Twenty Little Poetry Projects

 Twenty Little Poetry Projects: 2020

The Earth is holding her breath
But it’s okay we have another on standby
The television tells us she’s ringing
Wake up and smell the bacon
Taste the truth. She’s quaking.
In Melbourne 2020
We only have one Earth
But nothing’s bad going to happen
Right?! #stayathome
It’ll change if they do the same?
#stayathome
The good hear the call of danger
And act in order to change her.
The rain won’t wash it away
The heat won’t burn it out
It won’t buckle to the shouts
It’ll reach East, West, North, and South.
The Earth is holding her breath
Humans need to give her a rest.
Next year, we’ll gather the rosebuds of May
Climb mountains, and seize the day.
It’s the creative strength
That’ll battle the invisible
Right there from our window sills.

Dreams

 Dreams

In the dark of the witching hour
The moon beamed through her open door
And wafted across the snowy blanket
Falling deep in her chocolate hair.
Beyond her eyes, the world was spinning
Away in her highland castle
She followed the stag through the wood
Resting beside a babbling brook.
The colours filled her heart with warmth
Her eyes sparkled, she was happy
The stag stood bold, strong and tall
Among the rocky grey stones.
She dreamt of peace and harmony
She dreamt of the present and history.

Yeah

 Yeah

Sitting on the steps of Flinders
Her dress was the best mess
A shower of sunflowers unexplored
the snug caterpillars float
In little rocky sailing boats.
Yes, she was all alone
Lost in sea of epic emotions.

Places

Places

Up in the hills of Merri Creek
Dancing around my red brick walls
I breathe in the eucalyptus
Listening to urban laughs and tram bells
Wrapped in blankets of holidays past
Dreaming of the day I can leave
Just so I can come home again.

Nonsensical Confusion

I almost spoke them

Two and three letters.

Would be all it takes

to break the chasm.

But these walls just won’t be broken,

banterous words left unspoken

everyday is a decision

to honour this fixed deletion.

I felt the presence

and I took a breathe

to let out, a sound

but nothing happened.

It’s like standing from a tall bridge

colours of the world mesh into one

I can’t tell a snake from a sparrow

it’s just something I used to know.

That old man

Alone upon the mountainside
Our hero hid and cowered
Born of Dickensian yuletide
He persona was rather dour.
His sandy hair was stiff as straw
His hat feeble and frail
His feet cemented to the floor
cold on his mountainside jail.
Glaring down into the valley
He chided his creators
Captivated infinitely
Upon a sea of haters.
Alone upon the mountainside
Our hero watched and wondered
Weathered, beaten, and cockeyed
What life had he plundered?