her neck. But underneath
the challenge I see terror; a caged bird
that has lost the ability to sing,
though she will never admit that.

Poem 16: Ophelia

Ophelia

Even in her distress, she is aware
of an observer. Notice how her head tilts
at an attractive angle, the rich tints
of her hair and luminous skin
in contrast to the green leaves.

Her face is lost in the performance.
Shakespeare killed her but she is now
forever arrested at the moment
before her death and seems almost
unaware of what is very soon to come.

Poem 15: Forbidden Fruit

Forbidden Fruit

Miss White slimline IPad
killed my poem. All its delicate
flavour and subtle imagery
mangled by too clean font
and chopped up lines.

Her shiny screen imparts
a cotton candy sweetness
to my metaphors but the words

come when I turn off her seductive
glare and return to pencil and paper's
crisp and bitter aftertaste.

Poem 14: Trampolining

Trampolining

For a brief moment,
winged angels shrieking with joy
defy gravity.

Poem 13: Walter Crane updated

Walter Crane updated:

If my face is my fortune, I must be completely bankrupt by now!

Poem 12: Salt

Salt

You have long been despised.
A king rejected you; you were
an instrument of punishment
for Lot's wife. Due to her fate
she is remembered but not named.

You inhabit our tears
and the world's oceans,
but still find your way
into the humblest kitchen.
I taste, and remember
that bitterness gives flavour
to the sweetest joy.

Poem 11: Finger Painting

Finger Painting

The breath between God's
finger and Adam's is equal
to the space between Eve's
mouth and the first bite of fruit.
Our humanity exists within
that emptiness.