Monday, July 29, 2013


I remember
more heat than cold
steaming days at 40c
swollen rivers, mist rising,
the heady scent of flowers
birds gathering
wrinkled sheets


On The Todd

If by some feat or miracle
I was given a day off
in the middle of the week
Would I sleep late, nestled
with you under cover of a
single cotton sheet
my front cool from the breeze
through the open window
my back hot from the exchange
of our bodies' heat
back to front

Or would I leave you as usual
and walk, not to work, but
instead follow along the dry
river bed, finding myself a cool
grass cushion under the shade
of an old wizened tree
and there take my pen and paper
and trace our body angles and
our uneven breath in phrases
floating across the page

Our unspoken wishes appearing as
small strokes and short lines
which turn eventually to a fine dust
like the ashes left after
a fire has died


Sunday, July 21, 2013


I have run amuck
in days unladen
with inspiration
Duty called my feet
to walk in old tracks
riddled with fresh
I stopped
to listen
there was the voice
of reason
calling me