I am an interdisciplinary artist, poet, educator and folk musician. This page is for my poetry. There are some strong themes, some funny stuff, some sad motifs. Just letting you know dear reader.
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Gently fold me in your arms
Rest my head in the crook of your neck
And let me slow-dance the blues away
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Victim and victimiser When the whole world is at peace When night has fallen there is God’s face In the stars of the sky In the silhouetted land In my minds eye On the one I love On the one I ignore On the one I give On the one I give not On the one of my children On the two of my children On all of the children Is it my lot to wander gardens Walking barefoot asking pardon? I’m given a choice. Look inside Don’t be blind And Listen. Very. Quiet. Very. Hard. Concentrate, attend, be present. The victim and the victimiser Are just words and split factions States of being irrelevant to God So forget victimhood, being a victimiser God’s love dissolves, he is the great atomiser Exploder of the false self and selves Clear the decks, throw books from the shelves. God is all in all I am who am Yahweh.
Putting Things in Perspective Do you know sometimes I don’t even think Dad is dead? He’s not, He’s still away. I was gone once for three years and when I came back there he was. I don’t wish him back really I don’t. I know he’s better off where he is. Papua New Guinea my heart land, my mythical island. It’s time to give up the dream because the dream is not real. It’s a narrative cooked up in New York, It’s a museum story, it’s not based on contemporary reality or geography. It cannot be found by any co-ordinates of latitude and longitude. There is no civil wars, bloodshed and feuding, No malaria, spiders, snakes and leach infested rainforest. No it’s a legend. Has it been years of wasted thoughts and energies? PNG the fictional character in my own narrative. Hilda Ogden’s kitchen wall. Papered in tropical paradise paper. Three plaster ducks flying across the illusionary blue sky, past a palm tree. That simulacrum is ...
Babel The story goes, once we all had a common language and spoke the same mother tongue and all was harmony. The people said to themselves let us make a tower so we can be as tall as God and maybe we can be as great as he is or greater, and so they built together, gathering materials, and they made it strong and they made it high. Stained glass windows, columns of pure gold, mosaics of turquoise and cobalt, staircases of marble, it was a marvel to behold, nothing compared either before or after the skill and craft that went in to the tower of Babel. They reached as high as the first layer of cumulus and the atmosphere started to get thin and become cold. They were wondering how to continue. But God reached in his basket and pulled out coloured birds by the handful and threw them up free into to air, each one different and varied, each one with a different song. The birds flew down to the builders of the tower, like a rainbow shower. The birds sang so beautifully, so ...
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