Final Beat

And if they come again
then let them through.
Marauders on an open
shore, who rape the land
and raze the town
inside your mind. Raise the
the tide above your head
and let it wash
your soul: a cleansing
fire, crashing down like
the surf; a stolen breath
that weighs the lungs;
the thick muck through
which you wade brushes
against your heart
and strangles out the final beat
until –

they come again.

Sand Like Lace

Some people say
that when they stay
too long in one place,
the strands of their mind begin to fray.

Some people face
the shore, sand like lace,
while the horizon beckons,
then turn back in disgrace.

Some people work on,
head home along
a new path, saying
“This is where I belong.”

Some people sing
out, flex their itchy wings
and fly, like eagles,
to new worlds – new things.

Some peoples’ lives trickle
through their fingers. Bells will
toll, at the break of day,
mourning a curse so evil.



Cinquain of Cinquains – in the works

Hey all,

Just an update as I did not post a poem today. I am working on a cinquain of cinquains at the moment. By this I mean that I will be writing a rather long poem made up of cinquains as the stanzas. In each section of the poem, the number of stanzas will correspond to the number of syllables in each line of a standard cinquain poem. I think this little endeavour could be fun, and don’t want to just smash one out with little consideration. I would like to spend a good amount of time on it.

Thanks for your patience! Below is a sample of what I have written so far. This is obviously subject to change.




do we know of
the way it ended. Slow
and painful; or full of joy?

we walked
on and on and
until we saw the next
day’s light we couldn’t see even what
was close.


To be continued…

Haiku: An exploration pt. 2

Hi all,

Part two of my exploration into Haiku!


A Name

“What’s in a name?” she
said. Our souls – destined to be
bound, caught, forever.


They crisscross our land:
flagellants cutting deep scars
into the green hills.


Dew slides silently
down the windscreen. Engine on,
he wipes it away.

Game Over

Your score – horrific:
sea levels rose; worldwide war;
government failure.

Never Seen

A once-important trait, was
never seen again.

Haiku: An exploration

I haven’t really dabbled in the Haiku before, but I’m always interested to try my hand at a few things. Today my school had a trip to a water park and I got home late. I went to see my mum after school because it was easier than going home to make dinner for myself (I’m a lucky man) after a long day and I needed to vent. I have also been battling with paperwork that surrounds the house I’m buying with my partner. I think I’ll see where today’s not-so-positive mindset takes me with these poems. Who knows what will happen!




Dust falls- my eyes open.
If only I had slept that long.
A new day awakens.


Scratching on the page
my pacer moves back and forth-
my soul stripped bare.

Like Blood

It flows like thick blood –
Quick and heavy the money
That buys so little.


Trembling, the tall, terse
Lady leaves, looking luscious,
feeling ferocious.

The Key

A small key tinkles
as it sinks its teeth into the
tumbler’s open gut.


5:15am – snooze, ten more.
Dream of sleep,
and the kids who need
with assignments.

5:25am – snooze, or
so I thought: hit the wrong
button and fumble
while I hold on
desperately for that wisp of
Reset the alarm.
Close my eyes.

5:37am – alarm rings on,
denial reigns, my
partner stirs –
snooze, just ten more.
I’ll get up earlier
I’ll go down earlier

5:48am – sleep.
Not me,
the alarm.
Have to face facts. Find
clothes. Rub eyes.
Sit, hoping it’s all a
No luck.

6:07am – Flush,
wash hands.
Can hear the water
boiling in the
One… Two… Three…
teaspoons instant
into a tiny cup.
Dash of water,
cold milk,
throw it back.
Pretend I
like it.

