Poem Edition 1

Poems by Mesalie Feleke

moses

Before Christ,

in the Old Testament,

God saw a people lonely and hungry.

The Pharaoh of Egypt—

a king intriguing yet blind to justice.

Still, I sense some trace of good in him.

Moses rises,

his wisdom divine,

to quench the flames and halt genocide.

But now,

where is God

to shield His people from the scourge of war?

 

 

There’s no other place I want to be

There’s no other place I should be

there’s no other place

there’s no other place around that compares

The locals lift you up

So much food and little cute boutiques nearby

fancy cars, old homes with high ceilings, my blow wave spot

Brings my spirits high

its all true

Mt lawley…

 

 

late nights in the library

its 2016

i drive in and park in the staff bay

locked in A hundred year old cold library

an old sweater and boots

red bull and coffee

2am

I came at night time

I am alone

earphones in

excitement

you cross my mind as I write

every topic covered

stack of read

century-old books

cover the table

the bluest eye

brings me to tears

 

 

Fading love

 

I have forgotten your face,

I no longer see it in my head

I can’t fantasise – its over.

I have forgotten the colour of your eyes

the moment has gone its passed

I remember your hands; and how they felt inside me

I always wonder how did my lips

Feel on yours?

wish I could see us from your point of view

 

 

help me

 

I’M RUNNING SCARED

he’s headed nowhere

he is pretending to be interested

someone help

runnin’ from the green eyed ogre

I spit at the wind that made him

I am taken by my husband

 

 

just before I die

just before I die

I want to climb mt everest

on my own

with little food packs

and wail at life

I just want to scream out

the longest and biggest wail

help me for the last time

then scatter my ashes

somewhere on the cliff

and suddenly I do not exist

 

 

Who stops love?

I’m the girl who ruins the mood,

who yanks the needle off the record

just when the song gets good.

I wanted two to make one but

I don’t want an abortion to happen.

I’m the fool who ended the moment,

but the one that kept coming back

just to burn again later.

I stopped myself—

right there,

on my knees,

at your kiss.

now I’m trying again

through different hands

that tried to build something

out of the same wreck.

 

 

I want to die

 

I want out.

another year,

another wrong turn,

different damn streets,

same shoes.

I walk like a ghost in different clothes,

I don’t want to buy happiness

off racks and shelves.

It’s like biting into fruit and eating the seed.

God didn’t screw this up—

we did.

living’s the hard part,

waking up,

dragging your bones through another day

talking to the same person that doesn’t give a damn.

the ocean’s flat,

no salt left to sting.

the bed’s cold,

no one waiting.

suicide keeps sending postcards,

but I don’t want to write back.

 

 

Abortion

‘I met a tall man.’

Pure insanity.

Fair skin, blue eyes.

A baby out of wedlock—she destroyed her own legacy.

That child should have lived.

 

 

I hate that story

You always hear it: from rags to riches.

I hate those stories.

From ordinary to rich? I earned mine.

 

 

university

A bunch of alcoholics and addicts

you fool !

Einstein knows best.

 

 

This is not fair on me

 

His new girlfriend

So fair is her skin!

So fair the shape of her face.

So fair her figure

This is not fair.

I fold my sad wing,

turning to a animal sad.

I’m a crybaby.

My big breast takes up my torso,

my buttocks

my big nipples.

This is not fair.

 

 

ageing

Somewhere, once upon a time—

for twenty-one years—

I existed.

Small, yes,

but I was.

Tiny in form,

and now—

my waist is wider,

my breasts fuller.my

my belly, soft as jelly.

 

 

A dogs home

so they bought you

from some bright shop window

and parked you

in a very okay home

simple place

big TV

deep fridge

nothing missing

except the point

“I’m a very good home,” they said

“I’ll take better care of you

I’ll take you for long runs—”

but you know how it goes

love turns into furniture

and eventually

they’ll replace you too.

 

 

Help me

 

Help, help!” cried the woman. “I’m drowning”

“Hold on!” shouted the man.

“Help, help!” cried the man. “I’m the one!”

“Yes, I know — I’m coming,” said the woman.

She pulled him to safety, and he ran straight to his wife.

Please don’t go she says

He walks away

 

 

Just letting you know before

Honey,

I just wanted to let you know—

I charged your credit card today.

I know you were probably saving for something else,

but I couldn’t resist.

I bought a croissant for you

and a raspberry smoothie for me.

Sorry… they were both so delicious.

I know you’re saving for your flight.

Forgive me.

 

 

There’s white fairy floss in the sky.

There’s white fairy floss in the sky.

The water falls through it.

There’s so much fairy floss up there.

A yellow lemon shines beside it.

I can’t look at the sky for too long.

I am seeing the sky as magical and full of wonder, showing how ordinary things (clouds, rain, sun) can look extraordinary when viewed with imagination.

 

 

Hospital

 

I have handed my name, date of birth, urine, and

clothes to the nurses.

Help me. Help me.

Only the nurse can disclose

what this medication is?

They’re so provocative

And I’m conservative

Where is the doctor?

 

 

Friendship

Are friends a joy or a pain?

Sometimes they roar like thunder.

What storms we’ve endured together—

and still, I wonder when they’ll fade.

Is a true friend even real?

If only they would stay.

I’m the robin who flew too fast—

gone, gone.

 

 

nature tells a tale

Nature whispers stories of the past—if only we would listen.

 

 

Only one

All I need is one man

One is enough

Each person gets one

It’s a right

 

 

It’s over

Who ever said their love was good?

Haven’t you heard, they’re not together now.

Who ever said love was everything?

but I’m just a bird that flew away

 

 

climate crisis 2

Vaccinate women and children first.

Help the elderly.

And then men.

 

 

climate change

Climate change decides our fate:

We live, we die,

or we choose to help each other.

Whats it gonna be?

 

 

Climate crisis 1

theres one last chance.

she drives over the harbour —

everything drowned,

streets gone,

shops closed,

people standing

where homes used to be.

with her voice, she says.

she can save things..

 

 

climate change

Climate change did its job well.

the world looks tired.

 

 

Morning oats

 

Its 6:30am

there is a moment of peace

as the sun rises

I take the oats,

toss in fruit,

berries, bananas,

a pinch of spice,

a swirl of yogurt.

sometimes just honey,

just the sweet drip.

like it’s a small miracle

 

 

fight harder

want to stay alive?

fight harder, fight much smarter.

that’s the whole damn tale.

 

 

young and happy

A young happy-sweet girl

combed her joyous curly hair

‘You are very ugly’ said the mirror mirror on the wall.

 

 

So Did I!

Did you get answer A for exam question 14?

SO DID I!!!

SO DID I!!!

She’s tiny and selected B

oh no

 

 

nothing stays.

 

Vladimir putin nothing stays.

the earth keeps turning,

and everything

falls off eventually.

 

 

They said

They thought I must have been hit by cupid!

He thinks there must be a bandage!

No one can talk to this man

           and not love they said.

Oh lala he is irresistible she said.

Am I in love?

           No scars

           No cuts

           No recollection

           No feelings

                     No love

 

 

missed calls

when I’m far from home,

mother says,

call me,

okay?

no messages.

just silence.

two days later —

10 missed calls.

the kind of love

that rings

and rings.

 

 

poets

 

I reckon poets are alright people.

they write about the sun,

the dirt,

the grief,

the damn bluebirds and nightingales.

they write about the sea,

war,

peace,

love,

equality —

whatever keeps the heart alive.

the list goes on,

and on,

because that’s what poets do —

they never shut up

about being human.

 

 

Instructions for life

 

When one has given up on life —

rest.

rest until you’re not tired anymore.

until your bones stop humming.

then eat.

eat like you mean it.

for years if you have to.

drink your iron. literally.

fill yourself back up.

be selfish —

nobody’s handing out medals for starving.

one day,

the world softens.

the day starts to feel

easy.

 

 

The early morning

 

before 5 a.m.

I’m up,

I am well rested.

make breakfast —

eggs, yoghurt, avocado on sourdough.

the morning essentials for saints.

the new is on at 5:30.

half watching,

half asleep.

coffee helps,

a little.

then the emails,

writing some words.

I pull out the trombone —

blow a few notes

into the empty morning.

Just like my childhood.

later,

I end up by the river,

reading,

lying there,

trying to remember

what peace feels like.

 

 

Hiroshima

 

third year of university,

anatomy major. literature class.

thought I knew something

about the world.

this class changed me.

I’d finally grown into a woman —

or so I told myself.

we analysed Hiroshima,

the six who lived through it.

1945 —

the bomb fell

and the city turned to dust.

I’d never felt so full,

so cracked open.

fell in love with John Hersey.

the man could write —

clean, sharp,

like a knife through grief.

he wrote about things

that felt holy to me —

love without colour,

hope from ruin.

a hundred thousand people

gone in a flash.

no warning,

no time to pray.

and me —

sitting in a warm classroom,

breathing easy,

wondering why I’m alive

when they weren’t.

 

 

Sixth grade.

me and my best friends

wear converse on free dress day.

i’m reading anne frank

out loud to the class.

someone whispers —

she got her period.

the room goes weird.

i don’t know why,

but i feel scared.

may 1940 —

anne’s hiding in an attic,

writing to stay alive.

she’s just a kid.

should’ve been outside

kicking a ball,

chasing sunlight.

i wish i could help her.

but i can’t. What a

horrid way to die.

she lost her parents.

i’ve got mine

waiting in the carpool lane.

i close the book,

look around,

and realise

this is luxury —

to read her pain

and still go home.

 

 

911

Twenty-four years have passed since.

The little girl stares at the school’s television screen.

Born to be understanding.

There is no glamour in terror.

She watches in complete disbelief.

“Something has happened” the teachers say.

The year one class sits still in sombre, listening to President Bush.

I am changed. Impacted Forever.

To give more love.

I may be far away,

But it feels close.

The world is shifting.

It is no longer safe.

I had never seen anything so cold.

Two planes pierce a building.

There is fire under their feet.

It makes my mother weep.

Time is never promised.

My heart is still eaten alive by a flock of crows.

I will never forget.

 

 

Not today

Not today,

my hair’s a mess,

I need a change of clothes,

to ease the aches in my body.

But I’ll be okay.

 

I keep seeing you

 

No matter where I turn,

there you are.

Its unbelievable

I wish I could take a polaroid.

I love you.

 

 

Homesick

I’m homesick — all I want is to go home.

But they’ve taken up my work —

and somehow, the nerves dissolve.

They all nod in agreement.

“Who is this girl?” they ask.

I never got the memo.

Part of me wants to fly back today,

but they agree — so I keep moving forward.

 

 

I think of you

I often think of you and I — late at night.

I picture us cooking together,

walking along the beach,

starting a life, a family.

I’m never thin enough,

never happy enough.

I missed out.

 

 

Never let them go

 

Hold tight to those who truly care for you.

Never let them go—

Not even beyond death.

 

 

I did it too!

 

‘He’ knows the way — ‘he’ knows the way.

Well, so do I.

I’m a feminist.

 

 

A Writers Life

 

She sits silently at her desk in despair.

The to-do list grows longer, a huge pile of chores.

Her husband sighs in the next room—dinner isn’t ready.

She stares at the page, waiting for her deep thoughts to take shape,

but they fade before they can land.

Their love keeps her thinking she almost had the words.

An old friend appears.

She hides the exhaustion behind her eyes.

“Yes, I’m still writing,” she says warmly.

The friend nods, impressed, unaware

how isolating the written words can be—

how it drains the bank and

usually never moves you forward.

She chooses to keeps writing.

When she returns to her desk,

The page waits, hungry.

The room is heavy with silence.

Outside, life continues on.

But inside, only the sound of her pen—

on the paper is heard.

And she lets the page eat her alive.

 

 

Winter Light

 

There’s certainty for a Slant of light,

In today’s Winter Afternoon –

I am patiently waiting for the summertime

There is a connection between

the chlorophyll in the leaves, and

Hemaoglobin in the blood.

Heaven gives us and the plants light –

and gifts the sea.

It repairs my scars.

 

 

Searching

I’ve found my person—

yet still, I seek the one who

walks beside through life.

 

 

Alone

Even though he moved on,

I kept walking toward my dreams—

Alone, but alive.

 

 

If we’d never met

If we’d never met,

maybe my heart would rest still —

unbruised by your love.

 

 

Bright people

No voice worth hearing

until the morning meeting at nine.

 

 

The crown

I arrive at heavens gates.

Before me—the dress, the furniture,

the man

everything I’d ever once longed for.

 

 

Our first kiss

 

The kiss.

We finally lean in—

and it’s perfect.

 

 

Mesalie is dead

‘Mesalie is dead’

They all said

They finally said it

I say I begin living for the first time in heaven

 

 

I do not fear death

 

Though I fear death, I am not afraid.

With time, the fear fades.

This morning, it feels distant —

for no one can tremble forever;

to fear death endlessly is impossible.

 

 

If I can stop one person from dying

If I can stop one person from dying,

I will live a peaceful life

If I can ease one Life of the Agony of disease,

Then I can I smile back at my reflection

 

 

Writers of love

 

Those who write, love deeply;

Those who do not love, do not write.

 

 

Superiority

 

It is not our nature to love or hate.

Superiority is taught,

yet never truly earned.

Still, I stand firm—resilient.

 

 

poets and scientists

Poets, with dream-clouded eyes, call them “flowers,”

While scientists, more precise, classify them.

 

 

Drowning

To draw him under and watch his attempt to rise.

The poor sinking man!

Three times – he gasps for breath and for god.

 

 

Sweet company

 

It is such a big thing to cry or sigh.

Enjoy their sweet company while it lasts,

Women and children are dying!

 

 

Just the beginning

by mesalie feleke3 on October 10, 2025. © mesalie feleke

Someones life is over.

Some say.

I say it is just beginning on that day.

 

 

forbidden to taste

by mesalie feleke3 on October 10, 2025. © mesalie feleke

I tremble at the forbidden fruit’s sweetness,

yet my heart, soft for Eve,

forgives her in haiku.

 

 

not me not I

by mesalie feleke3 on October 10, 2025. © mesalie feleke

When I write as him,

doors open.

But it is not me —

not I.

 

 

I want to read your poem

by mesalie feleke3 on October 10, 2025. © mesalie feleke

I want to read your poem,

to search for hidden meanings.

I read your poem.

I interrogate your heart to understand life.

Each word blooms like a daffodil.

It answers all my questions,

in only seventeen syllables.

 

 

Life is a funny thing.

by mesalie feleke3 on October 10, 2025. © mesalie feleke

It’s when you’re kind when you’re supposed to be tough.

It’s when you’re overly polite while everyone else is casual.

It’s when she spends her whole life waiting for one email—

and she’s the one who misses the meeting.

It’s when you walk way and the one walks in five minutes later.

It’s when you overspend,

only to discover your paycheck just came in.

