Left Behind.

A poem.


and so the story goes,

on and on without us

destined to travel it’s course –


whether we embark on it or not.

Closer Than We Think.

A poem.


glares, scares, stares

holding wrists too tight

pushing, hating, shoving

too big to fight.


chairs crashing and screens cracking

dinner plates slammed to the sink

doors locked shut and knelt behind –


violence is closer than we think.



I Wonder.

A poem.


blink and you’ll miss it

life is gone quicker than it comes

i wonder what is in store for us


when we open our eyes again.

Drains & Grates.

A poem.


The sidewalk is littered with traces of souls, blown by the wind from another place, in a hope that they might be remembered.


And forever is a myth, we only have now, but the best of humanity walk in the light of hope – giving up their lives and their loves for what may be, rather than what is.


Love can only sustain the tragedy of our souls for so long, before we too become littered on the sidewalk, hoping to be remembered.


We mere mortals were never meant to be celebrated in the way we celebrate ourselves – perhaps that’s why we end up with the leaves and the rubbish, caught in drains and grates with no where to go.


This Flood.

A poem.


there’s a pain in my chest when i look at you

like i am tearing at the seams,

being stretched to breaking point, bursting

like a balloon with too much air

or a water tank that has no more room to fill.


it’s almost as if at any moment

my walls will collapse,

and all my doors will burst open

flooding us all, in a thousand different ways

in the form of agony and tear drops.


what a messy way to profess love

i must admit,

but i cannot seem to tell you any other way

and nothing i do is good enough

for you to see me the way i want to be seen.


there are birds that sing outside my window

and they remind me of you,

they don’t know i’m right there listening

as their lives turn golden in the sun,

in ways i could only dream of.


but when you love someone

you let them go,

their happiness is more important

and so i stitch up the seams and turn off the tap

so this flood never darkens your door.

Rust & Regrets.

A poem.


what is left,

when everything is gone?

when the ground collapses

like straw being swallowed by fire

and the sky no longer rises

on our soul?


where can so much love

from a single

lonely heart

possibly have to go,

when there is no body

left to carry it?


who will be left to remember

those things that were left to us,

by the people we loved?

is there any point at all – any meaning in this life –

that doesn’t involve the painful realization

that it’s all just here for a moment, like a dream?


our lives are a moment in time,

imprinted on the earth

like one swift footprint

in the dust,

before the wind stirs us up

and we are gone.


our bodies are destined to rust

and flake,

slowly staining the earth red.


we hold on to precious items –

books, gifts, photos –

all in the hope that we won’t forget,

and maybe one day

someone will hold them

and remember us too.


we run our fingers down delicate book spines,

reading words from the past;

we remember the hope of the souls

who rust around us,

holding their gifts to us tight,

believing they will hold us to this earth just a little longer.


but before long, we too,

are due to be swiftly stirred into dust.

we stare into photographed eyes,

captured in a moment,

wishing for our own moments

to be remembered.


our hearts cave and crumble, knowing our lives are so unrecoverable.


we beg with death to allow us

just one more moment,

to say the things

we wish we had said;

share the things we wished we had shared;

kiss the lips we were never able to kiss.


when death comes for us, what do we have for him?

we bargain our way back to the living,

pleading to let those wishes and kisses be lived out.


what wishes do we really have,

deep in our heart,

knowing they’ll go to the grave?

what moments will we take with us

and simultaneously

leave behind?


we rust, rust rust – oh how we rust –

the colour of leaves in the fall,

stirring dust

just enough

to creep into the lives

of those we leave behind.


the living think regret is for them –

but the dead

are just moments –

and books,

and gifts,

and photos.

Angry Spatters.

A poem.


i wipe again and again

but the white washed walls

just stain pink

as the blood goes in circles

under my hands

and into the bucket.


the air is heavy

with a smell that’s halfway

between rust, dust and antiseptic

and the bourbon on the bench

drips quietly onto the floor

in a dark puddle.


the house is too quiet

too damp,

and too dark

and the walls paint a picture

of the pain

from the night before.



the house is choking me

and there is not enough space

and i want to run

away from the stains

and into the gutter.


light spots blind me,

as i force myself to scrub


these angry spatters

as if wiping them clean

will make the pain go away.