Words fascinate me; the pronunciation, the meaning, the symbolism. That’s what motivates me to write poetry and short works of fiction. I still haven’t learnt the art, but I hope what I contribute makes some sort of difference.
Words fascinate me; the pronunciation, the meaning, the symbolism. That’s what motivates me to write poetry and short works of fiction. I still haven’t learnt the art, but I hope what I contribute makes some sort of difference.
I don’t like Monday
It is the day that I dread
Alarm clock screaming
“Get the f*ck out of bed!”
I don’t like Monday
With these post-weekend blues
I have to iron my shirt
And polish my shoes
I should have done it Sunday
But then I spend all of my day
Worrying about Monday
And wishing Sunday away
I don’t like Monday
When I cycle to work
Flat tyre, rainy weather
Could this ‘get’ any worse?
I ...
What is life without a purpose? And if you haven’t contributed towards society does that not make you eligible for afterlife?
I question this while my mother’s words swirl at the back of my mind; “You’ll make us proud one day Jules.”
Mr. Creswell’s infamous quote echoed ; “you don’t want to grow up to serve greasy chips at the back of the counter, drive a bus for old phoneys or clean up somebod...
Miles could hear every creek of the cabin. The storm attempted to snap every joint of the wooden vessel. It was the only protection for the Winterberry family.
Creak.
A teary-eyed Robin provided a dim illumination from the candle lit cupcake he held in the palm of his hand. He held it as if it was a newborn dove that had cracked from an egg. Miles could almost taste the the sponge melt in his m...
[More like a caption of a larger book.]
Detective Gunn arrived at the bar and eyed up the young man at the counter. After a polite exchange of details, he asked for the manager.
After several minutes, what sounded like a tyrant, was the the manager stomping in from the kitchen and swinging a joint of ham onto the bar counter. Detective Gunn pressed his hands on his stool to maintain it’s balanc...
Do I belong with the blood ties;
The fabricated weaves,
Of branches entangled that make up my
Family tree
Or do I belong to a network
Of disconnected circuits
That malfunction and black out always leaving me
Powerless
Or do I belong in a circle;
A unity symbol
It bends and disjoins becoming more like a
Triangle
Or do I belong with my mind
Of pure imagination
Where make-believe foreshadows ...
The awkward atmosphere at the dinner table was like thick fog. My father cleared his throat and made some excuse of checking in on the chef. My sheepish mother answered a phone, that never rung. And Maisie was in a dreamlike trance, until whatever demanded her attention became to topic of conversation.
“Kira. Do some of that oriii...gum thing and make me a bird.”
“Maisie, you know-“
“Since al...
A canopy of black umbrellas
Like a bed of blooming lilies
The eerie silence broken by;
The momentum of our tears
Mourners leave after sad goodbyes
The blooming lilies wither
Until one is left at the foot of the coffin
Still shedding a thousand tears
‘Breakaway and spread your wings’
His voice is sharp and clear
‘The death of me does not define you,
So dry up them sodden tears.’
I smile a...
When old folks speak of magic, I see their eyes alight rewinding back to theatre shows in the big cities or holiday coastal towns. Children, are none of the wiser. From young ages, cartoon clowns and generic handsomely-suited magicians spread this ability as if they have milled a thousand stars into stardust. Ha. But magic deceives them into thinking they could reach unimaginable heights of possib...
The rain plummeted down followed by the odd company of thunder. It raged on with gradual flashes of lightning.
I was in the company with my grandparents, looking out the window in awe at the storm. Grandad cracked a joke about God having a good old rummage in the kitchen, clumsily dropping mugs, pans and dishes. I recalled back to the imagination of God having a piddle on the steel urinal basins...
He was a delicate candle
That needed some light
Strike the matchstick
And he’ll light up with a spark
His sweat dripping like wax
Slowly down his skin
Heated friction,
Quickened; as we shared our first kiss
His cologne was spicy
Like the taste of his tongue
Smoky tobacco
His breath; bitter and warm
The fumes were flavourful
But beneath the grey haze
Fireballs alight
I was a moth to a ...