 

 

The coldest winter

by mesalie feleke3 on October 9, 2025. © mesalie feleke

Winter’s rainy afternoons—

they oppress my spirit,

like Vladimir’s gloom,

as if it were somehow good for me.

Rain drops sent through the Air –

‘Tis the Despair in my eye

Could I have a summer afternoon soon?

 

 

filthy Alcohol!

by mesalie feleke3 on October 9, 2025. © mesalie feleke

I drink a liquor I didn’t taste–

Inner West–

Not all people are good

How could one have such filthy Alcohol!

I speak to a drunken Bee

When Butterflies – renounce their “dramas” and “excuses”

All the help but they shall but drink the more!

 

 

An evening

by mesalie feleke3 on October 9, 2025. © mesalie feleke

To spend an evening in your company—

ah, that would be true luxury!

How I wish I were with thee.

 

 

I’m here for him

by mesalie feleke3 on October 9, 2025. © mesalie feleke

I believe God placed me here,

To try, even when I stumble,

To work hard with stable hands,

To listen, to understand it all.

To love with faith unshaken,

To stand by my husband’s side,

To make change where I am able,

And keep belief alive inside.

To shake when I get the answer wrong.

For every step, each joy, each test,

I’ll give my heart, I’ll do my best.

For I believe, with all my soul,

God put me here to for it all.

 

 

As expected

 

I gaze into my own innocent eyes first —

I almost believe in you.

I smile back.

Then you refer to me as something special

But I want you to know I know your every move

You know every body movement. So cliché.

There’s always a story with you.

You think I don’t know love.

I get you in every way

I turn around and caught you in the act.

Unbelievable.

It’s just so boring —the pattern of your lies.

Do you use this line with everyone?

You won’t get away this time

 

 

I dream of being outside

I work away,

then stop to gaze out the window.

I dream of being outside,

breathing in the clean, cold air.

A bird soars by.

Like an animal in a cage,

I’d settle to feel my toes

in a patch of wet grass —

on a rainy winter’s day.

All I truly believe in

is being close to nature—

to feel a leaf rest

in the hollow of my palm.

 

 

There’s nothing to do

 

At seventeen, life shines bright,

but she’s always out of sight.

Her progress seems just fine,

yet it brings me close to crying.

All she innocently wants is a husband—why?

She wonders as the days drift by.

“There’s nothing to do,” she sighs again,

“We could lay in the sun, thats totally summer” I say—

“No, that’s boring, pointless anyway.”

That’s not me. Not I.

Now there’s nothing left to say.

I was born to be understanding.

So—farewell.

I’m off to chase my dreams.

 

 

farewell

Farewell, all my feeds—

lemons wait, sweet cheesecake calls,

I am off to bake.

 

 

haiku

Your faith moves my soul,

yet I must walk my own path—

no more holding back.

 

 

Golden Sultanas

 

I didn’t sleep much last night,

and now I’m searching for the right words

to describe a simple bowl of sultanas—

often scattered with nuts.

A jewel of brown, oval, born of seedless grapes,

they are not as simple as they seem:

dried, wrinkled, endlessly ripe,

their skins folded in on time itself.

Sweeter than honey, yet faintly bitter,

they carry a whisper of regret—

They rest in their bowl,

content in the stillness

of cupboards and empty rooms.

And yet, tasting just one cluster,

I am content with only a few.

They are the best part of any raisin loaf,

a small burst of what once was.

I gather a handful, chasing sweetness

until I am reaching for what remains.

Nothing I’d rather do than sit in the quiet company

with this complicated afternoon snack,

It has made an

unforgettable afternoon—

a little joy,

far more complex than it appears.

 

 

Blueberries

 

Everyone’s chasing their own happily ever after,

while I’m here, trying to write a poem.

Time slips quietly past.

Somewhere in the corners of my mind,

I’ll find a feeling worth writing about—

love, honesty, or betrayal.

I’ve betrayed no one,

loved with persistence,

and perhaps been too honest.

Must I suffer to create?

Probably not.

Maybe it’s enough to notice

how the orange leaves drift down

with such grace in autumn.

Or better yet, the blueberries—

all I want is a bowl of them,

bursting with clear-blue juice.

I hold a handful,

picked with care by Nat,

the kind farmer whose fields

are uneven and damp,

where the wind shakes loose

the berries clinging to their stems,

and bees hum through the air,

busy with their pollination.

The berries are ripe—

perfect for a cheesecake,

perfect just as they are.

 

 

I never believed in magic

 

I never believed in magic

until the moment you looked at me.

Now, even as our paths divide,

I try to move on—

and if you have, I will too.

Still, I think of you every day.

Part of my soul

will always belong to you—

the one I still turn to.

You will always be my baby.

 

 

men are bull****

 

To take or use the honourable Work

Of a Woman, of a Mother and of a Wife

is vile

In the end, the men they wear away

Men are bull****

But only she loves and knows herself

 

 

Summer Shower

 

he watches while I undress—

no words, just that heavy quiet.

I lean in, kiss him once,

quick, nervous, like I might disappear.

she’s dying—

but not the kind you read about,

just that slow kind,

the kind that comes from wanting too much.

the tap squeaks.

a drop hits my hair,

another my foot,

then the whole sky comes down on me.

he steps in.

six kisses maybe,

maybe more.

we’re both drowning,

and madly in love.

 

 

I live for men

 

I live for the men who moil for gold;

the men that steer a ship across the Atlantic

the men that design a four by four wall with a roof,

the men that fight a war they know nothing about

the men that fix my broken computer

and don’t make a big deal about it.

the ones that smell like steel and sweat,

who don’t drink after work

and talk about nothing like it’s everything.

the ones that curse softly when the wrench slips,

who show up and still get it done,

whose backs hurt but they laugh anyway,

because there’s always another day,

another job, another busted thing to make right.

I live for the ones who never made a plan,

but keep moving,

keep hammering, typing, welding, coding,

the quiet saints of the small hours,

sweating under the hum of fluorescent light,

making the world work while no one’s watching.

 

 

Hold on tight

 

Hold on tightly to your big dream,

even during the coldest winters.

And to those that pretend to believe in you.

We outgrow them anyway

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

Just get your back off the wall,

and one person will show you how.

And then if we were to stick true to plan

Keep treading – treading –

And work in the silence

We’ll reach for the stars

 

 

29

 

My dream is simple—

to write a sweet poem in daylight,

No one knows how hard I fought.

The sun slowly climbs up like it always does,

and I crawl out of sleep,

make it to the desk

before the coffee’s even ready.

There’s never enough time

to get the poem right—

but I start anyway,

hammering at the keys like it matters.

Soon I’ll clock in for the nine-to-five,

where words don’t mean as much,

and effort gets filed away somewhere.

For now, there’s no one breathing down my neck.

Just me,

and this stubborn page.

I try to care for my husband,

for the dishes,

for the small things that keep us human.

But the poem keeps repeating itself—

same themes, same ghosts.

I change the subject constantly.

Too opinionated.

Too much commentary.

One minute it’s about love,

the next—about God, or rent, or the way

summer light used to feel.

I think of that warmth,

and I want to write it down,

capture it before it slips away.

I live like I’ve already died,

and maybe that’s why I write—

to remind myself I haven’t.

Yes—

this will do.

 

 

29

 

Rewrite the old past,

I’ll follow what truth reveals—

Reality stays.

 

 

Our relationship

We break up, make up,

Then break up once more again—

And still, we get wed.

 

 

Nothing really leaves us

 

When the sun or moon disappear,

they live on in the smiles of people

halfway across the world.

Nothing really leaves us.

Or the damage we do to our health

I’ll never stop caring about you—

I’ll catch glimpses of your love

in the eyes of strangers

even when the thing and place is gone it lingers in —

my memories

Funny, isn’t it?

 

 

Give me a chance

I am aware I’m not exactly the same

It’s not that bad I’m still sort of breathing

You’re totally right – “the way is narrow and too difficult”

Tis costly to write

Give my writing a go

Give me a chance

They said I was wrong

That they were better

Even if I have to wait till spring

I’ll dream until I’m out of a scorching hot shower

or furnace

 

 

22-29

I’m laying on my bed,

mid-afternoon blur settling in.

Fatigue drapes over me—

then suddenly, an idea sparks.

I send the email.

Then it hits me—

he’s twisting something deep inside.

When will he see me clearly,

take me seriously?

The silence

It was never love—

it’s a fight.

 

 

29

After our kiss if you would like

we could go to the moon

No need for gravity.

Now nothing is pulling us back.

Between us, you would need to know the speed of light.

299 792 458 m / s and the speed of rain 9m/s to leave this earth.

And maybe the theory of inertia.

Everything is stationary until I intervene with a force.

Meanwhile the earth keeps spinning and making new memories we’ll never miss.

Actually, forget the moon, I’d prefer to stay on earth

and lay with you.

 

 

22-29

 

I’m trying to be speak louder, be prouder, and stronger.

After four years I have nothing left to give you Professor.

Still I rise.

I made it to the finish line.

 

 

age 22-29

 

I took my clothes off —

and instantly regretted it.

What am I to do,

to make you mine?

They say people grow round with love,

perhaps from seeing them bare.

The clothes return —

a small mercy.

I leave the rest

to the imagination,

which, as always,

is kinder than the truth.

Anyway life resumes,

it doesn’t matter.

He no longer respects me —

So I face the mirror.

Ignore the body

that insists on being there.

Still, I am on track:

earning grades,

stacking efforts

toward a world

I mean to change —

maybe not with beauty,

perhaps not with him,

don’t make me cry

but with the quiet defiance

of keeping my clothes

and my mind on.

 

 

17-21

With my friends, I laugh and say,

“I’m so lucky — he’s so kind, so patient.

He treats me with respect,

knows exactly how to make me feel seen,

buys me all my favourite things.”

They smile; I say I love him to death —

Every song reminds me of him

“I’ve never met a man like him.”

But when I leave the table,

reality catches up.

He was supposed to be the one,

and I’m left humiliated,

heart cracked open on the bathroom floor.

He’s already found someone else.

All those words —

I think they were lies.

 

 

The Bluest Eyes

 

You’ve got blue eyes

That’s it!

You win

I forfeit

 

 

Even if I must wait

 

Even if I must

Wait until the next year comes,

Let’s give it a try.

 

 

Mating call

Saw two birds being all romantic today in a tree above… guess I’m third-wheeling nature.

They found each other, feathered, free—

And now I will have a human boyfriend too.

 

 

What should I write about?

 

I asked myself what life had given me

that might be worth the price of parchment

and felt ink.

Every story had already been told.

yet I chased the story,

like a journalist seeking truth,

like a novelist looking for charisma.

I’m a bluebird singing a broken tune.

One winter afternoon,

at the edge of a university lawn,

I met a boy. He seemed so famous.

He’s got to be from out of town.

Awkward words

exchanged between us,

but his presence stayed.

Arrogant, yes—

yet creative,

charming,

alive with an energy

I could not look away from.

In him, something sparked:

the possibility of art. Big Art.

He showed me a glimpse of himself,

and no one else seemed half as real.

Through him,

I felt a door open—in my imagination

and the promise of story.

Eleven years have since passed.

The memory lingers still,

but the book remains unwritten,

its first sentence waiting

in the silence of that winter lawn.

 

 

Oh the irony

 

It’s the irony of cake after sweat and strain,

Of chasing health, then sweetening the pain.

It’s pointing a finger with secrets to hide,

Condemning the lie while living inside.

It’s preaching of patience while burning with haste,

Or wasting tomorrow in the name of “no waste.”

Or attending late and being

shocked when they’re not there on time.

 

 

It is like cheesecake after exercise

It’s like cheesecake after the heaviest set of reps,

Like finding sunlight where rain once wept.

It’s like a song you never knew you knew,

Humming its melody straight to you.

It’s like missing a train, then catching a flight,

Landing somewhere that suddenly feels right.

It’s like laughter that blooms in the middle of tears,

Like holding tomorrow without any fears.

It’s like falling in love and finding the one,

As if the story has only just begun.

 

 

Let me go gently

 

If I die, O let me die with dignity

Good lord, let me live again.

 

 

Writing a short story

 

Writing a short story is like baking sourdough—

soft, crunchy, absurdly expensive,

and always time-consuming.

I would prefer making a sandwich

or writing a poem. 

I collect all the ingredients

or sit at my desk.

I weigh 100 grams of flour.

Too much—120.

Scoop a little out.

The scale settles at 100.85.

Bingo. Now we’re talking.

A good start: 700 words in.

Flour, salt, water—

mix them together and suddenly

we have dough—

or chapter one.

I tend the starter like a secret.

My characters rise,

shaped and perfect.

I cover them with a damp towel,

set them aside,

and return tomorrow—

to keep the story alive.

 

 

Morning Ritual

 

My life begins each morning.

First, I give thanks—Jesus before all things.

I open the drawer: hundreds of spoons and forks,

ready for the gift of God—

breakfast.

Yogurt, raisins, toast,

cereal, porridge.

On Sundays, I visit my parents.

Eggs, hashbrowns, beans—

I take a plate, choose a spoon,

and make my place at the table.

We eat to be strong.

We share our dreams over coffee.

Later, I leave—

strangers pass without knowing me.

Still, we wish each other well.

 

 

Writer

I ponder—why play it safe?

I’ve waited my whole life to find the right words.

Shakespeare and the greats still linger over my shoulder,

yet no one asks if I’m okay.

The whole world is busy judging what I write.

 

 

No such thing as a victory

 

On earth and in this universe there are no real winners,

only love.

 

 

 

 

Single

 

Single through the years,

spread your kindness and love as it outgrows the stars,

a gift to the world.

 

 

Innocence

 

Jesus, I’ve never heard of him

but I do know innocence

Why did this happen to me?

God said he is innocent

God is hiding from me

I know God loves me

 

 

skin is just skin

 

skin is beautiful. don’t touch it.

when you feel sad about it

try harder

pull a tough face, hold your breath

try thinking in a different way

they will love more than you can imagine

 

 

Choose love not victory

 

When life feels unbearably hard,

push through—don’t stop trying.

When they try to hurt you, look at them straight in the eye.

Game on

It’s okay to cry, to throw things, to capture the moment.

Hold onto yourself.

Walk with others, help them more than you help yourself.

It’s not about winning—it’s about kindness.

That’s what lets you soar,

like a gentle bird carried by the wind.

On earth and in this universe there are no real winners,

only love.

If you stumble, try again.

The numbers, the views, the outside noise—

none of that matters.

What matters is how it feels inside.

So choose joy.

Choose to feel happy.

 

 

There is no time for hatred

There is no time for hatred

only love.

Hug more except when they hate you.

This is what life is about.

Too much hate can destroy a person.

If I could go back in time I would love more

and take bigger risks.

 

 

There is love

 

There is love here

So much love here

Is what I’m trying to put into words

I can’t stop smiling.

I don’t mean that things are perfect. No.

But it’ll do.

 

 

They told me

by mesalie feleke3 on October 5, 2025. © mesalie feleke

They told me no.

