"from what state of   being


                    do    we



other species



 earth and sea
                     and treat Nature


as a 'collection of resources'

         to be exploited

  for short term benefit?"


                                                                                       -Charles Eisenstein


Updated: Aug 23

Swallow your pride, apologise.

Take a breath before you mutter each word

use them sparingly and accurately

as if you had an unknown, finite supply.

I tell you because, like the breath,

one day we will cease to mould them

to formulate them, express them.

One day we’ll run out and all that will be left

are the sears from the acid rain pouring from their eyes

and the spirit that begs us to be brave,

and the magic that shows us how to heal,

and the heart that teaches us how to forgive.

To be the human spirit in its’ purest form

battered but so ready for battle,

thickened, but not hardened

transparent, yet firm.

Love does prevail, always.

Updated: Aug 23

The souls still wandered in the house as the bodies went away.

What more profound remnants can there be

than the remnants of an empty house?

Chairs plonked twisted in angles of swing

where the people once sat.

Empty mugs and cold tea bags

the last sip already stained around the border.

The faint air of lunch

and unfinished conversation

and the lucid, piercing silence

broken only by the song of rosellas and yellow-tailed cockatoos.

The memory of movement lives on in the bones of the house.

Kitchen tiles now cold and splattered

faint smells of cooking not yet vanished.

The piano mourns the silence

lone but for the books and clutter atop.

Lone but for the ukulele

a tiny companion

cheery and playful


rescuing the piano when it dives in sombre waters

when it dives too deep.

When it sings those sorrowful sounds

dark and solemn, making the world beautifully grim

enough to shed a thousand tears over a field of dead roses.

Pulling the mood yet further back in time

and further back in colour

the old friend accordion, too

laments the memories that once were.

Prolonged cries

undulating amidst the lowest of lows

a slow ballad of misery is dying to be played

but there’s no one to play it.

With deafening quietness from themselves,

the instruments of life lie still

without a soul to wield them.

But wait

It was only afternoon

It was only afternoon at the wooden, woven house.

They do return, the eclectic group

each bearing a piece of their story



beneath the bones that once shaded us.

to juicy things for your eyes and ears.
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