I always feel like

There’s’ no privacy.

Eyes watch the masked warrior with a school satchel as his sword. Their ears tapped to hear the whispers beneath the company of horns, piano, bass, drums, trumpets and saxophones that play complex hymns of resistance and liberation. Close arms twisted to betray their hero.

I cover him with the word, “Daddy”, my embrace wanting to shield him from the threat of the watching yellow beast.  From the danger that lurks inside its belly.  From the invaders who come for him then leave him to live  in dreams and screams.


The bottle brush tree stands proud and tall as  it weeps blood at the front door.


Is the curse of age


Uncontrollable fires  flame

every action and interaction

that were sane

The tides of heat

burn through my habits, plans and routines

that were so neat

No stones in my pockets

No scales to balance

I am the bell in the jar

the room of my own

I am wrath reborn

to incinerate your scorn

The only curse

is that I Mourn

30 August 2017