They said the path was too narrow, too hard,

too costly, impossible.

but don’t be afraid to fly.

Because today is your day—

and I believe it.

 

 

Don’t forget me

 

I keep telling myself

to get over what happened,

but some nights I stay awake

until the first streak of sun

pulls across the blinds,

and you are still there.

Twelve years—

the clocks don’t even notice,

yet I keep counting.

Your hands,

though I said no,

still echo inside me—

a place I never invited you to stay.

And so, here we are again,

me talking to the dark,

pretending that one day

I might meet you once more,

if only to say

what should have been said then

 

 

My body

 

My body is a temple.

My womb, a bird’s nest.

My heart, a singing bird.

My lungs, the breath of life.

My soul, an endless flame.

My bones, strong as a brick wall.

My stomach as full as a grandmother’s table.

 

 

Sunday Morning

 

She dreams of two beloved children,

wandering freely in a sunlit playroom

on a Sunday morning.

A man who pauses for her,

one she can truly call her own.

She vows:

I shall not live in vain.

 

 

Purity

 

Purity spreads its wings and soars.

Hope is a ninety year old walking with steady, tireless stride,

A quiet strength that will not hide.

Love blooms like a sunflower softly, warm and true,

A gentle fire in me and you.

Kindness drifts like a tender breeze,

A simple touch of a mother that puts hearts at ease.

Peace rests softly, calm and clear,

Like the sound of soft river, still and complete,

Its quiet flow serene and sweet.

 

 

I like myself when I’m not yours

 

I like my body when it is not with yours

I like who I am when I’m not yours

I am happier, fulfilled, and spiritual

Is it ironic? that you made me once happy

 

 

Never Never Never listening

 

Three enter the bar.

Two died the next day.

Only one leaves breathing.

 

 

A ‘Man’ Salad

 

I am standing in the kitchen

fighting with a jar of artichokes

that seems to be more stubborn than me

The lid is practically welded shut—

and for a moment I picture myself

sending a small,

desperate request on linkedin

to my ex with forearms like steel,

the kind who opens jars without thinking.

But then I remember,

this is not that kind of story and

that would be totally inappropriate.

So I take a breath, lean on the bench

look over at the quote on the chalkboard—

something vague and inspirational about perseverance—

and return to the battle.

One tablecloth, three ridiculous grimaces,

and a kind of determination

and then—pop.

The absolute sound of triumph.

artichokes, finally liberated.

And I stand there smiling,

strong, clever,

and just the right amount of resilience,

with marks on my hands a remnant of

the battle I have survived.

 

 

Love hurts us

 

It is not that living hurts us —

it is love that hurts us

when death is caused by love— that hurts us even more —

he hurt me more than living and death combined —

 

 

a birds wisdom

 

The night before, you worked until sleep claimed you.

Hunger is faint, but dinner still calls.

Your ex is with someone unkind,

yet he lingers at the edges of your life.

I forget to charge my phone.

Morning greets me with a dead battery

and the panic of a missed meeting.

I wait for life to spark in the screen—

but it fades again, mid-journey.

The address hides in an email,

my laptop lies in repair,

and silence meets my calls for help.

Still, I smile.

Well isn’t this nice.

I will follow the Lord.

 

 

I went to the beach with Jesus

 

At last, I rest after a long day of words.

On my day off, I walk to the shore.

I was lucky today.

The sea rises,

water climbing to my knees, my neck.

I know the waves will knock me down,

the next one will take me—

yet I root my feet in the sand,

face my fear,

and plunge headfirst,

diving into the greatest wave imaginable.

I return to my towel,

and Jesus smiles.

 

 

No poems till 65

 

Shall I write a poem and spill my secrets? No, not I.

Perhaps one day, when age and wisdom find me—who knows?

 

 

any colour

 

The finest poems are always about a soaring bird—

blue, black, or purple,

it didn’t matter

for any bird, in any colour,

can become anything,

can do anything.

In Grease, Sandy and Danny

are pulled together by their appearance differences:

he’s the rebel, she’s the pure,

yet in the end,

they are both the same—

both good.

 

 

Life is too good

 

The sky—is too blue,

but not today it is grey

and sometimes the

clouds— slightly white

are the same colour as the sky,

the sun—burning yellow in my eyes,

for a second

grass—green beneath our feet.

But did you see it that way too?

Too simple, yet too complicated—

surely it must be multicoloured,

a spectrum unseen.

Life was must then be difficult.

And still,

I love the divine.

 

 

Three generations

 

Three generations in two thousand twenty five, strong and free,

Prosperous, whole—eternally.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

I vaguely remember my professor—

his PhD,

his shadow over me.

I’ve already moved on.

I moved on from the bruises of the mind,

looked upward,

to the clouds.

It’s like the moment after love,

when he won’t hold my hand.

It’s like the camera catching

your face—already broken.

I fold my boyfriends clothes,

pack his suitcase.

I clutch his arm and whisper I love you.

Did I mean more than I knew?

Did I mean it at all?

Still, I said it.

And then—straight in a taxi to the airport

off to England.

 

 

From Girl to Woman

 

It was a quiet journey into womanhood.

Breasts budding,

the first drop of blood—

I told my mother as she washed the dishes.

It felt ordinary,

as though I had always bled.

Hips widening,

bones stretching long.

Yet nothing seemed to change

except the quiet knowledge

of what my body could hold.

And still,

I flinch at the thought

of giving birth.

 

 

Happy 21

 

Happy 21

Get out—

get out—

get out of my home.

You’ll break yourself,

and then break me next—

“lovers and rivals”

in the same breath.

It’s an emergency. I shall die.

I’m screaming your name, M,

I don’t care what they say.

Regret. Despair.

I wonder, always,

what might have been

if I’d said no

again, again, again.

Say it louder.

Stay home.

Pure Jesus—

but I’m not pure enough.

To be all pure

is to see the masks:

the “good” men,

quietly bad.

Help me.

Help me.

Never. Never. Never.

You will never be enough.

It’s just one anatomy exam—

first question:

what is art

at the core of your heart?

to everyone its like rain on your wedding day or when your

card declines when you have money

or when your luggage is lost

but to me it feels like a plane came down.

Don’t let them too close to hurt you.

 

 

I will overcome you

 

You may laugh at how I’m misused and underestimated.

You can throw your dirt at my feet.

I’ll play along, obeying for now —

because that’s how fame is forged.

But in the end, I will overcome you,

soaring like a fearless bird.

 

 

I dreamed of being a poet

 

I once dreamed of making it as a poet,

tossing out lines that were humorous and sly,

like being stuck in a traffic jam

on the way to work

and still having to stop for fuel.

I would write about a great vessel

crashing against the waves,

or the way four walls and a roof

can feel like a cage,

even when you painted them yourself.

And at night, when everyone else

slipped into the quiet breathing of sleep,

I’d stay awake,

scribbling into the dark

as if the words themselves

were keeping me company.

 

 

When I write a original poem

 

When I write a original poem, the spotlight finds me—

I turn into a dancer,

a performer on stage.

A makeshift dance floor and stage made

from parchment.

The ink my voice and my movement the words.

I use my fingers and write like a woman who

wrote under male pseudonyms.

I grow as compassionate as a doctor,

serving my community,

as steady as a surgeon completing his 300th surgery.

I become sweet as honey,

imaginative as a chef

describing the glorious taste of pecan pie.

I become an environmentalist

and write about the elegant and simple

lives of moss.

I turn into a historian,

unraveling hidden memories

of WWII.

I soar like an astronaut,

penning verses about stars

that aloft across the night sky.

 

 

A Belated Dream

I never liked the part

where everyone turns to look at you—

the cake burning down in the centre of the room,

the silence before the singing.

But this is your moment,

they say,

as if surviving thirty years

were something like crossing the Atlantic

in a canoe with one oar.

Outside, rain braids itself into the windows

in summer.

Inside, the clock insists

on telling the truth:

everyone is late,

no one remembered a gift,

even the dog looks away.

Still, my heart has the nerve

to be a singing bird,

taking off across the sea

as though joy were effortless—

as though it could forget

what day it is,

and where it was supposed to land.

 

 

Introduction to Poetry (inspired by Billy Collins)

I ask them to search for hidden codes,

to put on detective hats

and shine their flashlights into the corners on every poem.

Who really is the author and what are the themes?

I suggest they write about

peace, or war, or the quiet grief

or the flowers that sits at the kitchen table like an old companion.

Write about how much we cared about the

flowers inside and not in the garden.

Or perhaps about the lovers—

the ones who left without saying goodbye,

and the ones who stayed long enough

to teach you how to make pancakes

in the morning.

and the ones that yelled when you left while

they were asleep as you close the door behind you

I tell them to write about the big moments:

graduations, funerals, revolutions—

but not to forget the small ones,

like the sandwich they were eating

when history happened outside their window.

Write, I say, not because the world demands it,

not because you owe anything to literature,

but because it’s fun—

like skipping stones across a pond

just to watch the ripples disagree with each other.

 

 

Reflection

When I’m forced to reflect on life,

it’s in the quiet moments I just want to drift off to sleep.

I don’t always know what to say.

I want to move on—

I don’t want to hold onto you, not then, not now.

Sadness lingers.

I’d rather be stuck in a traffic jam and late

then thinking about you taking a **** break. (Ew complete opposites)

listening to a radio that won’t shut up,

than sitting here with these thoughts.

You can’t speak to me because of that.

I need a break from writing.

But deep down,

I’m ready to stand at the alter with some else.

I wonder who my parents really are?

I’m ready to pack my suitcase.

 

 

Time changes love

 

I always played it safe,

never said what I really felt.

Then I took a chance on love—

a little lost,

but hopeful.

He seems different now.

Time has reshaped him,

and something stirs in his memory.

I wake to new messages,

feeling happy, content,

and I wonder what he’s up to.

Did he ever buy that house

he was dreaming of?

What is time, really?

Is it irony that he still remembers my name?

It’s the free ride with his ex,

the quiet disrespect toward another.

I’ve heard the rumours.

And though I miss the old him—

that’s just time.

He’s the rain on a summer day.

 

 

Life

by mesalie feleke3 on October 3, 2025. © mesalie feleke

He packed his suitcase and left,

weary of life—

and then took his own.

 

 

His eyes

 

The sunset lingers on his green eyes,

and I can’t comprehend

who he is,

or how he will end.

Then he speaks—

directly to me—

and every feeling I’ve held

rises, unbidden,

as he shows the love

he carries for my friend

directly at me.

And now they are together,

hands intertwined, laughter shared,

while I drift like a shadow

through the spaces between them,

watching love bloom

that was never mine.

 

 

Outgrow

 

We outgrow our moments.

We outgrow our friendships.

We outgrow our grief.

And yet—

the echoes linger,

softly shaping who we become

Who and what will I be next?

I can’t wait!

 

 

I see you smiling.

I see you smiling.

My quiet old man gave me permission and

drove me to the funeral.

I wore all black and gave my respects.

She lies in a coffin— at 14

a glimpse that pierces me with despair.

We never know how lucky we are

Till we are asked to rise

We were just laughing that I was late from lunch

to science as we sat in artistic blue chairs,

“Didn’t you hear the three ‘fire’ alarms!” she asks

Today nothing went to plan

then she died the next day.

Our little chemistry group,

Amy, Bronte, and Mesalie.

A grades stacked on my side that we hid.

What a trio—nothing compared.

What proud elegant women!

what a bright, unbroken future.

It’s your smile on your wedding day.

It’s like falling in love with a

man and meeting his pretty wife.

It feels like a plane came down.

It was the good life.

There was a spark in you

I’ll never forget.

Tears fall and will not be contained.

Now you’re a citizen of Heaven,

a proud woman once wrapped in

oversized expensive blazers worth 20k.

A grave is a place with boundaries—

yet when I lift my eyes to the sun,

I see you smiling.

 

 

 

 

My husband

I don’t even know when it began—

every song pulls me back to you.

Sitting on the grass, I thought you were mine.

He told me I was beautiful with just his eyes,

and then said he preferred me.

There was such honesty, such purity—

I felt everything, wide open,

never turning it off for a moment.

But I would never wish to be anyone else but you,

except my husband.

He is the reason I stand strong.

I love my husband.

Everything I do, I do for him.

 

 

farewell

 

If what I know from society is true

then you will never be mine

theres nothing more to say

you worship your smooth moves

so whats it going to be?

adieu and a goodbye

thankyou

 

 

alphabetical order

 

I’ve catalogued men —

alphabetical, chronological —

each name a notch,

each night a blur.

Hours surrendered to sex,

and nothing remains.

What is wrong with me?

I feel stripped — hollow —

thinking of you

while you move on.

I must move on but please don’t.

And all I want —

not a list, not a memory —

just a boyfriend.

 

 

Hungry

 

We loved — on hungry stomachs.

He carries regret.

I — silence.

I chose the burger.

This — is love.

 

 

It’s just beginning

 

We love each other,

at least that’s how it begins,

with a great deal of ceremony—

hands on shoulders,

late–night phone calls,

whole paragraphs of text

written in the air between us.

Then we hate each other,

just as completely,

with slammed doors,

frowning silences,

and a few carefully chosen words

that could have been left

in the dictionary.

And now it’s over—

no parade, no trumpet,

just a quiet folding of the napkin

after the meal,

the check already paid,

both of us standing

at the edge of an ordinary street

waiting for the light to change.

 

 

haiku

When I was younger

The last light on my heartbroken face—

they lift the camera lens, knowing this

may be the final.

 

 

A vernal Day

 

To sip the Afternoon — with You —

A vernal Day — so fair —

The Sun — behind — attended Us —

With unanointed care —

The endless Scones — the patient Tea —

Revealed — a sweeter Past —

Our Parents — and our vanished Schools —

Returned — but could not last —

And when the final Cup was drained —

We parted — as before —

Yet Gratitude — as constant Stone —

Companions — evermore —

 

 

I know heartbreak well

 

I know Heartbreak — well —

We’ve spoken — once or twice —

It crumbles — like a Mountain —

Before astonished Eyes —

that capture the moment

I thought of You — this Morning —

And how You spent — the Day —

I wept — I missed You —

Mad — for You — alway —

 

 

Farewell adieu

 

In life I know new things will bloom,

That’s why I must let go of you.

Yet if I return, it’s because I care,

A bond unbroken, still lingering there.

If I come back, forgive me true,

For my heart still beats in the thought of you.

I miss you deeply, more than I say,

Please forgive me—don’t turn away.

For in my soul, it’s clear as ever,

We are brighter, stronger, better together.

 

 

What should we do today?

 

What should we do today?

Theres no need to go outside

in the middle of winter

we can stay in quietly reading

while eating a bowl of sultanas

It’s still raining mid july

I’ll make pancakes

 

 

I deserve better

You treated me with complete disrespect.

You forced me into giving head.

It’s not fair.

You’re dumb and immature.

I deserve better—someone who truly cares about me.

