Category Archives: Poetry

I don’t want to write today

because I have no words
that can easily replace
resting my hands on your waist
as we fall asleep.
Or how it feels to be grazed
by your stubble,
as we shrug off our slumber.

And I don’t want to write to you today,
no messages or little laughs on text.
Because there are no words
to give me what I’d like right now.
A hug, a hand held, a cheek pecked.

So there,
I don’t want to talk.
I don’t want to communicate.
Not with my words.
I am fed up of their inadequacy.
And I so desperately wish
you could kiss me
to shut me up right now,
and spare me the disappointment
of capturing this in words,
only to fail all over again.


This morning, I roll over
out of bed,
dragging feet into a kitchen
to fix myself a cup of tea.

It’s early enough
to suck in fresh, cool air,
replacing the mentholated one
that I quit.

Grey speckled birds rustling leaves,
high above swept streets.
Coriander growing in the earthen pot,
threads of it tangling,
like my words when I try
to capture what you make of me.
You water, I twine.
Tendering in kind.

The roots don’t truly
feel like mine.

72 days

Of living in this new normal
Of sleeping with a racing heart,
difficult to quieten, to murmur to sleep.
Shhhh, I soothe, but…

It beats on, as time bleeds
like water on ink, sinking
into the pages of an empty calendar.
One day, two days, three days, four.
A week, a month…
and then one moment, I realised
I was not counting any more.

Counting days, nor goals,
nor things to look forward to.
How long until…? How long?
Hardly bearing this agony of waiting
for turbulences to smoothen.
Seeming so futile,
like smearing a crinkled sheet
trying to clean it of crevices.

I weep.

Weeping at the reality of screens
for work, for love, for everything in between.
My eyes are tired of the ‘almostness’
of granulated faces.
We must make do, at least we have these
pixels and echoes of sound
to convince ourselves we are not alone.
We must continue the grand deception,
for work, for love, for everything in between.

And in that between,
a despondence settling in.
Unpacking and unlayering itself
on my bedroom floor,
hanging in the air, wafting through the door.
How long are you visiting? How long?
Please leave. Go on…

I know not where it’ll go,
or who it’ll visit next ,
but I cannot entertain this guest.

A monthly mourning

Once a month, I get on a bus travelling
four hundred and eighteen kilometres,

To cigarettes, coffee and sex in the morning
Sunlight filtering through orange curtains
Bike rides down empty streets
Hot and humid weather
Sunsets, beaches and unshakeable sand.
Sitting by windows, stealing wine drunk kisses
and tracing circles on the back of your hand.
Walking dirt paths to a hazy periwinkle view
To a reprieve from what I left,
to what’s been missing,
to you.

And then once a month, I get on a bus travelling
four hundred and eighteen kilometres,

Only to do it all over again,
in another thirty days.

Each time, a mourning ritual.
A mourning for when things were simpler.
When there was no dread of missing you,
before I’ve even left.
When there was no counting of
how many hours we have left.

It is a loss meant to be mourned.
It must.
And mourned it is.
Each and every month.

My Love for Silverstein’s Poetry

“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.”

-Albus Dumbledore

I’ve always thought Shel Silverstein’s poetry is like little drops of magic, short and silly and always guaranteed to put a smile on your face. We can grow up and pretend all we want that we’re mature adults who only have a taste for Dickinson or Plath but you know there’ll always be a special place for those poems you read as a child. I know I do.

I can relate to each of my favourite’s even now.


I can be as active as I want but the truth is I’m a lot like lazy Jane. For me, home delivery is a god send.

And when things seem tough and there’s a job to do that you find so daunting and terrible that you wish someone else could just get on with it instead of you, you’ve got a nice little reminder that somebody has to do it. And there’s a reason that somebody is you.

Then there are times when we think we’ve done so well, ha ha, how funny those stories are when we realise what we’ve done. (How sad it is if we never realise, don’t you think?)

And sometimes, Silverstein hints at the hard parts of life, like the masks we wear and walk around.

Or how tough it is being yourself in a crowd of muggles… without a single word (Dumbledore underestimated the power of illustrations, I suppose.)


For all these reasons and more, I will always adore Shel Silverstein’s poetry. After all, who said wisdom can’t rhyme?

The Coldest Hug


It stole into the house, through a window that swayed

Much like a temper, and in the room it stayed.

Cold fingers crept up her spine, as it fell in beside her

Underneath the sheets, and her soul grew quieter.

Then came the coldest hug, chilling down to the bone

And in that bed she lay, feeling forever alone…

Except for it.

It was always there.