I was hoping they’d last for much longer,
than I really knew that they would,
but time has marched onward determined,
to be counted the way that it should.
So I’m starting to quietly panic,
because no miracle has occurred,
the days have not ceased to diminish,
and work can now not be ignored.
And you know that I really am grateful,
to have a job in these times,
it’s just at the end of the holidays,
I like to have my small whine.
I wish I was fabulously wealthy,
oh, rolling in fistfuls of dosh,
monied up, loaded or just filthy rich,
instead of having to work for my cash.
So I’ll buy a ticket for lotto,
who knows, luck might be with me,
if not, I’ll practice my breathing,
for going back to the 9 to 3.
I had a dream of you last night
I heard your voice, I saw your face
and it woke again the yearning
from it’s quietly slumbering place
that desperate sense of needing
which years have mercifully worn away
the savage grief dispersed
through life’s anaesthetising day
and even though they carry sorrow
I long to dream of you again
to feel that fierce connection
as you quietly call my name
The Yellow Spotted Snortlesnuffle
This poem was prompted by the poem Hugh wrote that I read this morning, got me thinking what signals Christmas to me.
Raspberries and Strawberries,
picked fresh from the bush,
the smell of fresh cut hay,
on a summers evening hush.
A thunderstorm with lightning,
flashing in the dark,
the mouth-watering aroma ,
wafting from bbq’s in the park.
All of this says Christmas,
in the place that I call home,
my island state of Oz land,
what means Christmas where you’re from?
Breathe in the night
quiet fills my wounded heart
filter and exhale