6:11am – shoes on,
run upstairs,
kiss L
goodbye, “I love you.
Have a good day.”
She smiles in
with 4 minutes left
for her.
Eternity for

7:07am – pull up
in carpark.
No one else here
but the tradies’ truck
parked in
my spot.
Sunnies on,
take coffee off
the roof. New
barista today.
Tastes like
Tradies have a smoke
next to the canteen.
“Morning!” to a kid
here early to

8:38am – bell rings.
People rush into the
staffroom. “Morning!”
I say,
as if I’m happy
to be there.
Push headphones further
into my head. Sip
my coffee, some more
instant “borrowed” from
a friend.
He doesn’t know.
One more essay before
the day

8:40am – bell rings.
4 minute warning.
Wish the others would
shut up.
Can’t blame them.
Keep reading.

8:44am – bell rings.
Finished that one.
Others will wait.

The day is starting.

Poems of the Past – The Stiletto

Below is a poem that I wrote a long time ago, back in 2013. It is in a number of parts and was for an assignment for my teaching degree. We had to submit something personal and creative, and I’m honestly still surprised that I got away with writing something like this. From memory, I got a decent mark as well!

I found it recently when cleaning out my older documents, and in the absence of a new poem to share with you all, thought I’d throw it up here. It’s not perfect, and I think I’ve gotten better since then, but sometimes it’s nice (or horrible) to look back on the beasts we once knew.



The Stiletto


Light’s illusions,
Shadows in a crowded room.
Is there more to it than meets the eye?
Are they ever still?
Only when darkness falls
Do they come together –
Silhouettes caught in a loving
Nowhere and everywhere;
All consuming.

A trick of the eye:
We see nothing
But them, but
Nothing is all
We see.

Illusions, lights; a
Crowded room of shadows.
Somewhere between perception and
They are condemned to stay.



Assassin: sleek, surreptitious,
Sneaking soundlessly. Surity
Exudes her soulful steps
As she smoothly
Slides her sharp silver stiletto.



Dangerous – heaving chest and
Sweating palms. He looks
Dead but for the movement of his eyes.
Silent steps destroy his
Waking dreams as a hot,
Takes his world away.


Hold it close,
The thought of better times.
They will come, when all that is left
Comes to close.








holding all

Thoughts hostage.

A breath – too much;
A whimper,
Head held high





It is unthinkable, the notion of a mind unchained;
At a time like this
It is held far                                                                              beyond reach.

All we can hope for is
From the emptiness.










Not a sound.






In. Out.
Breath, death, passion.
All the same when the darkness comes.



Nothing, not a sound.
The darkness that falls holds us hostage,
An untainted thought cannot be found.

Like a new killer, waiting for their first to be crowned
(The scalp a necessity of any assassins salvage),
Nothing, not a sound.

A consequence: the first kill will always resound.
A permanent image;
An untainted thought cannot be found.

No racing thoughts, no doubts abound –
Slowly sneaking down the passage,
Nothing, not a sound.

When she reaches his room, she looks around:
No one but the victim, unaware of the coming carnage,
An untainted thought cannot be found.

Finally, as she draws the knife her heart again starts to pound.
A quick plunge, a twist to dodge the rib-cage:
Nothing, not a sound.
An untainted thought cannot be found.



In the morning we can pretend
It was all a dream.



“Treat every kill like it’s your first”,
That’s what she was always told,
“It’s the only way to quench an unquenchable thirst.”

But as she held the stiletto above her head once more, she imagines the roles in reverse,
She paused too long, forgot the saying of old:
“Treat every kill like it’s your first.”

An iron grip on her wrist, this is not as she rehearsed.

Not everything goes to plan.

As the darkness overcomes her she
Begins to understand,
You cannot quench the unquenchable thirst.


And the thoughts – words, pictures, sounds –
keep circling like sharks
(going round and round and round)

who’ve smelled the taste of blood; hounds
that growl and drool and bark;
and the thoughts, words, pictures, sounds!

A tightening of the chest so profound
that it feels like it’s left a mark.
Going round and round and round

in my head, those words resound,
like the trumpets’ call, quarter-tones apart,
and the thoughts – words, pictures, sounds –

never stop. Cats in cages in the pound
that yowl and screech and scratch. Parts –
going round and round and round –

chaotic, dark, that are forever bound
for their own horrific arc…
And the thoughts – words, pictures, sounds-
going round and round and round.