I needed a man who would help me, not hurt me.

When I look into your eyes, all I see is lust.

Does it get any better than this?

I like you completely inside me.

What happened to I love you?

And that’s not fair.

 

 

I wanted you back

 

Take me back to when we liked each other

When we kissed, I foolishly believed

you’d always be mine.

I should know better.

We had endless moment together.

I took you for granted—

God, I was wrong.

This is not over yet.

I won’t let you slip away this time.

Just give me one last chance.

The fight we had was stupid.

I’ll play it cool now.

So tell me—are we going out tonight?

Let’s try again.

I don’t need the makeup,

I just need you.

No more games. I promise.

But when I see you with someone else,

the ache pulls me under—

I want you back forever.

She sees something in you

that I ignored.

I won’t let you down this time.

Love me back.

Trust me this time.

All he did was kiss me.

It meant nothing.

What I want

is to be your girlfriend.

Let’s return to where it began—

to our imagination,

where one conversation

was enough.

Now the nights are sleepless,

and all I can think of

is you.

 

 

equality sucks

 

A Man—becomes a Woman—

A Woman—plays the Man—

And in the Middle—wonders—

Which—was All along—

The River—takes the Moonlight—

The Moonlight—claims the Sea—

A Man—became—more Straight—

A Woman—turned—to She—

And all the World—reversed Its Maps—

Yet Love—kept—Company—

Desire—reshapes the Compass—

It need not—ask the Way—

For North—exists in Every Heart—

And South—in Every Day—

 

 

moving on

 

For only—One—Night—

I watched—you—leaving—

Loosed—from the Wall—

As if—the Dawn—had called you forth—

No Chains—at All—

Do not—take back—

What once was—Mine—

Your Pulse—is—not my Own—

I—learned—too late—

That Love must fade—

Its Sovereign—Overthrown—

I shall not—bind you—here again—

No—Chance—I—implore—

The quarrel—large—

The Loss—a Gift—

I—will not—ask for more—

I need—not Promise—nor your Face—

My Heart—has turned—to Sky—

And when—she takes—your Tender Hand—

I—do not—ask you—Why—

She—saw in You—what I—released—

The Star—was never—Mine—

Go—hold her Trust—

Be Loved—by Her—

I’ve crossed—another Line—

Return—not—to the Place we Spoke—

Where—One slight Word—was—Bread—

Now—Nights—are dreamless—

Every Thought—

Of You—is—quiet—Dead—

 

 

for only one night

For only—One—Night—

I saw—you—standing—

Pressed against the Wall—

As if—until the Morning broke—

You—must not—Fall—

Take us—Back—

When—I believed—

Your Pulse—was—always—Mine—

I—foolish—trusted—Love would stay—

And squandered—the Divine—

I shall not—let you—slip again—

One—more—Chance—Bestow—

The quarrel—small—

The Loss—Immense—

What Fool—was I—to go—

I need—not Powder—nor a Paint—

Your Gaze—is All—I crave—

And yet—when Others—hold your Hand—

I—long—to be—your Slave—

She—saw in You—what I—refused—

And claimed—the Star—I missed—

I—beg—your Trust—

Love me—Again—

For All he did—was Kiss—

Return—with me—to Where we Spoke—

When—One slight Word—was—Bread—

Now—Nights—are sleepless—

Every Thought—

Of You—in—empty Bed—

 

 

 

What should we do with our afternoon?

Today was your day.

Baby, what should we do with our afternoon?

What are we going to do?

My work is done, the hours are mine.

How much time remains?

From five until eight.

Could we waterski across the ocean’s surface, straight to shore?

or row upstream in a wooden boat with oars

Not in July, nor in the cold of winter.

Maybe instead—

We could read our favourite book,

Cook our favourite meal,

balance an egg on a spoon

Watch a bluebird drift by,

Or simply sit in a quiet room

With nothing but a bowl of sultanas.

 

 

Time moves by quickly

 

She sits, staring at the ground, lost.

Time to rise.

What’s happening?

Brush the dirt off those new clothes—

Eleven long years have passed.

People come and go,

But tell me, what are you holding onto?

He’s consumed you,

The love is gone.

You know it.

It’s time to move on.

Run.

I believe in you.

Every little thing that hurt—

It meant nothing in the end.

How will you get over it?

Too much time has slipped away.

You have to walk through the hard road.

Push through.

Reclaim your body, your spirit.

Life was never just about love—

It was about your growth.

Now, thrive.

Remember your birthday,

Remember that time carries treasure.

You have a place to be.

Make small, steady changes.

Who do you need? Reach for them.

Plan your way forward.

Yes, your new clothes are stained,

But you are not broken.

I won’t let a mother live unhappy.

Come on now, love.

So what’s it going to be?

I’m getting up.

It’s not too late.

If you want happiness—

Claim it.

Don’t break down.

Be better.

Come on.

So much better.

 

 

When I am gone

Do not shed tears when I am gone,

or call my mother

For I was never more than a fleeting breeze,

A passing whisper, a moment caught in time.

Your grief, though gentle and kind,

Is not the tribute I long for.

Instead, let your heart be light while I’m here.

Laugh with me, speak with me,

Fill these days with warmth and presence.

Do not save your love for eulogies or empty rooms—

Share it now, while my hands can still hold yours,

While my eyes can still see your smile.

When I’m gone, let the winds carry me quietly.

Remember not the absence but the moments we built.

I was not much, perhaps, but I was here—

And while I’m here, let us live.

 

 

What a jerk.

An Aussie slouched on a park bench in London.

I’ve met my share of fools,

but this one takes the crown.

He struts like brains and brawn

give him the right to sneer.

I’ve never seen a man so tangled up

in his own reflection.

Sure—he’s got the looks.

But that won’t hold me.

Not now, not ever.

Goodbye.

 

 

Banana slice

 

My homemade banana slice brings me to tears,

A taste of the past across the years.

Golden and rich, never betraying,

A quiet devotion, forever staying.

I need no company, no one else near—

If only one more slice were here.

Though rare, our love is honest and true,

I’d give away a piece… but only a few.

It pains me when they say, “Enough, you’re full,”

For no one knows my hunger’s pull.

I stop at last, though my heart still longs,

My waist may grow, but our bond stays strong.

 

 

Our relationship

Our love is like when I try to take a seat on a bean bag

you warn me

And I assume its going to be comfortable

I take a chance, jump onto it

and nearly hurt my back

I lay on the bed instead

And I know we should be together

 

 

Morning routine

I’ve always wanted to bake my own sour dough

topped with sliced mango, cottage cheese and balsamic

in any particular order

bit of salt and pepper

curated with tender love, labour, and care

each ingredient perfectly measured

basically science

the perfect mathematical indices

I congratulate myself

my early morning sitting under my green apple tree

the bluebird siging their birdsong

while I sip my green tea and enjoy my morning toast

with my dog Rue

before my hectic day begins

 

 

How Could You Hurt a Loving Thing

 

How could you place yourself

above a bluebird?

How could you bring harm

to a fly?

What wrong

has the bluebird done you?

My human heart

is a nest

where a bluebird sings.

My human heart

is tender

as the labor of an ant.

My human heart

is an apple tree,

offering its fruit.

 

 

my soul

 

my soul is like a singing bluebird

singing a fine tune while it is still learning

it is hopeful just like the thing with feathers

it is as innocent and emotional like a bluebird

 

 

who would

 

who would pull apart the petals of a flower?

why would you destroy something so perfect

let the flower be

who would hurt a soaring fly

who would hurt a wise grasshopper

who would hurt a cooperative ant

 

 

Love came at Christmas

 

Throughout the year I pushed myself

passed the breaking point

There were peaks and troughs

memories and opportunities

and I took the chance

All for the opportunity and time to celebrate Jesus

For the time we spend on this special day

I know we’ll always be together

 

 

bluebird

 

I’m like a broken bluebird in a cage singing a tune within a fractured echo of freedom

 

 

reproductive rights

 

reproductive rights for every woman in the world

men and their violence is bullshit

 

 

beauty is bullshit

beauty is in your own eye

single for 10 years

men are bullshit

 

 

It’s like a holocaust

 

I hear slow footsteps.

When death finally comes to your door,

it knocks softly.

And the whole world will answer.

A drifting cloud of fog rises,

wrapping itself around my body.

Someone like you should be locked away.

I walk through Anne Frank’s house,

guarding my heart.

They kick Italian dirt into my eyes,

then pause for pasta

in the Devil’s bowl along the way.

Please—

you’re pushing me too far.

For the way he loved me,

I am torn away

from the people and the person

I once knew.

A reminder:

I am no longer living.

In truth, it wasn’t me who lived — it was you.

My faith in God

remains untested.

 

 

 

stylish criminal

 

I can see through your facade

Julie are you okay?

I’ve been hit by a smooth criminal…..

 

 

What a day!

New Messages.

Strawberry marmalade scones with too much cream

and old homes

What a view! What a day!

 

 

flowers are not always beautiful

every petals layer gradually drop to the bench top

beauty is in the eye of the holder

flowers are only as pretty as you are

 

 

Faithful

He is looking for a lady with wrinkles

and a crooked smile that breaks the mirror

a curvy figure

Are we clear on this?

Unwashed hair and no makeup

but a can do attitude

A poet, author, doctor, casted

Faithful but kind

Am I the one?

 

 

Happily Ever After

 

In Everwilde, so far away,

A queen once ruled, both benevolent and sweet.

Yet Morgana’s hand, with whispered might,

Cast a curse that veiled the light.

No ever-afters, no joyful song,

The town had slept in sorrow long.

Beyond its gates, where meadows lie,

Lived Lily, golden hair and sky.

A widowed father, old and frail,

Raised her with love through grief’s long trail.

She dreamed of castles, tales untold,

Of princes brave and hearts of gold.

One dawn she woke, the sunlight near,

A quest began to end the fear.

A prince from lands beyond the sea

Beside her walked through destiny.

Through trials fierce, their spirits grew,

And love, like fire, burned fierce and true.

A gem in hand, their hearts aligned,

The curse was broken, love enshrined.

 

 

If I was on the titanic

Adrift! A large ship adrift!

An iceberg is coming down!

Will no one guide this large ship

Unto the nearest shore to be anchored?

So Sailors look — on the day—

To the moon in the nightsky

Pure joy in the deep ocean till death

One big ship gave up its strife

And gurgled down and down

to the sea floor.

So angels say — on yesterday —

3000 people went down— as sweet as gales —

The world — exultantly keep on!

 

 

He helps me up

 

Every time he sulks,

I let him in again—

standing on the edge of freedom,

yet tethered by the weight of him.

Then I pass him by

Every time I struggle,

or find myself trapped in a dead end,

I open the door—

he steps inside,

and picks me up.

But in that moment,

it is me on the cliff’s edge,

breath caught,

heart breaking—

and still, he lifts me out.

Floating, floating

across the sharp horizon,

he carries me.

I drift.

I sink.

I breathe.

I’ve been to my funeral in my mind,

laid down the flowers,

closed the casket—

and still, he picks me up.

Woah.

I lock my heart,

yet hand him the key.

I let him in again.

I tell myself I’m fine.

And when everything’s fine—

he’s gone.

 

 

I went to my funeral in my brain

 

I felt a weary, aching pain,

No armor shields me from the strain.

Something unthinkable unfolded,

Not anxious—yet my nerves lie folded

Deep within a silent grave,

While mourners drift, a solemn wave.

I rest inside a narrow box,

Until a frog breaks time’s paradox.

Forgiven.

Feet like gears that will not go,

I sleep beneath the quartz below.

Centuries later, someone stands—

Beside the happy stone, with quiet hands

 

 

Gender bias

Woman are complex people with emotions

and are not objects

in fact men are pigshit

he asks can I lay by your side?

on several conditions

first I get to work for equal pay

write as a woman

you help do the dishes and laundry

and now I’m crazy for requesting

Done.

I’m Done. Ollie has tried to kiss Jenny.

Jenny has had enough

and does not want to be kissed by him.

He keeps persisting.

I’m calling the police.

I scream men are bullshit.

I say Men are crazy.

 

 

[ I find myself making excuses ]

 

I find myself making excuses

forever excusing myself

for not getting the words on the page

as you try again

I forgive myself again

the words perch in the soul

the fairest skin writes the fairest poetry

 

 

poetry for beginners

Life is short

Write the poem

Stare at the flowers really glare until they

are beautiful

describe how it makes you feel

 

 

Good people

by mesalie feleke3 on September 24, 2025. © mesalie feleke

We had fond discussions and shared poems

while keeping our distance as girls do

We speculated on every topic under candle light

ONE OF US IS A POET

ANOTHER IS AN ACTOR

Unable are the good to die

 

 

I know every person I meet

 

That summer when I met you

I realised quickly we are meant to know

each other to uncover the truth

– Then I found the Heaven of God

 

 

Did I make you go sour?

 

Aide had blond hair and who was mad,

She fought me with a plastic knife.

When I stand on tiptoe I tap out of the moment.

Did you catch some form of infection?

Did I make you go insane?

Did I make you go sour?

Forgive. Forgive.

Say I did not.

Say nothing.

 

 

[ Let’s dance the waltz. ]

Let’s dance the waltz.

I require a partner—

someone to speak the lines with me,

to echo and sharpen my words.

He arrives on time,

a giant camera slung across his shoulder,

Okay lets give this a shot.

his steps steadier,

more practiced than mine.

We stop before strange objects.

I ask, “Do you think this is art?”

He answers,

“It could be—

or maybe it’s only what the artist

wants you to feel.”

I shake my head.

“No… not art here.”

“Will you dance with me?”

They begin to dance the waltz.

CUT

 

 

 

 

multicolours

how many colours are in the sky?

one blue

 

 

freedom

blonds deserve freedom to speak their minds

 

 

What I left behind

I do not fear death: many have been there.

What do you fear then?

The melting ice caps and

birds singing sunken tunes in cages

longing to be set free

 

 

driving up a steep hill

Is it not obscure to imagine a man

driving up a very steep hill

on holiday

Why wouldn’t he try?

Who did he think he was?

How would the man survive that

would it not come crashing down?

Would it not speed up and fly to heaven

 

 

problems

 

I leaped from problem to problem

So fast but cautiously

look how good everything is

at the end my feet is at the sea.

 

 

Upon reflection

 

I reckon—when I think about it all

the grief of life was not worth it

the flowers were living I wasn’t

How happy the little Stone was

I’m dying in such a way where I know

I longer want to be human after all

 

 

I told jesus to write a poem

 

I told jesus to write a poem

and he wrote a poem about a bird

soaring through the sky

I wrote a poem and wrote about

the juice that drops from the nectarines

after you take a bite

 

 

tears fell

A tear fell for the man who broke my heart

Another tear for grief;

A half a dozen for stress,

And it made my enemies laugh.

