When I Rise

When I rise
full of love
for life and laughter
and the me that I am
love will meet me…

When I rise
above my own neediness
and frustrated tears
and allow myself to be warmed by the Son
love will shine on me…

When I rise
past prayerlessness
desperate hopes
sleepless nights
and wondering why I’m alone
love will wrap me in it’s arms…

When I rise
beyond sacrificing who I am
mistreating my heart
and giving my affections
too freely to the ungrateful…

When I rise
accepting scraps
when I crave a whole slice of cake
reaching for carrots
that are merely mirages of together forever
accepting other’s rejections
as a validation of my desirability…

When I rise …
oh, when I rise,
when I rise above it all
my wings will carry me
to a place called faith
and deliverance
a place where
the lies whispered in the dark
must flee
in the face of such intense light…

for this is the place
where God is
and love dwells
for God and love are the same…

and as I rise even higher
chains snapping from my heart
my mind
my soul
I soar even higher
carried on the wings of love itself…

Yes, I rise
and love kisses me deeply
even so sweetly
and whispers
I’m home….

(author unknown)


A Draft of Some Thoughts

It was her addiction and she couldn’t go a day without it. It felt validating, exhilarating, and even beautiful. It felt like sunshine.
She didn’t have to seek it. It was offered, and she drank it in. She was like someone dying of thirst, but with all the appearance of power and control; having fun, enjoying life; as though loving and being loved.
It had begun innocently enough – something offered, testing her reaction to it, and at her demurely eager acceptance a steady stream of it seemed to appear. Of course, she did everything she could to maintain the supply and with this mutual reinforcement, it increased exponentially.
Like any addict, over time she became desensitised to the small doses and wanted more. She needed more. She craved it. She ached for her daily dose of it. Atoms in her body quivered with her desire for it, and at the fantasising thoughts about what ‘more’ would be like.
And still, she didn’t recognise her addiction. She was floating on air, never acknowledging the crashes into despair when her hit would not be as expected. She ignored the warning signs that screamed at her because she’d found a way to have more. Not a reliable way, but a way nonetheless. It would send her soaring through the clouds, breathlessly enraptured, dying from delight. And dying from desolation when it would leave.
After the first hit of this something new, her life swung between these two poles: depression or delight dictated by her supplier. However, the desolation would never last for long – the hope of the next time and her regular supply was usually enough for at least the appearance of euphoria.
But this pseudo-euphoria was not what the fantasy had promised. It was not what the child had dreamed of. She tried to end it, but after only a few days she went back and after another few days went back for more.
And it was then that he told her. The supply was no longer for her. It would be going to someone else.

And so here she is, bleeding and broken, crying and dying. Shaking from withdrawal. Stabbed by betrayal. She grieves for the beauty that was, that will never be again. That it ever happened at all.
Cocaine disguised as sunshine.


Once Again


Fucked in the head
Fucked in the heart
A half-written sonnet
A screwed up piece of paper
Tossed away.

About to scream
About to cry
Feelings in riot
Steady and stable?
Like shit.

Why was it her
Why isn’t it me
Will I ever not be
Fucked in the head
In the heart?

written December 2, 2004



This is just a first draft. Any comments welcome.

They emerge from the tree line where the rainforest meets the river bed, eyes adjusting quickly to the silvery moonlight which had been obscured by the thick leaves of the rainforest canopy. They spread out a little, now no longer constrained to walk in single file as they had when threading their way through the darkness, stepping heavily over the huge tree roots forming a crude staircase down the steep hill.

Practiced eyes and bare feet pick the smoothest way through the patches of black silt, pebbles and the larger rougher stones that make up the wide and mostly-bare river bed. The expanse is interrupted in places by an incongruously large boulder or the occasional tree trunk; deposits of the last flood many months before. The usual algefying trickle has grown to a satisfyingly knee-deep stream in some places, owing to the recent rains in the moutains rising in the near distance behind the small coastal village, but their usual pool, upstream and sheltered under trees near the bank is not their destination tonight, and the six friends head downstream. The faint sounds of water have become clearer as they have made their way from the village; the river as it tickles over itself and the rocks, lazily finding the easiest route to the sea; the sea a soft constant slushing sound as it runs up the sand and flows back into itself.

