mushrooming fairies and elves
cavort in misty green plots
that naughty toys wait until midnight
to stretch and play
free from children’s hands
in funambule without net
treacherous creatures lurk in the dark
she is a werewolf restrained
until the full-moon
releases the shackles,
bitter salt rises in blood with the king tide
and the throats of lambs will be slashed
and Walter Mitty is harmless
– dream on –
A dive so deep
on that unbearably hot day,
humid air visibly simmering,
dark blue water summoning,
summer weariness and nothing to lose.
Who hasn’t had the dream of the deep dive,
where we are too deep to re-surface,
too deep for unaccustomed lungs –
sinking fast to the bottom,
like a dropped anchor,
trying to make our way back to the top,
toward that world we are supposed to live in,
aching arms pressing though heavy water,
waking in gasps as the air runs out.
The great realisation
on waking from a dream,
you have a second chance.
First published in Summer Edition 2015: Once Upon a Time of the Red Wolf Journal (USA)
Splintered words rising with the heat rising,
off the silver-tongued creek water, flowing
down massive ancient rocks, worn out
with tears from the dreamtime
and winds from the breath of the land,
whispering the secrets, the secrets,
and pooling in the deep waterhole,
while distracted teenagers laugh and free-fall
from stone diving platforms, plunging
into the unknown, sinking to depth
then reemerging to gulp air, and to clamber
up the rocks to do it all over again.
The sun watches as shadows disappear.
You may like to listen to the theme music from the movie Picnic at Hanging Rock while reading my poem.
cool sea spray
infuses the air with salt,
eating fish and chips
There is a place,
a breathing space between where the neat hedge stops
and the garden next door splays,
where the moss spreads cool and green,
where the stars wink with aged beams,
where the spruce hare relaxes and dreams,
warming her fur in the yellowberry rays.
Let us go from this place where the shrill wind screams
down blackened roads and acrid dead ends,
clear of the coal mines and gravestone heads,
walk steadily forward, ignoring the dread,
and the clothes that are sullied and shred,
in search of that space between garden and hedge.
But the way is blurred and the path overgrown
and the memory of clear weather has strayed,
with time the burnished metal has dulled,
with time the mind needs to be oiled,
with time all the sparks have been culled,
so let’s search for the children to show us the way.
Note: This poem was inspired by Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends.
For my lovely children 💝
Dark wine-red eyes hypnotise and draw us in.
The rock star strut and shine with noise, entices
us to come now and stay and play within.
Feel the cutting edge, hard rock vibe, devices.
A succulent fare lures those who travel
to the valley. Dragons with ruby eyes will wait.
Tough, base, reptilian beasts with breath to dazzle
and singe. Razor-sharp claws elate and deflate.
But desolation swallows ecstasy
when the party slows down – and stays too long.
Truth waits in the gutter, exposing debris,
cold rock bottom and used sharps to sit on.
His hidden knife stabs John Doe’s thin white skin
and rank, dark guts, spill out – the two worlds spin.
Many have fallen in The Valley
photo by Michael Bryden
Elves slave for Santa
freezing in the North Pole,
let’s nip down under
The Elves United
will never be defeated,
don’t tell the boss