on the waves

of cries
and applause
through walls

like chords
that flooded,
off resonant notes

blending bright
invisible colours on walls
in a splash

we rose,
in gushing waves,
in rich
and creamy

seven colours
to one
beam of resolve.


Dance of Forms

The flicker of a fleeting flame
dancing by,
waves of
sensuous light
blurred atop a breath of hollow
heat like a vacuum in air.

formless waves
shading the eyes from
the bold and the bounce of light
in lines

the mind doesn’t know what it cannot see;
we think in soft lines and powdered tints

the mirror stands bare
but the images
snuffed, wisp away.

The Name

The heirloom
The map
The timeline
The uncut cord

Like a rope down a mountain
Or a rope from a ceiling

The name
From deep caves
And torn down ships
And hidden chests
In ancient scrolls
Spanning kilometres

Between strange places
Once solid
Once called home.


The horse rocks like it believes it’s on water
in the heart of the gold-tinted living room;
pink and white plastic imprinting itself onto
the explosions of brown and red and beige
patterns made of itchy scratchy wool
that mother says I should not roll on
or eat from.

The brown and red and beige smells of restless feet
rustling around the room
in anxious anticipation
of its impending departure
from the comforts of the itchy scratchy sound of static
from the chunky black box in front of me.

I think of feet on asphalt,
the blistering hot tarmac
where the planes rest
before they growl and
rip through the sky,
ready to take me far
far away
from the comforts of
home sweet home.

Human Nature

Faith shattering,

Through Earth
it leaves shudders
like earthquakes
in our moral bones

We pray
We cry
We turn away

From problems The World can’t fix
amplified through time– sixty years
of discourse

fall Silent on
Selective Ears
too afraid
to let go of privilege.

and oceans apart
we cannot help

We cannot sleep

Our universal heart pounds to the sound
angry people being angry at angry people being angry at

We Sit in our seats
so Far away, so detached from problems
about foreign wars that course through our veins
like poison
straight to the brain,
We watch as hope starts to slip away

with our race
Racing to kill itself off, racing
to blame each
other racing to Hate and Kill and kill
and Kill and kill and kill and

Take a deep breath.

There’s still air
the morning after.

There’s Still air
too Thick to Breathe.

lungs Filled with Blood –
there’s still Air –
breathing Too Loud –
There’s StiLl air
gurglinG tHrough Mud
We Can’T IgNore The ChoKIng

Borderline Passive Aggression

The implication of something fresh,
Your heart races at New,
Implying that what you had
Was old
i.e, stale and boring.
No more: a breath of fresh air.

New is an indication of endless possibilities,
Ones you once gave up,
A reminder that maybe what’s old was a matter of perspective.

She’s new.
And New can mean two things.

It will continue being new
Or it will wither to old.
Do you maybe have a choice?

Perhaps this new provides rush
The off beat, the suspenseful, the unknown.
Never boring
while still new.

Because shiny new beats dullness any day,
Wouldn’t you say?
Wouldn’t you say it beats the monotony?
Or maybe in your words it’d give you hope for a new, un-envisioned future. Maybe that would wake you up with a smile on your face; and you would carpe the New diem.

Maybe then.
Maybe then New will remain new.
And old will cease to exist
from the tip of your tongue
from the creases of your lips.