Hope’s Needle: a thread

 

embroidering new
morning glory
pajamas, well worn
frayed, too short

under your breath
tomorrow, we water
daffodils, and spread joy
with roses bloomed

needle and threads
a mixed posy of
spring colours, carefully
sewn, with hope

 

 

Copyright February 2019

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Bachelor of Arts

afternoon, after the heatwave breaks

 

humidity on the skin

clammy droplets of sweat

sliding down

 

outside, the wind roars

through the gum trees

and the chimes in the gardenia

 

above, the ceiling fan whirrs

stirring particles

from the undusted porcelain dolls

 

little room for feet

two chairs, two tables, one book shelf

and the computer desk

 

mum’s nudes on the wall

a bedazzled orange cockatoo

and a musty old degree

 

bachelor of arts

 

 

 

Copyright February 2019

 

 

Poem written for an online course I’m doing on how to make a poem.

No feedback as yet!

 

 

Soul Armageddon

it’s a soul armageddon

the wailing hurts my ears

and I wish them all back to purgatory

 

{what a fruitless occupation

hovering centimetres under the soil

waiting for the end of time

and a promised resurrection

to sit at the right hand of a creator

surely bored to the max

with all the bickering and violence

of beings who refuse to grow up}

 

I wish them all back to purgatory

as their wailing hurts my ears

and my mind takes a violent turn

 

I dream that my soul rules the world

nay, the whole universe

 

I suck up galaxies with one thought

and vomit planets into orbit

 

I create suns the size of frying pans

sizzle onions in the afterburn

 

and lay politicians, softly to sleep

behind thickets of blackberry thorns

only to be woken by a kiss

from the offspring of forgiving asylum seekers

on the penultimate day of never ever

 

it’s a soul armageddon

and I’m the first to rise screaming

leaving earth behind in my wake

 

 

 

Copyright February 2019

 

 

… and so it begins

I sat myself down and spoke sternly

with a mouthful of swallowed expletives

and a tongue sharpened by iced tea and finely honed peach stones

 

“you must write liebchen!”

 

stubbornness echoed as loudly as words

{especially those not uttered aloud}

 

“really sweetie, you know you’ll feel better if you do!”

 

sullenly I pick up the pen

{and hope it leaks all over the smug face of the blank paper fairy as she dances between the lines}

 

… and so it begins

 

 

 

 

Copyright February 2019