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Hospitality expectations superseded,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.

Embalming Paranoia

A plait of questions twist and tighten,
Seizing into a noose,
Their inner intentions begin to frighten,
And fighting is no use.

Confidence is smothered out,
And your judgements all are rattled.
The conscience finds itself in doubt,
As your reality is battled.

Words catch like brambles, drawing blood,
And you stumble feeling frail.
Confusion breeds a drowning flood,
That’s covering your trail.

Your voice choked to a scratching,
As you try to vent your mind.
And answers come out matching
Nothing that can be defined.

The paranoia sees your eyes turn round,
And sink into their sockets,
The only clarity that can be found
Is like lint inside your pockets.

Urban Density

In a city crowded with nameless faces,
Selfishness drips like the rain off the gutters.
People filled with fleeting graces,
Control their emotions in meaningless flutters.

Their values shaped by the timely nature,
Bestowed upon them from historic cultures.
They seek a place and within it savour,
Their countrymen’s dignity like starving vultures.

This world breeds a poverty through government mercy,
And through this act the pitiful reap spoils.
Through demonstrations depraved and full of heresy,
Seeped through human nature and common soils.

Bad Luck

Stabbed by the ever harsh blade of fate,
It leaves me limping towards a better turn,
Solutions always arrive too late,
While I’m crumpled, whimpering from the burn.

Dice are pelted rather than rolled,
Coins leave their etchings whenever flipped.
Optimism has decayed and turned to mould,
Where towards the fire the scales have tipped.

While the luck of some keeps emanating brightly,
Levitating them, in a perpetual glow.
Others wander alone in the darkness nightly,
Tripping and faltering wherever they go.

For the road in front of them is never direct,
The path is a shambles, broken and torn,
For even if they try to hold their head erect,
It’s hard to progress when faced with scorn.