Farewell My Cloud

Pippa Cushing helped me with the tune of this song. Hopefully you'll be able to hear it live sometime soon!

Farewell my cloud,

you've been too good to me I know.

It’s been so long

since I could see into your mind.

I wish the wind would call the canvas,

and the sails bear me on.

The day of homecoming is lost,

and the bard forgot my song.

And the sails bear me on.

I took a whitecap for my lover,

and a sea breeze for my friend.

We went away from heavy land

to horizon’s ragged bend.

And the sails bear me on.

My lover left these stormy kisses

strewn across my back.

The salt and sun put dreams upon me,

and the swell’s as blue as black.

And the sails bear me on,

bear me on.

That Good Night

I was a hero.

Give me panadol,

give me long sleep.

I was a hero.

I grew my hair long

for her,

forgot to shave.

I was a hero.

I gave real life.

I was a hero

I walked the antiseptic corridors,

heart in hand

and

shattered bodies.

Surgeryslash

and

the desperation:

never break.

All had love.

I was a hero,

and ignored the shame

of it

all.

People will be,

in or out

of,

or otherwise.

Give me panadol.

Give me long sleep.

I was a hero.

I will not go gentle.

Puppet Show

Around a campfire

they were

slumped like stringless puppets.

There was

nothing important left to say

(tide coming in,

sand cooling,

moths retreating).

Ghost flames

shiver on a starry sea.

Tomorrow in ashes

they write sandy words for

another hungry tide.

It's a someday afternoon:

phosphorescence holds its glow for evening,

charcoal paints sand.

Dune grass chitters.

Re-strung puppets

breathein

breatheout,

but

not in a hurry.

Midday

In this moment,

heat stands still.

Break the surface -

momentarily released

from the cold caress

of the ocean’s embrace.

Feel the sun,

the hot, heavy air

and fall away,

back into her salty arms.

Later

the kisses from her blue black lips

Will leave a salty residue,

streaked across our bodies.

The Night-time Mutter

Blind feet
pace the steps towards
silver hourglass sands, and
lungs take in a monochrome of
darkness and starlight.
We dance on the beach.
Shells crunch beneath our feet, and
the sand-stifled beat joins the night-time mutter
of hissing waves.
The rhythm dies away as we
lie back and stare
at shivering stars,
silhouetted against a dark curtain.
They are messengers of the night,
sent to listen to our rambling tales.
On the beach
our thoughts skim across
the canvas of midnight,
sketching fantastic patterns and
starlit words.

When the night fades into morning
we drift away,
leaving behind
meandering linesdaubed on the beach.

For My Brother

Can you remember those mornings?
Surfacing from blankets
puddled in the middle of sagging old beds,
small feet finding the chilly floor,
still varnished with last night's autumn chill.
We'd tiptoe through the house,
listening to the possums on the roof,
wearing our quiet faces.
At their door we'd halt:
eyes wide,
fingers at scrunched up lips,
and then advance,
wincing
at the door handle's squeak.
Child soldiers
on early morning patrol,
we'd reach their bed,
a vast expanse of
rumpled sheets and
sprawled limbs.
In a sudden rush we'd clamber aboard
to be pulled sleepily into their arms.
The sun painted the nearby sea,
the rosellas sang for the morning,
and our ship sailed towards dawn.

Taking and Giving

And slowly stumble
into sleep.

And she kept his hand
between her knees,
even when urgent morning
slapped her face.

And under his heart
was a tiny piece of bone
that leapt and tangled.
Crudely sewn
on his sleeve,
a map
of her face.

The sound
of taking and giving
is a solid racket in their heads,
hopeful
in their separate beds.

Beneath The Sheet

Standing at the bedside
(his hand in hers)
they eye the crumpled form
beneath the sheet
warily,
as if it might
draw breath
again.
He looks up
and she looks down –
there is a question
in his too-young eyes.
We All Have Cancer
she says.
He nods.
It must be true.
Beneath the sheet
lies the proof.

For My Brother

Can you remember those mornings?
Surfacing from blankets
puddled into the middle of the sagging old beds,
small feet finding the chilly floor,
still varnished with last night's autumn chill.
We'd tiptoe through the house
(grumbling to itself
about the possums in the roof)
wearing our quiet faces.
At their door we'd halt:
eyes wide,
fingers at scrunched up lips,
and then advance,
wincing
at the door handle's squeak.
Child soldiers
on early morning patrol,
we'd reach their bed,
a vast expanse of
rumpled sheets and
sprawled limbs.
In a sudden rush we'd clamber aboard
to be pulled sleepily into their arms.
The sun painted the nearby sea,
the rosellas sang for the morning, and
our ship sailed towards dawn.

Dammed

A little blue ash tray.
A white table cloth.
A plastic chair.
A man.

Pen in one hand,
paper before him,

and a waterfall in his head.

Nicotine holes
in the table cloth and
his flooded mind.

Yes,
he built his own dams -
though at the time, he didn't know
what he was doing.

Three Things to be Said

Dedicated to Hannah

Thankyou

for scrambling through the dark,
understanding stars, and
the walls that mountains
build around us.
And when
the monster’s head is revealed
in the cool early,
for seeing him straight.
Not flinching.

Take care:

of a wishing well face and
still-water eyes;

of skin too thin
for the creeping world;

of the blood buzzing
inside your flesh.


Farewell

feels like sneaking back
into consciousness,
our tense biology
locked in the desperation of goodbye.
And we roll on,
we thunder on,
to find more small landmarks,
and make new memories.

Us and Him

- He looks happy -
she says,
and I don’t dare question
such a statement of
Faith.

She believes enough
to leave behind
her worried state of mind,
the state of mind that
binds her eyes to his face.
And, if
in that face she finds
the signs of happiness,
I’ll leave her Faith be.

For me
that face
is the edge.
The edge of it all.
It’s all edges: crinkled skin and
the edge of him.
And he looks happy
- maybe he looks happy.

Perhaps.

His happiness is all that we have left
to hold us together,
at his side,
outside
all the bits and pieces of him
that we aren’t mentioning.
All that is left
is his happiness,
her faith,
and the questions
we should have asked.

To You

For Anna

I am the 6/8
thumping
in your chest,
when you stand
in the sand.

I am the simple
mystery,
the first puzzle
solved.

I am the ragged line
where shore
decays into ocean,
where sea
grasps at sky.

I am the sea to you,
the whole deep,

and I don’t know
how it happened.