You stand by a lighthouse smiling warmly.
The Faroe Islands have awakened your words.
You say to me that it may be our home soon.
The desert doesn’t feel rain from a grey sky often.
The sea is a dream for the people of the red earth.
The desert doesn’t understand why you say, “leave.”
I love lighthouses and the many ways of the sea.
The Faroe Islands excites me, yet not with you.
I picture myself alone looking towards the sea.
You stood with me in the desert under no moon.
A million desert stars lit the sky and my heart.
You stood with me to tell me you were leaving.
I will remember the sea and the colour of your eyes.
Such an adventurous soul with a love for denial.
I will take my love for you and bury it in the desert.
The desert knew what the sea felt like long ago.
I will feel the sea flow through my heart again.
You can have the sea for now until it takes you.
Rusty razor blades sitting in the bin,
hairbrushes and combes laying loose.
Bathroom items lounging about,
something fluffy is stuck to the floor.
Empty plastic bottles and bits sit still,
dirty laundry piles up even higher.
Packets of surfboards hide from sight,
sex toys blush quietly contemplating life.
The drain gurgles about your love life;
the trappings of love have found you both –
as you fleece each other with the tweezers.
The vision is not that of the city;
Those lights do not shine here.
Instead, there are hills of green;
A cow moos in the distance.
At night the darkness is quiet,
as the rain touches the structure.
I thought I’d miss your charms,
as I think of all the things I could do.
Yet, when I lived as one of you,
I never did most of the things I could do.
Tempted to become a hermit,
I resist with both hands stretched out.
Yet in my heart there is turmoil,
for I didn’t come from the concreted hustle.
I’ve felt the land for most of my life,
yet I’ve resisted the call every single time.
Looking towards the rain covered green,
it might be time to embrace my truth;
I’m not so in love with the city as I once thought I was.
the sky holds the bad-tempered sun
in one of those moods,
the dry land is burning
humans walk along in a forced daze
animals take shelter
birds steal old chips
the firey winds blow through the cities
new hairdos flee freely
cracked lips are now “in”
winter white skin turns bright lobster pink
different pigments burn
natural tanners strip off
burning hell is the new spring so it seems
bushfires strip old towns
heartache echoes loss
from out of nowhere he moves so freely
sunnies for Mr Cool
Donning linen luxury
moving in a slow saunter to defy the sun
the sky looks down
wishing for the rain
the clouds see their chance to multiply
little wisps of white
now fat sooty beasts
the sun cracks it, but the storm will arrive
retreating in a huff,
as the clouds explode
Stuffy plump suits sit and lounge on green leather seats. Yelling and grumpy shouts, touts and baboonary set in, as the day slowly dies.
Standing and sitting. Double chins wobbling.
There’s no end on the horizon, as the flying bottle blonde starts speaking.
rain drops fall slowly
droplets splash on to the wood
sorrow seems fleeting
touching the wood that is you
tactile grief in letting go
After so much grey
sunshine warms us.
Floppy sheets now
feel cool and crisp.
The cat lays feet up
rolling in the rays.
Sitting on the couch
feeling all my years.
Time passes quietly
in a Boketto trance.
Napping on Sunday
with eyes wide open.