In the middle of the night, I start writing in my sleep. I dig through the stories buried six feet deep. I slip between the pages of all twenty five (and counting) books piled by my side as if I’m building a castle trying to reach somewhere sky high — perhaps somewhere behind the moon, beyond the rain.* I surrender into these blackish blue hours, letting worries fade faster than winters daylight.
Before long, the words begin to float across the page in unison like a fleet of tiny ships floating across a sleepy ocean under the brightest moon. All night long, words glide through my mind like lullabies — and I forget the world and its nightmares and dream on about the stories I try desperately to write. …
Our world is dying,
but we say long live the world — as panic rises and chaos ensues.
Soon the city streets will be empty of life and its beat —
but full of ghosts and shards of broken hearts.
Hope has been flat-lined,
can’t feel it breathing.
We wait to exhale.
This ain’t living.
Tis the season for joy to be sucked out of the remaining festive spirits.
In an age of so much darkness and little light,
memories of yester-years cloud the sky then slip away. …
You are alone. There is trauma between your teeth, your mouth is full of blood, your head is full of ghosts and your empty hands are stuffed in pockets full of grief. Your indifference to this gnarly Universe of jagged edges and endless tragedies — has hit its peak. Overwhelmed by the outpouring of pity and exhausted from over thinking, this is the loneliest place to be. Wayward emotions submerge you in your own ocean, a castaway with heavy limbs resigned to isolation — drowning as you breathe. Every ray of sun hits your skin differently now. Your mind creates compositions from broken pieces of memory, so out of reach — but vivid somehow. …
The edge of winter finds me seasoning my guts with lemon, ginger and honey — and a hopeless longing for warm hands, summer sun and wanderlust money.
I can’t stand the cold. I resent being made to shiver and curse at this ridiculous life. By late November, my bones are already struggling to bare the drop in temperature. The imposing shadow of dark December lurking along the horizon — does nothing to ease my mind or soothe my soul.
Today, I spied a crescent moon high above bottle green leaves — against the icy blue sky at 3:30 in the afternoon as a pale orange, candyfloss cloud floated on by. All at once, life became sublime like Sunday mornings— and fading hopes began to flutter once again like butterflies. …
I send an SOS up to the stars.
I look internally, inside my eyes
to find something more
than deserts without rain —
and other castaways deserted on lonely shores.
I seek to expand my consciousness
to understand what has been known before,
with the world on my shoulders — I’m weary,
my flesh and bones ache at the upside-down mess we’ve made.
The things we have done — that can not be undone. …
Everywhere is chaos and bad news,
disturbed peace warps my worldview.
This seems like one of those times when I’ll trip and fall right into you.
Always dreaming as I gleam the stars appearing in your eyes,
I’m chasing some kind of utopia with each eastern sunrise.
Find me south of any border —
drunk on tequila as the sky dusks the day out of sight,
heart pounding as it pours into your palms and tears sting in my eyes.
Marley said ‘no woman, no cry.’
It’s all in vain
— but we still get so high.
Don’t look down —
just pretend we’re aeroplanes flying across midnight skies.
Don’t wake me up tonight.
Nothing is permanent.
But grief never dies.
An inevitable dark hole,
a leach upon your soul —
as you scatter like shattered pieces of ice.
Aching, breaking, broken open —
as the world refuses to pause or take a slower more considered breath.
It spins on.
Chasing the Sun through the rain
as you are drenched in sunsets, moonlight and pain.
You become one with the rain.
A restless deluge falling and falling over and over again.
At times, you are the finest droplets,
barely there — evaporating before you reach the ground.
Your icy soul thaws becoming a river now.
You are carried along by ripples of heartbreak,
carefree dreams, thinking about thinking,
memories that keep you floating and sinking —
and a longing to create moments of joy
that can be stretched out beyond the stars. …
Darkness is the natural state of the Universe,
perfect conditions for foxes and wolves prowling in packs to thrive
across neighbourhoods in the north, south, east or west side
as the dark wraps itself around us in this cold world tonight.
If I could paint the colour of a moment of universal light relief —
I would paint it in this blue shade,
the blue of the ‘blue hour’
in the morning and evening twilight of the bleeding sky.
Every morning witnessed after every night —
affords sober reflection of these maddening times. …
wrapped in slumber
eyelids flickering in a dance
— as moonlight spills in,
illuminating the colours inside vivid dreams
— red, gold, Black and green
the bed interweaves into a desert and the Sea
sand dunes cushioning the head and shoulders —
scatter into warm waves crashing around restless limbs and cold feet
tonight I am a body of water that holds more poetry than the Sea
occasional sighs intertwine with heartbeats in a quiet storm of breathing
a night time lullaby — that is no ordinary symphony
there is rain in the desert and rain on the Sea
what lies beneath and in-between is wild and free
you can’t blame a sleepy satellite for holding onto midnight
not looking down — just falling further into the sky
making a way through an infinite Universe
as a spec of stardust flying…