On Tuesday past I heard the news,
a best friend passed away.
And with the spectre as my muse,
I still have things to say.

The time to say goodbye is here,
our very last tomorrow.
But no amount of words I pen,
can dull our pains of sorrow.

when I heard that you left us here,
I hid my phone and cried,
my pillow, captured all my tears,
but inside, I felt I'd died.

One could not write nor words express,
mere words would not define -
my head was swirling emptiness,
yet you were on my mind.

Yet in this swirling emptiness,
your character shone through
and as our words may well attest,
we are blessed to have known you.

Your smile was like a work of art,
and made the rains feel warm,
while your hugs could warm the coldest heart
and quiet any storm.

You always took us places to which
we never thought we'd go.
For knowing you our lives are richer,
that we are sure we know.

Your car trips were, how should I say -
unique, to say the least?
It was hard at any time, on any day,
to find room for our feet.

But your car was an expression of
the way you chose to live.
You were always moving, always on,
so that mess we shall forgive.

Every rose has thorns and such,
and yes - you had a few.
Your thorns were that you loved too much,
and thought more of us than you.

As a flower, you outshone them all
and all here would agree.
That Risa, Marisa, Mariarosa,
You are THE Rose of the sea.

What tomorrow brings, we'll never know,
but do well to take your aim.
To remember all the life you showed,
and look forward all the same.

So now we say goodbye sweet friend,
while today our tears are rife.
We know that we shall meet again,
in another perfect life.

miss you risa.

I sit and dwell on the day that's been
and marvel at the things I've seen.
The people who along the way
have shined their light upon my day.

Their glowing face and warming smiles
have helped me through my daily trials.
Their spirit and their open hands
have helped me now to understand
that life is not about ones self
but instead of others we might help.

So as I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord their souls to keep
and surely as the rising sun,
help me to love them, Every one.

Late at night I'd write my lines, denial at my side,
Defiant words to fool you into thinking life was fine,
But stubborn have I always been, and stubborn am I still,
As a bird I perch here flightless, lacking passion, lacking will.

Although my heart seems armoured now, wings hide the underneath,
The fragile wings are paper thin, a cover for my grief...
For every friend I've hurt or lost, a feather torn and missing,
My pond reflects a pale sight, an ugly bird of skin.

Feathers grow, and flight will come, but I wonder at what cost,
Will these feathers ever number more than all the friends I've lost?
A bird of skin, in silence waits, without a song to sing.
It's not just will that grounds me, for I am a broken wing.

As I perch, atop my tree, watching others fly around,
I look upon my ugly skin, my feathers on the ground...
The realisation hits me now, I cannot grow these by myself,
My feathers need another's hand, I need another's help.

My talons, they relax their grip, from the tree of bitter grief,
And as I fall and hit the ground, I feel pain and relief.
Pain lies amongst my feathers torn, with all the friends I've lost,
Relief, my tree looks different now, I've fallen at the cross.  

A shooting star and thoughts of you,
its passage unconfined.
The frozen fire faded through,
and you were on my mind.

I see your eyes, that mesmerize.
My heart does skip a beat.
Your beauty gives me butterflies.
Your face it haunts my sleep.

Your faithfulness amazes me.
Your own strength you do not know.
But I see things that lie beneath,
And still your beauty grows.

You are my little miracle,
my diamond in the sky.
Blessed beyond all that's measurable,
and I'm stunned, and wonder why.

I skip a beat, My heart laid bare.
A star and thoughts of You,
And I stop to hope that you somewhere,
had seen the same star too.

Eleven years of drought. Eleven years of singed brown grass and burning sun, searing heat and red dust storms. The final page on an eleven year chapter was finally turned today. It was a long hard day in a long hard weekend. Seven and a half hours of driving on three hours sleep. Too many painkillers on an empty stomach, a mere formality to keep the rolling headaches at bay. The death of a grandmother changes people. Seeing the giants of your life, men that resemble misfit members of a biker gang, silenced, choking on words and struggling to hold back the tears.
Veritable Giants laid low.

But despite the pain, the loss and the grief, the weekend was good. At first glance it doesn't look an attractive way to spend a weekend. Beauty is in the details. Details, like being forced to travel an extra two hours out of my way, on an already too long five and a half hour trip to pick up a Great Aunty that I didn’t even know. I had already dubbed her "the great mothball" before I had even arrived at her house simply because I had gotten lost on the way, and was in a bad mood because I was failed “street directory reading 101”. “The Great Mothball” turned out to be the most switched on, funny, enthusiastic 76yo I had ever met. She knew all the family history and made all the jokes. She knew everything, and was always right. I think it’s an old-person thing. I learned I need to be a little less pretentious, and not to judge.

Details in the way our family came together and for once the petty little arguments that have been tearing us apart didn't matter anymore. I realised we are a family. One that is dysfunctional, painful and outright embarrassing at times, but a family nonetheless.

Beauty in the way that people whom I had never even met had travelled over six hours in the heat to say goodbye to a woman they hadn’t seen in six years. Seeing one of the eighty year old farm neighbours from the next farm sitting alone watching people at the wake because he was too shy to talk to anyone, and too polite to impose. And seeing my relatives race to pull him too their table to make the sweet old man feel welcome.