 

 

 

you hate me

you hate me

get in line with the others

 

 

All the Way

But if you were to tell me, Today,

That I might have the whole night Sky

As mine, I would tell you that my Heart

Would rejoice, for the love of me –

Collecting my all things I was worthy of

The Meadows – mine –

The Mountains – mine –

All Forests –mine–

 

 

 

I want to draw a flower

     I tried to write a flower

    with a fineliner, but I didn’t

   manage to do it — it came out

  in words. I drew it with ink, and

     that did the trick, yes —

        a flower.

 

 

 

the dress

 

I tried to do the dishes

but the water cut off

I tried to do the laundry

but the washing machine broke

LOOK AT THIS BEAUTIFUL DRESS I BOUGHT YOU

 

 

 

I chose you literally

Tell me a story that people will beg to hear

tell me us the story babe

write how it felt to be his whore

write how it felt to his mistress

write how it felt to his soulmate

write how it felt to be his pet

 

 

Pretending

you think I’m making a fool myself

you didn’t bother to try to be me for 5 years

 

 

 

 

 

I have never seen the palace walls

 

I have seen the palace walls but never met him

 

 

Odd Travellers

ODD Travellers Along A Dusty Arid Road

MY GOD WHY IS THE MAP SO HARD TO READ

Keep Trying

Theres Traffic

Merge Left

Merge Left

 

 

The Theif

 

bread is in the pudding

hard work or become a thief

those famous people deserve better

 

 

 

 

How a Marriage Should Be

I noticed the spots on your shirt.

At first I denied them—

no, there are no spots.

But yes, you were right,

the spots were there.

And in that moment,

we were married.

Love, I argue, is more than this.

It is the spots,

strange and singular,

one of a kind.

This blouse, after all,

cost me a fortune.

 

 

Like a bee

 

A penis is like a bee

it hangs in the hive

and it stings

 

 

my baby won’t sleep

When is it ok to drink a strawberry smoothie? Always.

Not at six in the morning when he should be asleep

my baby is asleep

why is yours up?

you need to have real sex with someone likes you

for who you are

 

 

I fell in love with a love song in a movie

 

Waltzing with Leo in an art gallery

Writing with Bradley

Praying with James M

in the end Peter from Perth is my number one

 

 

 

write to me instead

how to write a poem

fall out of love

get a pen out and some paper

and write about peace

the way no one has done yet

 

 

 

 

flowers for me

flowers are normal

flowers are too beautiful when

bought by an ugly person

the flowers show who you are

when you need to know

her peers gush at her intelligence

 

 

flowers are elegant

I saw flowers as elegance

butterflies as flightless wonders

I saw the world a place of hope

because of all the kindness I had been given

I saw the gates heaven laid before me

I was sort of a walking miracle

then I ask him why he wasn’t mine

 

 

 

I look to

I look to the bird for hope

I look to the lion for resilience

I look to the penguin for family

I look to the oak for strength

I look to the river for patience

I look to the stars for guidance

I look to the flame for courage

I look within for truth.

 

 

The Sun

The sun is as bright as gold confetti

I saw it a day or two ago

And it shows its perfect eye

to the world below

 

 

for death

 

in the face of death we do not stop

for love we keep going forward

for hope we keep striving

for peace we keep trying

we do not stop

 

 

the woman in the photograph

 

To see a woman in a picture

as innocent as a bluebird

you’re unable to hear her tune

to not know her well

you are unable to see her warmth

she could be misunderstood for a friend

 

 

mating season

 

the heart of a bluebird asks for love

then it tries everything to get out of it

And then it whispers prayers to stop the quiet suffering

At the end it always moves on and mates

 

 

my companion is a book

No companion is as faithful as a cherished book.

It carries us across distant worlds

while we remain within our room.

Through its stories, we glimpse how simply others live,

even in times of hardship.

Its pages moves me and counsel us more gently,

and often more wisely, than a therapist.

 

 

haiku

 

A vow, a new name,

Petals fall, two roots entwine,

Our love writes us as one.

 

 

beauty

 

I am ashamed of my appearance – but I don’t hide

no hair to cover my face

no fabrics to cover my body

I am ashamed

 

 

Had I not had this or that

 

If I had not this or that I would feel completely

inadequate in myself

My need is what I have

the hunger does not cease

the outfits are outworn

but to trust in the stars in the galaxies

I know I will always have this or that

 

 

wholesome

A little sensible madness in the summertime

is pure

 

 

autumn

the plants a meeker than usual

the leaves are falling like golden confetti

the sun is partially out of town

the air is crisp and so I’ll put my coat and scarf on

 

 

 

A better planet

 

theres a different planet out

there in the universe

a better galaxy

with taller trees

and a brighter night sky

longer fields

flowers that never wither

will you come with me?

 

 

She took a leap

 

I stepped I stepped over him before he could hurt me

in high stilettos

to the next adventure

because you said you’re shy to my friend

 

 

Prayers to God

 

First, it asks for something to do.

Then, it asks for love.

Later, it asks for sex.

At a certain age, it asks for a child.

Then, it asks for food.

After that, it asks to escape suffering.

And in the end—

it only begs for sleep.

 

 

Birdsong in the cage

 

A sightless bluebird sings behind the bars,

With shattered eyes, still learning how to soar.

Take my joy, my nectar—let it guide you out,

I have been waiting for this moment,

For us to finally be free.

 

 

come over

 

Boy, I know you got that invite too,

So let’s stop pretending.

We both feel this fire between us,

I’m just waiting on you to come through.

Don’t keep me hanging all night,

’Cause you know all I want is you.

Under these lights, you look unreal,

The heat’s rising, pulling me closer,

And I’m losing all control.

 

 

 

succeed

success is misunderstood by those who do not do well

You should cut the melon in quarters

instead they choose to bite into it

not one person trying to control me

has had clear victory

they are defeated

 

 

Wild nights

 

tonight with thee

I remember the lips my lips have kissed,

the exact details, where, and why,

I have never forgotten, the man I have slept with

I even recall the headache and regrets the next morning

Done with him and done with cupid

 

 

 

Farewell

 

Under murky clouds,

I won’t let you close enough to hurt me

I would prefer to be deserted

than accept the help you thought you gave me 

I can’t live up to your expectations

Its now time to say farewell to this journey

I wonder how you think to act in this way

I’d break a thousands stars to never meet you

I can’t keep up with your turning schedule

Next time, I will be braver and stand on my two feet.

 

 

 

Rumours

 

They say your hardened heart still lingers on me.

Your tale reaches my ears, but I laugh it away.

A moment shared never meant a promise.

Twice you’ve confessed, and twice it returned—

echoes I never asked for.

You disgrace yourself.

 

 

Myself

I love myself entirely because I only have myself to live with

I want to be healthy so I can live a long life

I choose to be happy to have a successful family

So I can look at myself in the mirror and know that

I am the kind person I want to be

 

 

Just checking

 

I hope you’re okay—

a quick check, then quietly

closing the doorway.

 

 

 

How much of myself should I reveal?

How much of myself should I reveal?

Everything—

except the chicken legs.

Long skirts and blouses

until a man bothers to notice me.

It’s a ritual—

sophistication, elegance.

His cheeky grin:

“I can see through the blouse.”

I buy a different colour

 

 

No one will be the one

 

You are never satisfied with a man

No one you find will ever be

The flowers petals would slumber

There is no paradise

Nothing you say pleases me

 

 

My letter to the world

 

I did not want to write this letter to you

I wanted to write the people mattered to me

I wanted to write about food, war, peace

How the apple crumble leaves me craving more

But the simple News that the plants told —

is too much more important

It’s silent Message is important

It’s in hands that I cannot see —

Judge my poems fairly

The way you judge yourselves

 

 

I have never seen the sea

 

At school they think I have never seen the sea,

Yet know I how the water really looks

They think I never spoken with God.

Yet I am certain of my spot in heaven.

 

 

I died to be beautiful

I died to be beautiful

I died to be the one

it was cemented in my mind

summer lapsed

and thus too dumb to live

love was immortality

Into the beautiful tomb

 

 

implacable grief

 

where you once called my name

yesterday or today?

I now hear nothing

a fly buzzes nearby

let me rest in a tomb

After great pain, a normal feeling comes

I wasn’t living you were

 

 

it is not a boy that hurts us

 

it is not a boy that hurts us

it is ourselves not loving us

dying hurts hurts us more

more than he ever will

I hurt myself with words more

– in a different way

 

 

 

 

when he gives up his life for love

it would scare you how foolish it was

to sacrifice your life over another for love

what was meant for you will always be yours

they will never love you like you can

 

 

Exclusion

A woman has the right to decide her friends in this society

I decide whom I should marry

I pick who I reject and whom I love

 

 

I died when a fly buzzed around my room

 

I died when a fly buzzed around my room

its like a bee

implacable sweetness,

it climbs up to my lips

while I was trying to get into bed

theres just one thing getting in the way

I never saw a fly this big in my way for decades

flying laps of my space

theres something getting in the way

Oh its so huge what a spectacle

I will catch you little guy

and I hope you know to leave through the front door

 

 

There’s a secret door in the wall

I hurry past,

just another person in a vast city.

A nobody.

I glance back—

someone slips into a hidden passage.

A door disguised in the wall,

almost forgotten.

I whisper to myself:

let me capture it—this blended door.

Where does it lead?

A tucked-away café, perhaps?

The wood is worn, rain-stained,

yet it calls to me.

I push inside.

A secret café reveals itself.

I order oats with berries,

a green juice.

My card is overcharged,

but I only want their recipe card.

The next day,

the café is gone.

Only misery remains.

 

 

 

I like your thoughts

I like my thoughts when it is with your

thoughts. It is a new thing for me.

I love talking to you about love.

i like it a lot

the same questions again and again and again

with different answers

 

 

A Happy Woman

I am happy during pain

unbothered by love, grief, and heartbreak

I am happy woman

 

 

I never lost that much

 

I never lost so much—

never shed the weight you imagined,

and that was seven years behind me.

Twice I stood, looking like a beggar,

knocking at the threshold of God.

Twice the angels descended,

slowly filling the hollow within me—

and now, restored,

I carry health once more.

 

 

I measure happiness in everyones eyes

 

my morning started early

I walk the quiet and old streets

I measure happiness in everyone’s eyes

in faces I see marks of woe and fear

then I see a smile on his smile

he came out to look at me

and I know I will be happy today

 

 

No chance to give up

 

I feel pain all in my body

I remember the day when it was easy

my head carries my body forward

I keep going

I will never give up

 

 

I couldn’t even remember

 

I had no chance to hate them

They debate amongst themselves

I couldn’t even remember them

Life was too busy

 

 

I am nobody

 

I’m someone!

I am nobody! I have handed

my words to the professor

and my clothes to the nurses

You’re nobody, then theres three of us— I don’t care

I can get him to help us

How frightening to be somebody!

Have you heard the rumours?

How embarrassing

To talk about someone’s name allday long

What a dog!

 

 

The sweetest nightingale

 

A bird trapped in a man made cage

even when it gets the tune wrong

it never stops singing

the sweetest nightingale

 

 

I died for penis

 

I died for a penis – which was scarce

I told a lie to cover my name

I died to be his beautiful wife

“Why am I not the one for you?”

The truth is every decision was to reach for his lips

 

 

in the end it was nothing

After thousands of years

Nobody knows the city, —

Weeds triumphantly grow,

The past people now strangers

maybe thats why we move

on so quickly

Or of the elder dead.

 

 

 

out of fear

 

when my mind is out of fear

I can walk away from your tears

I can climb the highest mountain

I can write

I can make a tea with a heavenly voice

I know I will be safe

 

 

nature is mean

I will never understand writers of sky

the sky is mean and wondrous

it could eat you up in one bit

a hurricane, a wind, tornados

I could complain all day

 

 

it leads no where

 

She refused to rise to his requirement

of being a woman and of being a wife with an apron

and chose to live a single life

of working and cleaning, and cooking for herself

even if it leads no where

 

 

911

We didn’t know how high we were

Till we are asked to evacuate the building

And we were on the wrong floor

Our building and souls will forever touch the skies

 

 

Marriage

 

I saw him bare in my mind

and decided to marry him

I walked down the ile

and saw him standing there

I leant over ecstatic

I couldn’t believe it

I met the one

 

 

Our first date

I came down the walkway–

He did not know I saw him–

He hands me a pearl necklace

He bit an oyster

And ate it raw.

And then he drank his water

From a clear as Glass–

And then hopped sidewise next to me to kiss me

 

 

heartbreak

 

If I can keep my heart from breaking,

I shall live long

If I can ease my heart from aching

I will have eternal life

 

 

a knight

 

a king is a thing with hope

that perches in the soul

and never leaves you alone

and helps without the words

and never began with evil

I’ve heard about him in the farthest land

 

 

poetry with love

despite my empty mouth the words are in my heart

love is a thing with hope

I hope to be yours for eternity

 

 

love is a penis

Love is a thing with a penis

because its making him do sweet things to me

 

 

never stop for death

 

Because I would never stop for Death,

too beautiful to die

He kindly stopped me;

I slowly drove away

The carriage held but just ourselves

And eternal Immortality.

 

 

bathroom loo time

when he looks at me

he needs to use the bathroom

because I’m pretending to not go

and he’s too proud of his feaces

wipe that dirty grin off your face

I’ve had enough of this

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Writer of Love

I wish I were a true poet,

a writer of romance—

the way I know writers of love are.

That I could gather my moments

like photographs in my mind

and lay them bare in verse,

the way they deserve to be.

It is not irrelevant—

I wanted marriage.

The emotions still live in my heart,

burning quietly for years

while I’ve searched for words

to set them free.

Our love is hidden,

a secret no one knows.

Yet each night I fall asleep

in your dreambound arms,

safe in the hush of longing.

I wish I were a robin—

I would fly to your window,

perch on your balcony,

and never leave.

I need to capture our moments,

the night we shared,

the way you made me feel.

But still, I do not weep.

For I know, with certainty,

I will see you again.

And try to write again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wish I was a robin

 

I wish I was a robin

just so I could fly to you when I’m lonley

and offer you a warm embrace

if there was no one else around

you would let me sit on your balcony

and I would stay with you for a million years

and you would offer me a seed

and treat me with respect

and we would never let each other go

and finally all my dreams would come true

 

 

 

I will rise

just one more thing

I will rise above,

like a bluebird aching in its cage that doesn’t sing.

Or the silent suffering of the tree being teared down.

or the stars that could be pulled down if possible

 

 

I like my man when he’s yours

 

he’s done it again

i like you kissing someone else

I like my man when he’s next to you

I’m upset when hes over you

I like my ex when he’s next to you

what wasn’t meant for me is not mine

 

 

 

 

Food diaries

The working days

usually ended with headaches.

So I planned a solo trip,

not for art,

not for romance—

but for food.

Paris in winter, 1980—

the air cold,

my body tired from the flight.

Menus swam before me,

each word dressed in

a little arrogance of accent.