The quiet murmurs they had used so as to not awaken the sleeping village now rise, yet voices are kept low (they know how well sound travels through the silent night, and there are houses dotted everywhere along the coast), punctuated only by soft laughter and muted, only-half-meant curses of pain and surprise when toes are stubbed or the soles of feet tread on an especially sharp stone.
The increasing prevalence of soft sand hail the closing distance to the beach. They spash across the mouth of the river where it widens and shallows and break into a short sprint to where the small waves are reaching their arms of white foam up onto the black sand.

After a few minutes of chasing crabs, taunting the waves, and enjoying the cool air coming off the ocean, they lay on the sand, their head's on another's stomach. Voices are soft and low as they joke, philosophise, and count stars, enjoying their youth and friendship.



I came across a short story I began writing a few years ago. It was one of those "the idea is floating around in my head and not letting me sleep" deals. I figure, since I've hit a plateau with the poetry, I may as well post the story. Not that this site is my most-visited, but for those of you who do come back from time to time: thanks.


To adapt a quote:

I need to fall in love again, if for no other reason than to be able to write poetry again.


Song of the Week

All October poems now posted.

I'm just going to be posting lyrics to some of my faviourite songs for a while - just to keep my visitors entertained. I'll try to change the "Song of the Week" twice a week. I post the song that fits my mood, so when my mood changes dramatically or my 'listen to obsessively' song changes, so will my 'Song of the Week'.
Feel free to visit my other blog serendipitously procrastinating which has no poetry, but is updated much more often.

Tell Me What You Dream

She turned the key, opened the door
Was he there she wasn't sure
She didn't want to fight no more
She had good intentions
In that moment face to face
She saw the look upon his face
She held him in a tight embrace
There was warm affection

Took a while before she spoke
There were things she had to know
Compose herself and she said

Tell me what you dream, what you see
Tell me how you feel, oh yeah
Tell me what you dream
Will you share it all with me
What you dream
Baby you can talk to me

They agreed to meet halfway
They would take it day by day
He didn't want to lose her twice
That would cut him like a knife
He decided then and there to reveal his inner fears
He'd always loved her from the start
It was time to give his heart

Took a while before he spoke
There were things he had to know
Compose himself and he said


Tell me what you dream
What you see
Tell me how you feel, oh yeah



First Meetings

These are two poems written about the same event, the same feelings, and the same person.

The Stranger

That there. The feeling.
Did they feel it too?
You look again.
Look away and look back.
Are they?

There’s a touch.
Skin against skin.
Tingles dismissed.
But there.

Tell yourself you imagined it.
But an inescapable connection.
You remember
And crave.
Do they?

September 28, 2005


With thoughts absently oscillating elsewhere.
A presence. Someone staring.
The awareness seeps in slowly like water through cloth.
Scan the surrounds inconspicuously.
Sweeping gaze moves back.
Look away… down.
A breath drawn sharply. Involuntarily.
Was it imagined?
A cautious look back. Away and back.
To what?
The smile. The eyes.
There’s a touch; the brush of skin against skin.
Tingles dismissed.
But there.
Imagined. But not.


October 3, 2005

You're Not Complicated

I'm not really sure where this poem came from. I was discussing with a friend about being complicated vs not being complicated, and this just wrote itself.

Internal Hell
aka Feeling Fucked
aka Understanding the Complicated

Those who’ve never been here don’t know
No one can tell them
No words can explain

The hands ripping and clawing at flesh and heart and mind
The tongue licking raw, inciting need, and tasting bitterness
The teeth biting, drawing blood, and pain

How all this goes on silently beneath, unseen, unguessed at.
How the normalcy is tainted by it; an outer shell giving unwanted false impressions.
How desperately the struggle is fought to be whole and normal, and not have this splinter in the psyche.

Those who’ve never been here
Can’t understand.

October 10, 2005

Love Is A Drug


As bad as drugs
Or cigarettes
Running through my veins
Like cocaine

Wanting more
I can’t get enough
I tremble within
When without.

Needing you
I ache, I crave
It's nothing but an

July 19, 2005


In The Eye of the Tornado of Depression

This poem is a really hard one to describe. I can't explain how I felt when I wrote it because I didn't even know at the time what I was feeling or where I was, emotionally (and mentally). I wrote the poem in part for that very reason; I couldn't descibe what I was going through, so, of course, I resorted to trying to put it into words through poetry. What I do remember, though, it was one of the weirdest feelings ever, and I never want to feel that way again.

