I looked back once and already it was fading,

Like a single blood drop in a sizeable heart of water,

Softening away with the enigmatic speed of musing,

For a second, second I felt something while I was gazing,

Liquefying my insides were not about any sort of order,

Sunken reason, knew all too well that it wasn’t worth refusing…

So I looked back twice and gasped at my own foolishness,

Feeling braver than a red sun oddly rising on a gloomy day,

As if the improbable is nothing, like a kiss without a forlorn stare,

From first light to just before last, rid of all prudishness,

It was a little less now, as it seemed immeasurably further away,

Not so much as a whisper secreted through the touch of lips that dare…

So I looked back a third time as if I had something special to tell,

Something so profound time would surely give back what it has taken,

So that all my spoken words could at least soften and free my one feeling,

But I’m afraid it was just the questions that burned me straight to hell,

Opening the ground beneath me as it was my entire world that was quaking,

Overwhelmed utterly with a peculiar sense of falling I finally grasped the meaning…

It would seem I was always looking forward at what lay before me,

Through glistening tears that blurred memories that were,

Mirroring phantasms of what I thought of you,

Apart, there’s something rattling loose and free,

Of its resolution one cannot be quite so sure,

At the very least, both our hearts are true…


Third Side

Who ever tells the third side of the story,

That witness account that’s never really perceived?

Without even a voice to state the lies poorly,

Or a mechanism to believe that we ever disagreed,

There was me and what I was long ago told,

Together with a wisdom watered down by exploits,

And there was you, with what you will keep until you old,

More than a passionate faith that punctuated your points,

I saw, you heard, but did either one of us really feel,

Anything beyond that singular first-person basin,

Something pulling our insides outside of our real,

To expose the epitomes that we were both chasing?

The Lover

It was like being caught in the stillness,

Of a great sprawling pine forest,

Carpeted with an infinite number of needles, orange and splendid,

That first time that I saw her…

Was she appearing or disappearing I failed to ask,

Shimmering between the odd oak or gum tree,

Like wild lilies in a spinning world,

Seen through the eyes of a child, dancing in the wind, daring the skies…

It is innocence that invites hope to come out and play,

Like those little fairies with their tiny feet,

Somewhere in the moss, a beautiful thing thriving in the dark and wet,

I didn’t expect any regrets…

It was impossibly too early to be contemplating complications,

Thick like brambles that dangle their berries,

On twisted branches littered with thorns that beg the question,

Was I indeed thinking when I reached for that flower?

I guess not, but neither do those five horse when they frolick in the sun,

Or those curious birds with their instruments serenading the shadows,

As if it was the most natural thing to do,

I was simply drawn to you…


I waited like an empty bench in a botanical garden,

Waited as if I expected the showers to pass,

Weighted by half-answers from an unrelenting past,

I felt like waterfalls weeping from the streams that feed them,

But I believed in us…

Believed enough to spend rainy days building fires,

Scars and burns upon my fingers,

Counting the cold misty nights,

Waiting until caterpillars turn to butterflies,

Only to see moths dead by the candle light…


I loom,

Large like a mountain with a ridge like a Hog’s back,

The winds blow loud enough to reprise the voices,

They bring more clouds…

On the muddy path I thought was less travelled,

The forever-foraging black ants secret away pieces of my heart…

Purging Hearts

Purging hearts,

When searching starts,

Then when we felt most apart,

Uncertain loss,

From a fate at fault,

Dawdling through an unforgotten past,

Purple spots,

The fertile drops,

Of mirth that smudges where it stops,

Hurting throbs,

Where the thirsting is from,

Darkening the scarlet in the eye of the strop,

Irking plots,

Of pairs lurking in lots,

Paste the conniptions of needs and wants,

Urgent harks,

Hear the reoccurring sobs,

It is I and others in a seemingly changing cast,

Virgin masks,

Its’ disturbing what’s lost,

An innocence that makes deception an art…