I chose scrambled eggs with truffle,

a silver pot of black coffee,

lukewarm but forgiving,

and the companionship of pastries,

cheeses soft and mild,

anchovies salted like secrets.

Later,

under the Eiffel Tower,

I found myself with a lunch

assembled like a still life:

three rolls,

blue cheese,

a head of lettuce,

bottled French dressing,

dried oregano,

three pieces of chicken—

my quiet banquet

in the shadow of steel.

And there,

between the bite and the silence,

I remembered why I’d come:

to eat,

to breathe,

to be no one’s employee

but hunger’s.

 

 

We must eat

 

I ate my first delicious lobster on christmas day when I learnt

to computer program

I ate my first apple as a toddler

I ate my first oyster on my first date

tuna wraps and bread and salami at midnight

truffles eggs seven hours later

not exposing my appetite

ill at mercy but still hungry for fruit rollups

soggy cheese sandwiches at school

these crisps mid writing snack

translucent peach pie on my death bed

burst into tears living alone in melbourne

comforting myself with green vegetable soup

I make time during the week for an lemon ice tea

burst into tears at an unexpected cronut at the airport

 

my brown bag

I have a brown straw bag

I can fit so much in it

and so I keep filling it and filling it with things

until I stop

and realise it can’t carry that much stuff

 

 

 

 

Keys held by others

 

A bird locked in a cage,

your hands ache to set it free—

keys held by others.

 

 

 

cages

I’m clear on who I am and I been waiting for this quiet, bright moment —

the slow unwrapping at the edge of a terrible day.

At last I start to see the world from other angles,

angled light that makes the edges less sharp.

Overfed and burned out, I feel something loosen:

the birds, the animals — they should be freed from their cages,

sent out across the open air to learn what flight is for.

My time here is small; their suffering is too loud to keep.

Even when I forget, the sun comes back around.

It’s hard to believe sometimes, and I won’t pretend it’s fine —

but this very moment says otherwise.

 

 

I’m like a bird

 

As the seasons change, the geese loosen their feathers,

scattering them to the wind before they carry on.

A spectacle of beauty—perfect in its flight

yet costly in energy before they embark on their

long journey.

One sweet goose drifts away, wing broken,

battling against the air for sixteen hours

toward the radiant light.

The wind wears it down,

the damage should have left it grounded—

worn, weathered, undone.

It now knows its home.

It missed the season of nesting,

of tending, of love.

Sheltered by the flock,

yet still it flies into the brilliance.

Lord, take this sunken bird.

Carry it gently,

from the burning light

into the dark night.

 

 

 

World peace

 

What’s so wrong?

What’s wrong with healing the climate?

What’s the issue with world peace?

What’s the dilema if a woman works?

I said what’s troubling your mind?

It feels so divine.

 

 

Someone to tell me what to do

Someone to tell me what to do.

Someone to say: Now.

Now, take the step,

before the moment folds

like paper in the rain.

Life passed in small obedience’s —

crosswalks, passwords,

quiet nods at clocks.

The bus pulled off,

and I stayed behind,

believing safety was the same as living.

Another name stitched to my chest.

Another key. Another cage.

Another room where

the windows do not open.

A voice says,

You’re doing fine.

And I believe it.

And I sit still.

 

 

A perched robin

 

Perched high upon the lemon tree,

A robin sang so merrily.

He’d watch me eat,

Then swooped to snatch just what he’d need.

No net nor scarecrow fooled his eye,

A clever thief with crimson vest,

He took what suited him the best.

While others fled the wind and rain,

The robin stayed to stake his claim.

A little bird, but wise and bold—

 

 

I’m like a robin

 

I flew away

not because I didn’t love you—

but because I didn’t know

how to land.

I’m like a robin.

I fly.

I don’t know where I’ll land.

but some nights,

when the wind calms,

I hear your name

in the branches.

 

 

marriage

I let him unpack.

not really.

hung his jacket

on the chair

like he might leave again

any minute.

he was kind,

in a broken sort of way—

like a stray dog

that lets you pet it

but flinches

every damn time.

I made him coffee

he never finished.

I asked him things

he never answered.

not out loud.

his eyes were always

somewhere else,

like he was watching the world

burn behind me.

I let him stay

because love makes you stupid,

and I was

goddamn

stupid.

he touched me

like I was holy—

but prayed like a man

who never believed.

he flew.

of course he did.

he warned me,

with his silence,

with his half-smile,

with the way he never used

the word “ours.”

some men

don’t know how to stay.

and some women

keep the door open

anyway.

 

 

farewell

I’m beautiful

and it hurts to say this—

more than you’d think.

you were awesome,

and we were real.

but real don’t always last.

I’m like a goddamn robin—

I fly off.

I always fly off.

don’t ask why.

I gotta let go.

god, it kills me

to give you away

its like switching on the lights

in the dark

I don’t want to say adieu

I never liked that word.

it sounds too neat

for something this messy.

tears came today.

after all these years.

you never really knew me,

not all the way,

but you loved me

and I loved you back

as best I could

in the mess I am.

being with you

was like holding a mirror

and not knowing who the hell

was staring back.

I gotta find myself.

I gotta walk through this

and come out

something more

or at least not less.

and every day now,

I tell myself:

you’re gonna be okay.

you will.

somehow.

adieu,

my love.

adieu.

 

 

adieu

I’m beautiful and you’re lovely

and it hurts to say this—

more than you’d think.

you were awesome,

and we were real.

but real don’t always last.

I gotta let go.

god, it kills me

to give you away

like a book I never finished

but read enough of

to know how it ends.

I don’t want to say goodbye.

I never liked that word.

it sounds too neat

for something this messy.

I’m like a goddamn robin—

I fly off.

I always fly off.

don’t ask why.

tears came today.

after all these years.

you never really knew me,

not all the way,

but you loved me

and I loved you back

as best I could

in the mess I am.

being with you

was like holding a mirror

and not knowing who the hell

was staring back.

I gotta find myself.

I gotta walk through this

and come out

something more

or at least not less.

and every day now,

I tell myself:

you’re gonna be okay.

you will.

somehow.

adieu,

my love.

adieu.

 

 

 

Why is it not possible

Why is it not possible?

They say I will never make it.

Why is it not possible?

They say I will never be in love

Why is it not possible?

They say the grass will never be greener

Why is it not possible?

They say I will never go to space.

Why is it not possible?

 

 

Wherever I go

You said my name like it wasn’t enough.

But still—

I find myself clinging to this heartbreak,

eager, somehow, to keep it alive.

Everywhere I turn,

your shadow walks toward me.

Should I keep pushing you away?

Or let destiny take its course,

even if it leads to nothing?

Would that be love?

Or just a beautiful waste of my life?

 

 

 

 

When it feels impossible

Whoever you are or wherever you are going

Tell me about your problems and I will tell you mine

When the world feels cold and you are lonley

Tell me about your problems and I will tell you mine

When the sky seems to cave in and mountains feel impossible to climb

When the rivers tide is too strong

You don’t have to walk alone

Tell me about your problems and I will tell you mine

 

 

Carry me to heaven

l sit still in deep silence

then I hear my name only being called

I get down on my knees and hold out my hand

and say a prayer likes its real in my mind

Oh lord god I feel like dying

and finally its you here with me

I’ve been waiting this moment with you

I want to feel your wondrous power

so put me to the test and the let choir sing

the most sought after experience

Angels carry me to heaven

 

 

I love myself

I love myself because he said I was sweet

I love myself because she said I was thin

I love myself because a man wants me

I love myself because I proved myself

I should love myself because I’m happy like a pig in mud

I should love myself because I’m already perfect

I should love myself because I’m sweeter than honey

I should love myself because I truly care about people

I should love myself because I want to make a better world

I should love myself because I am a creature of God

I should continue to love myself to see the outcome in a years time

I should continue to love myself for the person I want to become

 

 

Without

Without space there is no universe,

Without god there is no life.

Without Jesus there is no love.

 

 

I hear my name

 

I sit in complete stillness,

watching leaves fall,

rain tracing quiet lines

outside my window.

Then—

I hear my name.

The most sacred of moments.

In my mind,

time halts.

Tears fall.

No dancing.

No song.

Only a whisper—soft, steady.

I close my eyes,

pray with intention,

let my soul speak softly.

I’ve been waiting

for this very moment.

Oh God,

is it You?

Test me—

my love is real.

Hands clasped,

heart open.

I know

Your angels will carry me home.

A love without end.

God, help me.

 

 

ancient truths

 

Plants hold ancient truths—

stretching back through time and soil,

millions of years deep.

 

 

 

love

Without his love, still—

I rise, though shadows linger.

Without care, I fall.

 

 

 

 

Lovers of poetry

I should be as brave as the Titanic—

undaunted, even when the odds rise like waves.

But as calm as a vessel drifting at low tide,

steady in stillness.

I choose to write of love,

as all true lovers of poetry do.

And I must learn to love myself,

even when no one else will.

Not for book sales,

not for fairy tale endings—

but because I care.

Because I care for animals,

for planets,

for a world I still believe can be better.

I should love myself

because I am a creation of God,

and endlessly fascinated by His own.

 

 

 

Good people

 

The sun shines just as bright as the stars in the night sky.

How shiny the light is in the day?

 

 

 

Lovers

A flower is not a flower without a stem.

Dogs cannot chase flees without a mate.

The world couldn’t see through him for who he was.

In the worst times, the bee pollinates no matter what.

An eye for an eye.

A thorn for a thorn.

 

 

 

Smile in the silence

Smile in the silence,

life leans toward the light again—

worth it after all.

 

 

[ Out to sea I go, ]

Out to sea I go,

to practice my sail—

the glorious sun guiding the tides

a faint ship rests

where sky and water pale meet.

Shades of blue shift and dance,

the tide pulls strong,

the vessel draws near—

then something is wrong:

A cry—man overboard!

 

 

The Good life

 

I don’t own the app

but I ask them to take their photo

and hold it up under light

like in the bright sun

you will quickly see

the makeup

botox

lies

and disease

 

 

Packing

Soon we’ll be off,

chasing cheer and sun.

Just the essentials packed

for our little escape abroad.

I winced at the thought—

cramming life into one small, empty bag.

Two towels,

a swimsuit for summer days,

sunscreen,

flip-flops,

bright skirts and tees.

That’s it. That’s enough.

 

 

new big idea

 

I had a new big idea in my head,

but it kind of burst before I could get

it onto parchment

I can never understand why I didn’t remember

it must not have been a good idea

I guess I must have not have understood

it well in the first place

three days later I’m standing in front of someone

and hes telling me to recall my idea

he spoke to me about it

and it reminded me of how shabby dreams are

 

 

The good life

 

When it no longer serves us or brings peace, we pivot.

No more forcing what doesn’t flow.

We are driving west

singing our favourite tunes and we

know all the words

Now it’s sun on our skin,

Perched on summer sand with clarity—

redefining the grind

We’re building, thriving, creating,

and — we don’t stop.

 

 

The green dress

I want to wear the green dress today

It is very conservative and I’m dashing

I want to walk out and wear it in front of you

the gallant man with bright eyes

my lips wearing your lips

I love this silly gown

 

 

My body

I always said my body is fine

But on days like this

I hate my body and

I’m unkind to myself

in particular my hands

and the scar on my shoulder

Sometimes I’m not bothered

I want longer legs

and a sweeter soul

I know I’m not a silicon barbie doll

I hate my smile

But tomorrow I’m movie star beauty

I’m already perfect

 

 

Hope

I wear my heart on my sleeve

my condition is worsening

each day

it is painful to wake up and

sleep

I hate to go to the hospital

my day lives in the quiet room

I dislike my body more now

I dislike my hands

and my legs

should I keep trying to live

even if it leads nowhere

there is no room in my bed

or on my desk for despair

 

 

[ I sit on the grass, ]

 

I sit on the grass.

A man kneels,

laughter bubbling around him.

Is this the moment?

I’m sad and alone,

a quiet ache sitting beside me,

as the world rushes ahead,

and mine lingers—

stuck in slow motion.

They move on,

their stories opening like flowers—

and still,

I run toward

the next unseen thing.

 

 

Change

The way it is tonight

won’t be the way it stays—

tomorrow brings its own light.

 

 

Love

 

He waits for me,

and when I near,

he whispers—

“You’re already perfect”

 

 

heartbreak

I spent my time busy

he completely broke my heart –

and took my car and things

 

 

brief our days

 

We had too little time, too brief our days,

Fate swept us along divergent ways.

Another came, as life must carry on—

Yet still I dream beneath the moon, alone.

For when I saw thee bathed in silver light,

Hope stirred again—soft whisper in the night.

The sun, I thought, might rise once more for me,

If love, long buried, wakes and dares to be.

Though we have grown, and wandered far apart,

No time nor distance ever stilled my heart.

The love we shared did never truly die—

It lingered, patient, just beneath the sky.

Perchance this summer, under gentler skies,

Our hearts may speak in truth, no more disguise.

So tell me now—what feelings must I claim?

What truths to know, what shape, what soul, what name?

What must I be, through storm and silent wars—

What must I give, to once again be yours?

 

 

too little time

 

We had too little time, too brief our days,

Fate swept us along divergent ways.

Another came, as life must carry on—

Yet still I dream beneath the moon, alone.

For when I saw thee bathed in silver light,

Hope stirred again—soft whisper in the night.

The sun, I thought, might rise once more for me,

If love, long buried, wakes and dares to be.

Though we have grown, and wandered far apart,

No time nor distance ever stilled my heart.

The love we shared did never truly die—

It lingered, patient, just beneath the sky.

Perchance this summer, under gentler skies,

Our hearts may speak in truth, no more disguise.

So tell me now—what feelings must I claim?

What truths to know, what shape, what soul, what name?

What must I be, through storm and silent wars—

What must I give, to once again be yours?

 

 

Time

We didn’t have enough time together—

the next one has come along

until I saw you again under the moonlight.

I wanted to believe the sun would

come again.

I know we’ve grown up

but the love never really left

Maybe this time in the summertime,

it could be different.

So tell me—

what should I feel?

What must I understand?

Who do I need to become?

What does it take

to be yours?

 

 

be yours

tell me what to feel

what to know

what to be

what is required

to be yours

 

 

nature

 

Nature forgives all,

while we tear both earth and ourselves—

self-made ruin grows.

 

 

Movie star beauty

 

She was dressed as usual,

in long black pants and a dotted blouse

and cardigan

Her tangled hair was now long and straight

a smile formed on her face

What a vision. Everyone thought so

He knew how much pain she was in

His face lit up

She sighed, don’t worry about me.

It’ll be okay.

This is what love is.

 

 

Death

When I fade to dust,

may peace soothe your grief and loss—

think of me, forgiv’n.

 

 

The Break Up

We lost track of time.

I stood on the edge of the bed.

I was completely done this time.

Especially today.

The seasons were changing.

It was the end of summer and

the start of autumn.

The leaves were beginning to fall.

I checked my phone. No messages.

How beautiful it all was.