Am I Where I Am

after the drowning in tears
im stirred not by the music of sorrow
without emotion without feeling

after the falling in agony
i now find myself in a place of absence
without substance without meaning

after the dying in pain
im now existing in nowhere
in nothing with nothing in me

July 13, 2005


So this isn't exactly about a personal experience with spiderman. But I like the concept of the strings. We have phrases we use in relation to relationships like we've been 'stung along', 'pulled in', 'caught'... We say that there are 'strings attached'...
I find it an interesting... and apt... concept.


You spun your strings
I wrapped them around my heart
I fell
Into your eyes
Into your songs
I fell
Believing you would be there
To catch me.

You spun your strings
I wrapped them around my heart
Your looks
Were a lie
Your songs, a trap
You had given me nothing
With the appearance of everything
And I hoped.

You spun your strings
I wrapped them around my heart
You pulled
And tore out my heart
And left me with nothing
You pulled
And left me bleeding and broken
On the floor.

July 23, 2005


Self Perception

While I didn't write very much in June, this was one time when the words came easily. I really like the concept, and you may need to read it through a few times. I still like reading it myself.


Like the stars in the night sky
fading in the face of the light of truth,
though unseen, remain, that when
truth is veiled by the lies of love,
the perception of inadequacies are re-born
wrapped in deficiencies of
attractability and worth.

June 3, 2005



After being told my poetry was depressing (but not in a criticising way), I made an attempt at writing about something other than emotions, and this is what I came up with. It starts off almost sarcastically light and airy-fairy, but builds in tempo and passionate, slightly angry emotion to the fourth line. It then slows right down again.
I told you I can't write about flowers.


Flowers remind me of fragrance.
Fragrance reminds me of bees.
Bees remind me of stings.
Stings remind me of love, love reminds me of lust, lust reminds me of passion.
As potent as a flower’s fragrance?

May 1, 2005


O.k. I probably do need an explanation for this one.
First, let me reiterate the WARNING by saying that if you know me, you might not want to read this. It was written straight from raw emotion - a lot of frustration, hurt and anger (anger at myself and the situation, as well as the guy) - in a place where you're crying and shouting at the same time. I told you my poetry can get intense and I told you I write a lot about emotions and relationships. I've debated for a while whether or not to post this one. But I like it. So here goes.... One of my favourites. I sure don't feel this way anymore, and now the poem just makes me laugh (but not if I dwell on the circumstances and how I felt when I wrote it).
This poem personifies love (when talking about "they", it is referring to emotions, not a human being), and is basically a rant at it. It's about how messed up you can feel when you've fallen for someone and it's not working out. How you wish you could just tell the feelings to bugger off.


It’s fucking fucked up!!
They will FUCK YOU UP
And dump you in the shits
Then turn around and act like at last they are REALLY TRULY here for you.

They are FUCKING FUCKERS!!!!!!
Lulling you into the highest possible euphoria
Before laughing in your face and CUTTING THE FUCKING STRING,
Leaving you to FALL without a fucking parachute,
Falling so FAST AND UNCONTROLLED from hope,
There is so much pain you want to do more that fucking SCREAM, you want to fucking DIE!!!

This fucked up thing called love
Fucking with your HEART, Fucking with your MIND
Fucking with your SOUL
Till you’re so FUCKED UP you don’t know WHO YOU ARE
What to think
What to do
What to feel;

I’m not going to do this anymore!!
Fuck you, love
Fuck you, commitment
Fuck you, devotion
Fuck you, obsession
Fuck you, men.
Hope can go fuck itself
And fucking infatuation can take it up the arse!!!

‘Cause all it’s doing is fucking me up!
These fucking feelings can fucking fuck off!!


May 1, 2005

Could you identify with it? I would love to hear all thoughts on this poem.



Posting my poetry chronologically, I have now come to April, 2004 - a fair jump from December, but I didn't really write anything during that time. This poem is adapted from a rather rambling poem I had originally entitled A Riot of Emotion.


Seeking understanding.
Analysing her past,
To have hope for the future,
To make sense of a present
That’s obscured and wrought
With emotions and turmoil.

Feeling lost within
Her heart and mind;
Through a riot of emotion:
What she feels, wants, and needs;
Seeking to understand
And to be understood.

Analysing her life;
The events that surround
And led her to this place.
In love and yet not,
Without understanding
why, or how, or when.

Obsessed and depressed,
Confused and abused;
Feeling torn apart.
Crying with chaos
She wants to die
Or lay down and sleep.