The beauty in seeing small town respect, as the funeral procession passes, people on the streets stop and remove their hats. They stop mowing the lawn, or pull over the car and switch the headlights on, and stand silent in respect.

But most of all, it was seeing the land the way it was meant to be. Bright Red soil. Deep Green Grass. I think this was the most beautiful detail of all, for me and my Mum. The drought has browned the land from the time that my Grandfather died. The past eleven years have seen scorched earth, dried grass and no rains, for the farms, and for the family. But today, when we set her to rest by her late husbands side, there was a sense of completion. A season of drought and barrenness in life had changed. The family could finally turn to see a different landscape. The chapter had come to an end. Two lives that were woven together had finally come to rest together amongst the green grass and yellow flowers in a slowly growing cemetery outside a slowly dieing town. And the Land was finally as it was when they were younger, when my mother was a child. After eleven years of drought, my mother saw the land as it was meant to be.
Flourishing... with life.... Green.

Frogs are dancing under the morning bridge
watching the first arcs of sunlight make contact
with the silver treetops that shiver when subjected
to the cool dawn winds

 The creek scampers downhill over stones
and around tall Gum trees standing watch,
desperate to meet the river and dive under
to the security of its dark depths

The river wanders aimlessly, splashing,
talking amongst itself like a crazed man
pushing up against the giant rocks and cliffs
but they push back unmoved.

And as the little waves and ripples fall back

From the rocks, landing atop one another
they catch tiny precious diamonds of light,
only to lose them to the depths.

 As the morning sun begins its daily journey
nature sings tunes to its strange creations,
and creation responds in kind harmony.
And the frogs continue dancing.

The torn edge of the paper quivers at every kiss
of the motionless pen held in trembling hand

Deep in lost memories, a teardrop forms and runs,
following the path of countless tears already freed.

Paper discolours and curls as drops of pain and regret
hang suspended, slipping, to dampen the page

Deepest silent expression spoken into existence
through the dark earthy voice of the flowing ink
as it curls and rolls itself into a language of loss.

As the tears continue to form, run and fall,
the ink on torn paper continues to fade and smear

And as I look now, I see the marks of these years
and realise my grief and pain has faded with my tears.

you burn with tongues of disparagement
with all the zeal of extinguished flame
your heart faded black with bitterness
pray, can you see I'm not the same?

what was, has been, cannot be changed
in the past lies lost and damaged
but to project the past on future mine,
holds your heart bound and packaged

Untie the bonds of the bruised cords
that constricting hold your heart to pain
pray, let it live and breathe once more
pray, learn to love and trust again

i'll not live with the sting of failure,
though at times i may fail in place
as im standings strong and tightly held
in saving mercy, and saviours grace

30.07.04

faded black

you burn with tongues of disparagement
the zeal of extinguished flame
a heart turned black with bitterness
pray can you see im not the same?

what was, has been, cannot be changed
in the past lies dead gone
but to project the past on future mine,
is as sad as words are wrong

i'll not live with the sting of failure,
though at times i may fail in place
because im standing strong and holding on
to small mercies and some grace...

a teardrop forms six months on...
it swells as it looks upon the heart

these days as i walk away
forging new growth, new life
the dust settles on the old
and i fool myself into thinking
that i am leaving, moving on

but the teardrop knows.

I say my heart is strong
now six months farther on
but its strength is as a
coloured paper recess
floating over sands.

I see the bright cover
and think thinking that im done
I look underneath at shifting sand
And I am overcome...

I tell myself that this will pass
and wish they could see my sorrow
but talk with them is fragile
and the words i say are borrowed

I say my heart is strong
now six months farther on
but the teardrop knows
and it swells and falls
breaking on the floor.

this perfect priceless romance
her presence carried in her face
her love is in her smiles
her eyes gateways to innocence
her beauty shining outwards
enveloping all who surround
yet she outshines these shadows
being brighter in beauty still
this perfect priceless romance
would not be traded for the world
even though this image perfect is
yet to be touched, yet to be held

how long

how long will you hold to your grief?
how long will you black the sun?
how long will your nights be black and starless?
how long till your mind is set to
climb the wall that stands in your way?
Pray, let your yes be yes.
Pray, let your no be no.
I will not stand in your way,
nor chide you as you pass
i will not be the Unwanted either
passed from side to side as you desire
Make up your mind, set your path
be strong and walk on.
i ask again. how long?

what is this self centered apparition
that haunts me night and day?
watching, staring and mocking,
sometimes hidden but always lurking
just behind the next friendship.
This apparition, my dichotomy of self
tearing me in two with constant pressure.
what i am, unbearable
what i want, unattainable
can i break this degenerate cycle
before it takes me again?