 

 

[ We slip by, unnoticed— ]

 

We slip by, unnoticed—

but I catch you, underneath covers,

eyes trailing the curve of my back.

When will you love someone

for who they are?

I trusted you.

Late again, chasing my morning latte,

sunlight spilling through the windshield—

and there you are pigeon.

At least I see you,

circling my feet.

I’ve brought crumbs.

Everything I carry

somehow leads me back to you—

your soul wrapped in feathers.

And then—

maybe this is it?

He’s here.

Could I believe him again?

 

 

For Grief

I stand under a never ending tunnel of dark ominous clouds

In a beautiful world completely fractured by war, heartbreak,

and a changing climate.

Tears stream each time I cradle a flower, it fades,

Its beauty too brief,

Its death too soon.

Or when a tree that provides life is chainsawed down.

The weight of depression and disease rises in a never ending tunnel of pain, loss

and human suffering.

In such moments sit down, smile and talk with someone you love

Bake your favourite cake recipe

Bath in your favourite oils

As even the sun appears on the darkest winter

I wish your grief ends soon and you bloom bold and bright like an orchard in spring

 

 

 

 

 

Stay like this

Could we dream that we stay just as

as we are in this moment?

Right here, right now?

 

 

I am a woman

I know I am a woman—

because in your presence,

I feel the shape of who I am.

 

 

Who are you?

 

Who are you?

Why are you speaking to me?

Your words sound like poetry—

even your silence has grace.

And those brows…

I’m not cute,

not made to strut down a swimsuit runway.

You chase conversation and adventure.

I crave quiet and home.

I sink into the bath,

eyes closed,

drifting through galaxies in my mind.

I’m grounded.

Rooted. Conservative.

So tell me again—

Who are you?

And what exactly are you asking?

 

 

I want to write something

I want to write something soft and genuine—

to show life just as I saw it.

The quiet moment when the soul,

light as feathers, finds its way home.

How love is fragile, like a flower,

blooming only when it’s safe.

And when a bluebird sings my favourite song,

everything feels okay.

I want the words to fall just right—

like rain, like light, like destiny.

 

 

painting

Life is a canvas—

and I’ve learned to master the strokes.

 

 

The Best Line for Last

 

Why is it, when I seek to write,

My thoughts take sudden, airy flight?

They wander off—no path, no plan—

Beyond the reach of ink or hand.

In fact I can’t remember what this

poem is suppose to be about.

A whisper calls from clouds above,

Of daydreams spun with threads of love,

The bluebirds sing, the saints reply,

Their voices drifting through the sky.

A melody the wind composes,

A tale within the blush of roses,

In canvas-stained, old silent halls,

I hear the art, I feel its calls.

Yet still, though pulled by every muse,

Distracted by the hues I choose—

I write, though scattered wide and vast,

And always save

the best line

last.

 

 

Light

When you reach for light, it scatters far and wide.

But left untouched, it drifts—a wave, one steady tide.

I want to capture how light shifts when you look at it—flickering between light and dark.

I want to see how colour changes with the interaction between the object, light, and our personal perception.

 

 

 

 

relationship

If you want to be my bestfriend

then I will automatically be your friend

If you want to be more than a friend

well I guess you are worthy of being my boyfriend

If you stop trying to impress me little by little

I will stop impressing you right away

If you stop liking me

I will stop liking you instantly

If over time you feel lonely and remember me

I would have remembered you too and

I’ll be waiting under the moonlight at midnight

If there is a time where you need love

I will give you a kiss

Our relationship can be anything you want

 

 

Change

I sometimes think that nothing’s meant to change,

Then you appear and gently speak my name.

You smile and say the things I need to hear—

A voice that cuts through doubt, so bright, so clear.

The weather shifts, the skies begin to bend,

And something stirs that I cannot defend.

I’ve searched for words,

but never found enough—

Could this be light beneath the cosmic rough?

A star ignites across the endless dark blue—

And suddenly, I dare to believe in you.

 

 

 

 

A summer afternoon

I sit in stillness.

The page — untouched for days —

waits like a door I haven’t opened,

its left as paper always is.

Once, I held a poem

the way one holds a bird —

not too tightly,

afraid it might scatter its meaning

before I could read.

Collins chuckled gently in the margins,

Shakespeare turned the hour like a clock,

Wordsworth walked beside me,

showing where the daffodils grew.

If I opened every page,

the day would open with it —

slow light spilling from the lines,

a world beginning, again.

I’d never met Billy like this before.

Not across a stage

or tucked in a syllabus,

but here —

in my quiet,

with coffee cooling at my side.

A poem about how to write a poem.

How curious.

How generous.

You taught me to feel something new,

to sit with it,

to hold it up like glass to the sun.

There, beneath the light,

I read each line

as if it had breath,

a pulse,

a reason for being.

My fineliner hovered,

a pilgrim at the gates.

Bukowski whispered,

a bluebird sings within my heart.

And Wordsworth answered,

its song — an ever-fixed mark.

They etched themselves upon me,

bright as the sky

their words still soar through.

 

 

I wish thee the divine

 

After the day we met

It began as a whisper,

Carried by the sweetness of emotion.

The world holds no simple truths.

He asks years later, “Why are you not well?”

The river merges with the ocean—

Does the sunlight not kiss the sea?

I learned that truth from another.

I cannot repay what you have given me

she says.

Will you receive him with grace God?

May the gates of heaven not turn him away.

Yes, there was laughter, there was joy.

Lord, please lift him from his grief.

 

 

I should

 

I should dance to something—

no matter how clumsy,

a rhyme, a rhythm, a song.

Maybe now, maybe here,

let the shaking begin.

I want to sing to something—

no matter the pitch,

a note is still a note.

I should draw something,

then spill the paints across the page—

to recreate a sinking ship in a vast ocean

as brave as the titanic

a little like a painter or sketcher,

a little like me.

I should think before I leap,

but maybe the leap is the thought.

Perhaps I could build a new world,

and maybe—

I should start today.

 

 

Lessons from a dove

 

I sit by the windowsill

Spotting a dove soaring through the clear blue sky

It flutters its wings, stretching them wide

How I envy its freedom and ease

The bird returns to its nest, settling in

I observe the breeding season unfold as it lays three eggs

Once they hatch, it tenderly cares for its young

How proud it is of its tiny, helpless brood

Oh, to experience such freedom and joy

I sit and watch, absorbing its lessons

My own mind feels bound and limited

Held back by the fear of the unknown

Yearning for a fraction of that serene grace

Is it that great to be human, after all?

To grapple with our doubts and dreams,

While longing for the simplicity and tranquillity

Of a dove’s unburdened flight?

 

 

Indescribable feelings

He paces floors with thoughts he cannot name.

My heart begins to drop.

The day was carved to mirror who we are.

A saucer waits for milk at quiet tea.

Strange how we draw our strength from one another.

I’m still the only one who’s truly gone.

He strips me bare, then dresses me in calm.

Our bodies differ not in striking ways.

The deeper in, the wilder love becomes.

Together, we make something that will last.

 

 

[ There is a boy who lives in my heart, ]

 

There is a boy who lives in my heart,

a quiet thing with burning eyes.

He taps against my ribs at night,

murmuring of sky,

of wind,

of being seen.

I hush him with careful hands.

Not yet, I say.

The world is sharp, and you are soft.

The world is watching, and I—

I am not ready.

We walk together in the sun—

my shadow stretches longer than my name.

He stirs beneath my skin,

and I say,

I know you live there.

Do not weep.

I lift him gently onto my back,

wrap him in silence like a coat.

She hides her rose cheeks and shades of eye

Stay down, I whisper.

They must not know

we are together.

 

 

Bluebird

I sit alone, still,

sipping herbal tea in quiet company.

A bluebird sings deep in a cage.

“I hear you, my little one,” I say.

It flutters, longing to be free.

“Why don’t you fly?” I ask.

“It’s too clever,” it replies,

“It’s strong for me to release.”

“Be my friend, not my foe,” I whisper.

This is temporary. Theres life after this.

And with a breath,

I open my heart—

and let it go.

 

 

Parnsips

 

Just a long and slender,

Bright white flame,

Deep within the soil it lays—unnamed.

A buried wand, a root reborn,

Not made of uranium, but earth and storm.

It waits in quiet, soaks in the rain,

The bright sun above, the dark below—

It knows no hurry.

It stretches down while reaching up,

Its crown a tuft of green delight,

It hides its value far from sight—

No gold could rival such a hearty prize

That grows unseen beneath our eyes.

Pulled out from silence, brushed from sleep,

It sings of patience, low and deep.

A humble thing, yet bold in hue,

The kind of magic few look at.

 

 

Lovers

Did we both glance at each other and feel magic?

 

 

Beyond the physical

Trapped in illusion, a world

stars moons, and planets aloft in the night sky

—none of it feels real

all imagination

Gravity deceive force

 

 

Circle of life

My dog will know peace.

His pain will fade with the wind.

We will rest as one.

 

 

Heartbreak

 

I sit — as if the World withdrew —

And left — a Plate — for Me —

A Compote — or a Cucumber —

A Choice — in Mystery —

The Fork — resides — within my Palm —

As if it knew — its Place —

And every Bite — dissolves — like Thought —

Upon — a Quiet Face —

The Fruits — so Dried — are Sweet — to know —

The Nuts — retain their Crunch —

I dine — as Saints might Take the Bread —

And Call it — more than Lunch —

 

 

When I eat

So much happens and depends

upon

a quiet bite—

each motion slow, deliberate—

beside the bowl

of compote, gleaming,

and the cool

green curl of cake.

The fork rests

in my left hand—

as lunch dissolves,

sweet and sharp—

the dried fruits

nestled in their crunch

of walnut and almond,

each taste held like breath.

 

 

When god made us good

 

God made us gentle, pure of heart,

In just a blink —

When all He shaped was good and bright,

And silence wrapped the world at night.

I whisper softly, aware you’re near —

Our secret pact, forever clear.

 

 

 

 

I hoped for the best

 

Despite it all,

I hoped it all with the best intentions

all the late nights,

all the coffee

all the poems

all the novels

Some dreams are better left unwritten

 

 

Success

Success does not arrive in a rush—

it unfolds and redevelops

effort by effort,

moment by moment,

stretching itself slowly into existence.

Becoming

is the art of emerging,

of shaping who you wish to be,

and choosing to remain.

It is the tender push of green through soil,

the silent work beneath the surface,

the subtle shift

from stillness

to motion.

 

In spite of it all

I want to live with myself

Even with my condition, I still hold on to hope—

despite the endless hours in waiting rooms,

the harsh medicines,

the crushing bills,

the quiet ridicule.

And yet, at times, it feels as though

peace might only come with my last breath.

 

 

God made us

In the beginning,

God made us

Then he made you and your friends and family

and thats what makes us distinct

 

 

Vows

 

I need somebody who will truly care.

I’m scared of speaking words that sound untrue.

I ought to write the right thing down tonight.

I think of making love to my old flame.

I wonder if I should date my ex again.

 

 

Alone

I’m alone despite it all

in spite of the long late nights,

the date nights,

the love letters,

the late night kisses

I am better off dead.

 

 

Our lips

Why do you move away after our lips meet?

What lips have you kissed and why?

I move closer in to understand you.

Will you turn to me at midnight with a cry.

 

 

clockmaker by the sea

I must go down to see the clockmaker, by the restless sea,

And all I ask is a humble boat, with the sun to compass me,

The wheel’s true turn, the wind’s soft song, the white sail waking,

And through the mist his weathered face, as the grey dawn’s breaking.

 

 

Elephant in a snake

 

An elephant was devoured by a snake,

swallowed in one piece,

trapped deep in the throat,

dreaming of the way back home.

 

 

Circling

The curious circle closer,

trying to break through,

but I remind myself—

I’m tougher,

I’m sharper.

In a whisper, I say:

I’m not the one.

You want to mess with me?

You want to wreck the gears,

throw the whole thing off?

 

 

My never ending poems

 

I kept my poems

in an old box.

Most stayed unseen,

but they gave me joy.

They felt like prayers,

small and true.

I knelt to read them,

each word lifting me.

My favourite was of standing still,

the winter sun warm on my face.

Why did I stop writing?

I cut some short,

left others half done.

One was of a long field,

with no machines,

only sky and grass.

Perhaps I should devote myself to history and grammar

I was proud then—

proud I wrote,

proud I kept my word.

 

 

Dandelion

 

I walked along the path of truth and purity

To twenty thousand people I showed compassion

Instead, I find myself blowing away like a dandelion

 

 

Poetry

What did you see in me that you don’t see in her?

I gave my heart and my soul.

I have nothing more to give or take

 

 

 

Do You Think I Cannot Know?

 

They say I have never been in love,

As a writer of love is.

They say my heart never cared about the environment.

As a writer of climate is.

They say I know nothing of people,

But I have a mother and father.

They said I would never be the one

And I have three kids

Do you think I do not know and understand?

 

 

Australia

My true riches are honesty, courage, and light—

Australia, my home, I rise in your right.

The voice of the Bush echoes across every shore,

Australia, my heart, I honour you evermore.

 

 

I care more

I care about the planet more than a polar bear hates melting ice,

Or a tree hates a chainsaw’s slice,

Or a coral reef despises warm seas,

Or a fish hates the plastic in its mouth

That’s how much I love you earth.

As a mountain hates a landslide,

Or an ocean despises oil spills,

As the Earth detests plastic in its oceans

 

 

If

If there is no war and no famine

there is still something unbroken

Things would be fair and I would have some sense

Life would be a delight

 

 

A million dreams

A million dreams for a healthier planet

I am fiery strong, my voice will not be dissolve

Fly away my good bird—God’s true light is all around.

I won’t let change not start today.

When they try to break my spirit down,

Love will rise and wear the tallest crown.

I will block the shadows, cast them out,

Walk in faith, dissolve the chains of hatred.

I’ll become the person I’m meant to be,

Reaching for the stars in the lofty night sky

that wait for me.

 

 

 

 

Care for each day

In the beginning God made sun and moon,

The rain, the clouds, the stars that light the sky.

He made us pure, His image shining through,

I will not waste the blessings of my day.

Whether things go all right or all go wrong,

I still rejoice, for God has made my day.

Through Him, all things are balanced, just, and fair,

And life becomes a wondrous, sweet delight.

 

 

The heart I carry

I carry my husband’s heart beside my own each day,

I could not bear to live a single day without it.

His heart still journeys with me everywhere I go,

And I am reminded of him when the sun glimmers,

shines, and sings of love.

For he was my world, my light, my everything.

I will never be lost, for his love is my guide—

My sweetest one, forever my own.

And in these moments, we are never apart.

 

 

On just one day

 

In the morning, before dawn,

I cast aside my ego.

I needed to create—

something only this moment could hold.

To do one good thing,

to become someone I might remember.

Perhaps a novel,

perhaps a poem—

something elegant, something playful,

like determination dancing with imagination.

