That Moment

That moment you walked in my breath went short, 

My eyes grew wide, my throat went taut, 

My heart beating faster while lost in the thought 

Of this angel before me that those fates had brought. 

I wasn’t prepared when you started to speak, 

With each word you uttered my interest would peak, 

Such passion and warmth so adorably unique, 

With that dimple always present on your left cheek. 

Engrossed in you, the time dripped away, 

Hanging on every word that you happened to say, 

My fondness blossomed in an enchanting way, 

Never wanting an end to this wonderful day. 

And in that moment our lips finally met,

My eyes slowly closed, palms starting to sweat, 

The rhythm between us was like a duet,

In that kiss of my lifetime I could never forget

Love

Love can take so many forms, It knows no bounds, it knows no norms. A connection sits at the very base, Earned in an instant or after a chase. When the mutual feeling blossoms out, And its teeth sink in there leaves no doubt. It washes over taking hold, And can bloom there till your days are old. Even if it loses its spark, Those teeth have left a lasting mark. ‘Cause like all good things it’s never easy, It’s often born making you queasy. It takes work, compromise and solid foundations, And breaking through all of life’s frustrations. Because when it’s built and nurtured together, That is when it lasts forever.

Sonnet for Children

Children test the boundaries while feeding on attention, 

They challenge their parents limits, and savour all they mention. 

They push until they’re chastised, or they find themselves in pain, 

Improving from every misstep, each fall from which they gain.

Children will absorb it all, impressionable in their youth, 

They sort experiences, warnings and knowledge, discovering their own truth. 

From this they build a basis for thought and action in their teens, 

A point where their emotions cloud their judgement and their means. 

The childhood builds fragility, that breeds a sensitive shroud, 

They seek a constant validation and place within a crowd. 

Their curiosity is curbed, they use conformity for strength, 

And push this to its boundaries of which they do not know the length. 

So don’t let that rope snap, as you’ll be left to fall, 

And you’ll very quickly realise that you’re alone after all.

Leading With Hate

Once again the world is weeping,
From open wounds and restless sleeping.

Hate is rife with your haughty rule,
With acts and orders destructively cruel.

You punish heroes and remove rights,
Slamming doors on those escaping plights.

Families are torn and homes are broken,
From retired rhetoric you have awoken.

You lie with every breath you take,
And unfavourable truths you tar as fake.

Should patrons be gagged and knowledge deleted,
Because your attitude is so conceited?

Does a victory mean that for your reign,
That so many should suffer relentless pain.

As you betray the heritage of your nation,
And even shut down the conversation.

You lash out and then you close your eyes,
To your people’s voices, their tears, their cries.

Your hate for those who bring you dread,
Make so many more hate you instead.

If your rule continues this path of hate,
How can your country claim to be great?

Unless of course this was your plan,
To unite the world against one man.

For your people to march and lead the way,
Protesting your policies night and day.

To have the world despise your name,
Put you at the centre, hold you to blame.

To make you accountable for all that you do,
And ensure that history will disdain you.

If that’s what it takes to make things right,
Then we are ready for this fight.

J. Torok

Sababa Morning

From the yawns of donkeys, I lie awake,
My head in a daze that I can’t shake,
Open my door to sunlight I can’t take,
On this Sababa Morning.

Sunlight dances in rows along the sea,
Twinkling and waltzing magically,
A blue ballroom for it and me,
In this Sababa Morning.

A plastic bag cartwheels the dusty path,
In tourist desolation aftermath,
The only wanderers here are skeleton staff,
On this Sababa Morning.

Snorkelling in drifts along the shore,
Avoiding every urchin’s spore,
Fish swimming in schools of a hundred or more,
In this Sababa morning.

Like sheer salvation you are greeted,
Like a royal you are treated,
Hospitality expectations superseded,
On this Sababa Morning.

This place of solace and beauty,
Hurt by tourist insecurity,
Where only few will have the pleasure to see,
This Sababa Morning.

Clay to Stone

Slabs, wet, dirty, earthy,
They await the nimble fingers that will hatch them
Into a shape where they will be paralysed for eternity.

Stretched, flattened, squeezed, curled,
Where geometric perfection is but a consideration
And the heart moulds its emotions into form.

Smoothed, rounded, pinched, caressed,
The tenderness of gentility in the heat of passion
See tears and sweat in a soulful slurry as it awakens.

Glazed, ignited, engulfed, immolated,
The smoke stains and the flames lick,
The emotions locked back into the stone from which they came.

But This Is Australia II – A Sonnet

To mask false warmth is the humidity’s purpose,
While glaring sun hides numerous shadows.
A “multicultural paradise” on the surface,
But going deeper, the tolerance narrows.

This melting pot of foreign ingredients,
Gives off a heat, drying out the land.
With stringent laws to create obedience,
That the circumstances don’t demand.

The country was stolen by the monarchy,
And the indigenous people were evicted.
The crimes of the crown are caked in hypocrisy,
When for theirs, the settlers were convicted.

We rejoice that “we are young and free”
Such is the nation’s irony.

This is Australia

The ocean barricades a wall of sand,
Massaging this dehydrated land.

Sunlight scorches the greens to brown,
Of bushland stretching from each town.

Cultures occupy their forts,
Keeping to their traditional thoughts.

And animals unlike any other
From any land you will discover,

Living and surviving by billabongs,
And filling the outback with their songs,

In tunes and a language so unique,
Bellowed from each jaw or beak.

Where flora spatters blots of colour,
On backgrounds comparatively duller.

From fluorescence of the lint like wattle,
To vermillion pink of a brush’s bottle.

In the centre mountains are rusted red,
While on the coast they’re blue instead.

More people visit every year,
To find a solace lacking fear,
And a respite from which to persevere,
From this island in the heart, that you can only find here.

Business As Usual…

With velvet hearts and leather hands,
They practice business in a classic display.
Their intent no one quite understands,
And it’s mirth causes endless dismay.

Business customs and social nuances,
Executed in superficial styles.
Which when in friendly circumstances,
Decimates happiness, erasing smiles.

Capitalism’s power to consume,
Extinguishes the strongest of souls’ flames,
With an inherent difficulty to resume,
For to the spirit, it forever maims.

Intertwined

Through pneumatic pounds of heartbeats,
A siren of desire breaks through the darkness.
Ripples of flesh flow in even waves,
As hands stretch out and scratch in ecstasy.

Mouths inhale shaken souls,
And taste the quiver of pursed lips.
Friction burns through the cold of the night,
As puddles grow forming shadows below.

Broken whispers etch out requests,
That conjure actions fulfilled.
A thunder rises up and gains momentum,
Striking bolts that fracture all focus.

Gravity starts weighing down towards the centre,
And puts pressure on the walls, drawing them in.
When chimes resonate out, it all crashes down,
Collapsing on hearts entwined and exhausted.