The worming cracks are appearing now
with all their intrusive little wants
Eating the paint of your perfect picture
they grow from the tarnished brass frame
that hides the tattered edges of your life
Petty disputes and shallow conversation
as I pass I see your paper recess tearing

Can you not see your sky is falling?
Or do you spend days with eyes turned down
for the fear of glimpsing the sun?
Or do the years of fear and hurt
frame the crumbling life you live
and call forth the dark clouds
that perpetually rain on your pretty shoes

Time calls me from your troubled image of friction
so as I move on, please consider this my valediction.

my heart is fragile
to tread is to break
to tiptoe on edge
cracks the delicate casing
yet you stomp like a child
playing carefree in puddles
for all the stomping
i will never let you see
so you will never see it break

your heart of sand is always moving
shifting its position
moving with every gentle caress
of a warm summer wind
breaking and running with
the cold kiss of a winters dawn

The claws of time had left their scars
in days before we met,

But you never let Aiôn take you;
young in spirit were you yet.

Every week you would greet me,
at times we'd sit and talk at length

But gradually handshakes weakened,
something sapping you of strength.

There was something in you, growing;
it was determined to have its way.

For ten years it should have conquered.
For ten years you chose to stay.

Now finally it seems times scythe has risen up,
and cut you down,

The illness you were fighting,
now a spectre, sable gowned.

I think of the advice you gave,
and wonder how much i will use,

At times like this i ponder,
with the spectre as my muse.

There are none who are left standing,
when kissed by the blade of death,

But you conquered for a while,
leaving hope for those who are left.

Now that your age has ended,
fading with the passing of the hearse,

Your smiling face lives in our hearts,
Your memory in this verse.

my feet are cold blocks
of ice that chill my body
oh damn you thin socks

a mind in turmoil is a place of fear
no where to run, no one to hear
with silent scream, and unseen tear
caressing gentle cheek with smear

a heavy heart makes long the day
inept to move, inept to stay
life is obstacle, thrown in the way
to foil the path, to drag away.

but morning abates the night, its true
and through clouds, the sky, of deepest blue
and in this time, im working it through
with pen, paper, me and you.

The mirror at my hallways’ end shows a pale, ugly sight.
Cheerless face disfigured by many years of pain and hate.
the chipped wooden edge, silent witness through the glass
For years I’ve stood transfixed to this image from the past

I turn to face the crooked door, a lonely paint-chip falls
to the worn rug often trodden but never really cleaned
with each step I notice tiny cracks hiding in the ceiling
my walk down the hallway now a journey of my healing


The unhappy photos that lined the hallway of my mind
the pain i held so tight and long in bitter twisted hands
faded photo's falling from the frames that held them so
my fingers are uncurling because this time I'm letting go

these years stood by and watched me age
and saw the tender pages turn
from those held soft in innocence
to those where common-sense was learned

through the seasons i often scraped
my lines deep in the waking dust
I would spend the day fighting for
a friend that i would always trust

many times my sword was raised
with others in the one brave line
to battle odds and demons both
in dark times hearts would always shine

ive always fought for little ones
too weak to break out to freedom
ive fought with friends that needed me
to support their cause and free them

ive fought for and with the people
but all ive ever really sought
are those who see me valuable
and those ones who for me fought
ive had people fight beside me
but i want someone to fight for me

a mind in turmoil is a place of fear
no where to run, no one to hear
with silent scream, and unseen tear
like a child running from the dark

a heavy heart makes long the day
inept to move, inept to stay
life is obstacle, thrown in the way
to snatch us, with bony hands

but morning engulfs the night, its true
and through clouds the sky, of deepest blue
and in this time, im working it through
with a keyboard, and updateable text file

the unhappy photos that lined the hallway of my mind
the pain i held so tight and long in bitter twisted hands
faded photo's falling from the frames that held them so
my fingers are uncurling 'cause this time i'm letting go

Do not move the Ancient Boundary stone
For your forefathers placed it there
It’s primal songs still hold their honest tune,
the notes give knowledge to those who Hear
It’s place, a written image to the ages,
bringing timeless truth’s to times of change.
Hope bringing familiar hue to unknown tone
a guidepost, strong as the land is aged.
Without it, youthful ignorance drives us on,
No sign to tell us “You Are Here”,
So do not move the Ancient Boundary stone.
Your forefathers placed it there.
prov22:28

do not move the boundary stone
your forefathers placed it there
its security a hidden treasure
a guide to knowledge, given to all who care

Its place, a written image through the ages
its feel, an unmoving compass through the times
Its symbols bring familiar to unfamiliar
making good lifes inconsiderate fold lines

without it youthful ignorance loses us
no sign speaks "you are here", so,
do not move the boundary stone
your fathers placed it there.

in this trouble world of plenty
where a lonely tear drop falls
and the struggle through the petty pace
leaves you broken all alone

yet the longing for intimacy
leaves you weak and frail
all the desperate cry's of loneliness
are all to no avail

im sorry for breaking what we had
just us becomes just you just me
and all the flowers are dead or fading
in the just us garden we were cultivating

my heart is fragile
to tread is to break
to tiptoe on edge
cracks the fragile casing

the heart of sand is always moving
shifting its position
moving with every gentle caress
of a warm summer wind
breaking and running with
the cold kiss of a winters dawn