I think of fresh blooms at the market,

their colours bright under the sun,

arranged in a vase,

petals falling soft to the table.

Or the birds outside my window,

circling home,

their wings tracing the air with certainty.

What if I took just one day from life,

and lived it wholly?

How beautiful,

how tender,

that could be.

When words tangle in my mind,

I hold the paper to the light,

and let ink carry my troubles

into their natural form.

And if, at the close of day,

my poem remains unfinished—

then perhaps you will forget me.

 

 

Together forever

 

I put on my favourite lipstick,

Worried what dress to wear today.

Each morning, I wave you goodbye,

Then climb back in to give you a kiss.

Walking to work in the rain,

I stand ahead, taking in the view.

I enter the building,

And my day begins anew.

He’s there, waiting at the end of the day,

Everything carries you to me.

 

 

This is the place I was born

I lived on a long, old street,

Mulberry trees, leaves soft and sweet,

In a city, not the largest or grand,

But golden soil in a sunburnt land.

I was the house poet, the words I’d weave,

My neighbour, a friend, who’d never deceive.

Marriage was something I’d wait to find,

And life seemed to lead me, gently, blind.

Ships in the docks, tall towers in view,

Theatres, the beach, and grassy plains too.

Wherever my mum went, I went, and

my heart would return,

To write, to dream, to let thoughts burn.

Mother, a homemaker, kept house with care,

Strawberry jam, always there to share.

“Life’s not clear,” she’d say with a sigh,

“Save your pennies, don’t rent, don’t buy.”

“Trust no publisher, keep your pen neat,

And all your friends will turn on their feet.”

 

 

Chores

As morning breaks and light softly streams,

My day begins in warmth and dreams.

A cup of tea in hand, I start —

With calming thoughts and open heart.

The linen sways upon the line,

Sun-kissed and scented, crisp and fine.

Fresh lemons gathered from the tree,

Dropped gently in my basket, free.

I slice them into golden rings,

Like tiny suns with citrus wings.

They crown a cake I love to make —

with love and care.

 

 

An Old Friend

The world is full of uncertainty and shifting ground,

But true friends stay loyal when no one else is found.

 

 

Write a poem

I shall say the word, despair

and paint my page with words

and naunced meaning

 

 

Blackwood river

 

My feet are planted in the sand.

The river moves — not fast, not slow.

You could say it’s blue —

or maybe light green,

but the colour keeps changing

every time I try to look.

A bird passes.

Something in the water shifts.

I think of silence,

but it isn’t quite that.

I think what I meant to say is

how the water held me tightly,

just like the way

the river meets the embankment.

But when I write,

nothing fits.

The river doesn’t exactly mean identity.

It doesn’t mean home.

It doesn’t mean anything,

except maybe hope.

And that’s where I stop.

Standing still,

while the river

keeps on saying what I can’t.

 

 

Haiku

 

I lie on my back

overthinking about you

Why did you depart?

 

 

young man haiku

I must tell you that this

young man took my heart

til nothing is left of it

 

 

Haiku

A traveller came

I couldn’t keep him happy

She took him from me

 

 

When I may cease to be

If I must die today,

remember one thing of me

I will never leave you

 

 

Mountain high

I traced my path around the mountain trail,

A leap of faith—no need to look behind.

I passed a checkpoint by a boulder pale,

Each step ahead with purpose, strong and kind.

And when I reached the top, breath held tight,

The sky unfolded—rose and gold.

A sunrise cast the darkness into light.

 

 

I am wondrous

“What do the men all see?”

She asks—yet I stand, aglow.

Wondrous, I just be.

 

 

The Clockmakers apprentice

I had walked past many times,

Each glance a stolen moment—

Eyes meeting briefly through the glass,

The new apprentice and I.

One afternoon, I stepped inside,

Drawn not just by clocks,

But by something softer—unspoken—

Ticking just beneath the hours.

The shop was filled with golden dust,

The scent of time and worn wood,

And there he stood, beside the master,

Careful hands, and eyes that held the past.

“I’m looking for an old clock,” I said,

But what I truly meant was:

I’ve come searching

For something that makes time stop.

 

 

Driving west

New faces shimmer at the coastline’s rim,

Driving west, chasing the golden sink of sun.

Its light spills over the world like honey—

And I wade in, the saltwater rising,

Legs swallowed halfway by the tide.

I wait,

Poised to be tossed by the waves,

Weightless and willing.

A lone starfish grips the sand—

Why does it hold my gaze so long?

Perhaps it knows

The stillness that lives

Beyond the horizon of peace.

 

 

I want a poem

I want a poem scattered in the New York Times

that makes things better

It would be so nice

Waving the author’s name on every corner

Brilliantly concentrated poems printed

While minding my own business

The neat page is printed.

Late at night the clock ticks—

Till then the page is collecting.

Through the window, I see no moon

And again, again— now is the right time to write

I reach for a word that won’t settle

The silence thick as ink before dawn

Outside, the city forgets me

But inside, I press on

My name, one day, in newsprint

A quiet win when I am gone.

 

 

Before I wrote the poem

Imagine this there’s a poem resting in my thoughts,

pressing to be let out. I’m too shy to let it out 

Is it about heartbreak?

Or maybe acceptance — or quiet tragedy.

I sit, I should write something

pen tapping against the desk,

waiting for the words to find their way.

I stood for a while,

holding the light to the page.

Then our eyes met—

and the lines came tumbling onto the page.

 

 

I’m a natural girl

I’m a natural girl —

hair drifting across my face,

bare skin, no makeup,

just me.

 

 

If I just lay here

Just one day out of life —

running barefoot on the grass,

soccer drills on Mulberry Street,

your hand resting gently on my back,

laughter rising into the open air.

In that moment,

I knew —

I want to share forever with you.

 

 

God made the harvest

In the beginning,

God made the earth

Then he filled it

with plants and trees.

God made us.

His house stands

in a quiet village though.

We ran through

the open fields—

and God brought

the harvest in.

 

 

Love is a test

Just a bit more time — that’s all we need.

One more chance to begin again.

You’re the brightest star in all my skies.

And every time I imagine losing you,

My soul stirs, uneasy.

Ours was a sweet high… followed by a long fall.

But still — I need you here, beside me.

 

 

Moon aloft in the glowy night sky

Luminous moon, draped in shifting masks.

You glow — never solitary — in the night sky.

Gracefully, you orbit Earth’s quiet heart,

While I lie awake, longing,

Wishing time would pause — and life endure.

 

 

Sleepless nights

I wish that I were by your side,

This aching gap I cannot hide.

Yet still I wait, though torn in two,

And hold my hope till I see you again.

I won’t forget that gentle night,

When stars above felt warm and bright.

I wondered then, with quiet doubt,

If you felt sure or still in doubt—

Did joy or fondness truly stay?

Would you still write me, day by day?

But then your letter came, and so

It calmed the anxious nights I faced alone.

I must confess, my heart’s been tight,

With anxious thoughts through every night—

But now to know you’re full of cheer

Has brought me great peace.

If you would like to indulge me, just write once more.

 

 

The predicament

As I go for my phone he walks in

beneath the golden sunset

Our gaze will finally meet

I’ve seen you a thousand times

in my imagination—

but now I steady my breath,

finger twitching, clearing my throat.

You’re almost mine.

And he’s coming towards me

So close I can see the finish line

I want a man—

No rider riding winds,

no mask wearing charm.

Then there you are,

cutting through the crowd.

I want possession.

I want to belong to you —

I know you’re mine to keep.

 

 

Suddenly Thirty

And just like that—

Something in her shifted.

She stands tall now,

no one can tell her right or wrong.

leaving her apartment for her 9 to 5,

Fineliner in hand,

Sticky notes lined like soldiers—

Perfect, precise.

Pink coat and lipstick tucked in a well-loved handbag,

Powder for touch-ups,

Confidence in layers.

Fingers laced within his,

And quietly, she breathes—

This is thirty.

 

 

If I must leave my home

If I must leave my home,

then you must trust me —

To build a life of my own,

wherever that may be.

To let go of my old things,

and choose what is mine —

A mug, a tea towel,

for a kitchen that’s finally mine.

To say farewell with love,

so that my child will know:

You were the one who held the seat

as I learned to ride,

The one who stayed behind

after school drop offs

as I stumbled through homework and life.

 

 

Why shouldn’t we eat?

The doctor whispers—

her own quiet thoughts will harm her.

She smells the scent

of warm black bean soup,

decides it must be dangerous.

At the long table,

her chair has sat empty

for years.

Now the woman is old,

asking again:

Why shouldn’t I eat today?

Too beautiful to touch the bowl,

she waits for their eyes—

to see how she grew stronger

 

 

Can You Keep a Promise?

I swore to be there,

to stand beside you always.

Yet when your breath turns blue,

I wander—

to the flicker of a screen,

to the burden of small chores.

What is a promise

if it falters in the quiet?

If love drifts away

at the hour it is most needed?

The promise is broken,

and silence keeps it.

 

 

 

The plentiful harvest

I couldn’t decide what to eat.

There is no space in my life or despair.

I tore into fruit, soft at the core,

ate it down to the edges.

I dreamed of something kinder.

Then I made my way to sweet adoration—

crisps and fresh carrots breaking sharply in my mouth.

Today, I make no room for self-pity.

The flavours carried me to the harvest,

my hands reaching for pears,

brightening my day

reminding me to eat, to cherish,

to love the harvest from the garden.

 

 

Two men on the bay

Two men set out upon the sea,

Their lines cast free, hearts light with glee.

But soon a cargo ship drew near—

One fell, the waves took hold, unclear.

The years went on; the other stayed,

Haunted by ghosts that never swayed.

Yet from the dark, he learns again,

To trust the water, to endure the pain.

Now strong, he rises, calm and wise,

No longer controlled by the fear of waves.

 

 

Riding in a Pink Air Balloon

Floating

in a pink air balloon,

moving in distinct directions.

I breathe in the crisp air below,

standing above the outback’s fire red.

Just beneath the clouds,

I leave behind an ephemeral sunset.

My eyes fly open wide,

my hair blowing into the wind,

the sky full with birds.

The railroad looks differently from above.

The world grows smaller, distant,

yet I whisper to myself—

I am lucky to call Australia home.

 

 

The Store of Very Unique Objects

 

I am among perfect objects,

a thousand things my life does not require.

The store stretching wide as the heavens,

paintings hung by the windows.

A man rides his bicycle forever,

helmet shining, silent in the frame.

I touch the cover of a purple notebook,

its pressed with the likeness of a dog—

as if to say: write what is faithful,

write what will be remembered.

This is where poetry begins:

with the still breath of green plants,

with a mug stained by mornings,

with a cloth woven of quiet detail.

But it is the notebook I carry away.

Now it belongs to me,

and within its pages,

all that I am becoming.

 

 

I am not worthy of heartbreak

 

I am not worthy of heartbreak—

nor the salt that gathers in the eye.

Because of something I did wrong

See how lovers mistake me for less,

their honeyed tongues speaking sweet,

Love can be divine

Lips never forget

the lips they have kissed.

I too hold a future, as you do.

Goodbye—

only ever means,

so long.

 

 

The Hospital Visitor

Nothing is as good

as a visit from my mother.

Thank you for being here,

for waking me gently.

I weep—

nothing has eased the pain.

You brought fresh tulips,

their petals falling softly

onto the tabletop.

I have given my clothes

to the nurses,

my health to the doctors.

I fight to keep

my eyes open.

Long visits mean so much.

Thank you

for being here.

 

 

I am a woman

I am a woman,

stronger than I’ve ever been—

this is truly me.

 

 

Poetry I Like to Read

Something that lifts my soul.

One afternoon, it’s Wordsworth,

Like a promised sunrise

Shakespeare in the morning,

their words oozing across the page.

They brighten my hours,

the light of my day,

the sun of my smile

a gentle spark that makes me sigh—

ooooh, ahhhh, ooooh.

I weep

 

 

I couldn’t decide what to eat

I couldn’t decide what to eat.

There is no space in my fridge for despair.

I tore into fruit, that suddenly came into my life

soft at the core,

ate it down to the edges.

I dreamed of something sweeter

and ripe.

Then I made my way to church—

crisps and fresh carrots breaking sharply in my mouth.

Today, I make no room for self-pity.

The flavours carried me to the garden,

my hands reaching for bananas,

brightening my day

reminding me to eat, to cherish,

to value the harvest from the garden.

 

 

Hamlet

She turns,

Hamlet fades,

life blossoms.

 

 

The Holistic Woman

In the quiet hum of our modest home,

I often drift, untethered,

grappling with the intricate landscape

of my wife’s mind—

a story I never chose to enter.

Her words reach me

in fractured whispers,

yet I watch her reshape herself—

a woman of fierce determination.

Still, I see her as nothing less

than extraordinary,

in her resilience,

in her strength.

 

 

For the love of a poem

A bold splash of yellow,

a small flicker of red—

nine circles unfolding

across the canvas,

tilted at their secret angle,

meeting again and again

in quiet symmetry.

 

 

Jealousy

Jealousy, a bitter feeling—

I am young, I am loved,

and yet, how sad it feels.

To whom have you given your heart?

My poor soul aches to see,

what a cruel turn of fate,

what a queasy kind of love making—

you and your woman,

entangled before my eyes.

I swallow anything I see.

So I fall silent,

alone in the gleam of night.

Whom can I call,

but myself?

And still—

let us remain,

still,

friends.

 

 

In the dusty southwest

Faraway by the saltbush of the southwest,

water slips gently over rocks.

The long, arid, and dusty summer,

tells stories tracing back thousands of years.

For the sweet way he fed his goats,

Jack, a man from Ironbark,

prayed for an earlier spring.

On the tracks of range and stone,

at last the tribe settle beneath a tree,

sharing a common language—

thrushes, trees, and mosses.

Smoke from their little farms

nestled by the billabong.

There is no place like home.

 

 

Our poetic day

You fell in love and broke my heart

in one dismal day.

And that is very sad

I recall our first meeting—

The arid sun and tulips in your hand

We somehow lost time,

as though the hours dissolved into light.

Now the silence lingers,

a weight heavier than touch.

I am nobody to him,

yet he remains etched in this memory.

 

 

The core of love

How is love otherwise shown?

Are there different shades of love?

I love the field,

its strong shade of green and

how it extends to the horizon

I love the sky,

the endless blue.

I love the silence,

when it holds me calmly.

Perhaps love is not one thing,

each heart painting

its own truth

 

 

The Myrtle beech Trees

Water slipping over rocks,

a quiet stream’s hymn.

At four metres tall,

I know nothing stronger

than the steadfast tree.

the discreet rise of water,

drawn from earth to root,

climbing the sturdy oak’s veins,

into a tender leaf—

until the miniature leaf

loosens off the branch,

spirals to the ground.

A cycle broken,

a shower of dewy drops

Over the canopy,

and moss carpet

life folding back into life

the surrounding trees turn to forest

Nothofagus cunninghamii