And so she continues
Not seeing what he does:
That she is strong, beautiful
Passionate and brilliant.
That he thinks he understands
And loves.

April 27, 2004;
adapted 3 October, 2005

Passions Inside

I can just see some people reading this poem, an eyebrow raised, the thought "riiiiight" going their minds. But you can picture it, can't you?


Pouncing in the hallway
Pinning wrists with hands
Body struggling suductively against
The raveningly voracious touch
The desperate need of
Lips and skin
Breath and heat
The primal passion of the

April 28, 2004

A Rare Moment of Peace


The liquid tranquillity that
Seeps through my being
Soothes like honey from the comb
And quietens my internal conflicts.

This pervasive peace
Ebbs and flows like a river in a way
That causes me wonder if it is not
Simply a subtle euphoria.

Fleeting, but not ever
Entirely gone, despite changing and being
Effected by the doubts trying to steal
The hope that the peace elicits.

April 29, 2004


Why I'm the "Depressed Poet"

This is something that I wrote to describe an experience that often escapes words. I've submitted this (and Where Goodbye Is All That Remains) to a poetry competition. (I'll let you know how it goes, but I doubt I'll win it).


Like a savage beast
Devouring your spirit;
Draining your life like a leech.

Sweeping over you
Like a tidal wave, drowning
Tumbling and disorientating;
Pulling you where you do not want to go.

Darkness and loneliness reign;
A tunnel devoid of life and light;
Clouding your vision, your mind, your heart.

Unbalanced, unstable,
Not in control, submerged in fog.
While knowing it’s not reality.

December, 2004

An Interesting Word

We all know (and have probably experienced) obsession, however rather than being about anyone in particular, I wrote this poem simply because I wanted to use the word 'mesmeric' :-)


Standing here
On the edge of you
I can feel your heat
I can hear your voice
I drink in your smell
You are mesmeric.

Watching you
Behind your back
I can see your eyes
I can feel your breath
I soak in your aura
You are mesmeric.

Lying here
Alone and in turmoil
I can feel your touch
I can hear your heart
I yearn for you
You are mesmeric.

December 2, 2004

Emotionally Me?


Fucked in the head
Fucked in the heart
A half-written sonnet
A screwed up piece of paper
Tossed away.

About to scream
About to cry
Feelings in riot
Steady and stable?
Like shit.

Why was it her
Why isn’t it me
Will I ever not be
Fucked in the head
In the heart?

December 2, 2004

Remnants of the Past

There was no specific event that inspired this poem; I was teaching my kids acrostic poems on prac. But that's not to say that it doesn't have meaning or depth. It's the idea that scars can be internal: hidden and invisible; that they can be left by words and experiences, and that they continue to affect us long after. I'm not going to analyse its meaning further; it's pretty self-descriptive (just think slightly outside the box).


Art of the past,
Scored into soul.

December 2, 2002


The Country

I tend to go through stages of writing poetry. While on prac out in the country at the end of 2004, I was writing quite a bit. This poem is probably the longest I have written, and is more of a descriptive piece than a poem. But oh well.

The Country I See

A breeze skims and flows through the newly
rain-washed fields of pre-harvest pale and greenish-brown grain
cascading smoothly over the gently undulating land,
shadowed in areas by the almost imperceptibly moving
pure white clouds painted sporadically on the
deep cornflower-blue sky domed from horizon to horizon.

Like comets giving notice of their existence,
cars leave tails of dust as they speed on the dry gravel roads
thinly cross-hatched through the astounding perfection
of the spectrum of browns and greens of the plains sweeping
towards the distant ring of purple mountains,
and canopied by the unimpeded panorama of the skies.

Storms are imminent; the sky transformed
now a multi-layered shroud of grey, blocking
the full rays of the hidden sun, which causes colours dimmed,
yet the browns of the fields are strangely illuminated and
seemingly perfected, contrasted with the dark sky.
It is peaceful, and mystically beautiful.

November, 2004

A Time Ago

This is another poem written while on prac. It's simply a reflection on times past, connections with others, and the perceptions of pictorial and emotional memory. It ponders whether an experience shared with someone a long time ago is still thought of and still means something to that person.


It was so long ago
So far away…

Were we ever there?
Do you remember?

Far back in time
Hidden in memories

Were we ever there?
Can you remember?

It meant so much…
Does it still, to you?

So long ago…
So far away…

Memories abound…
But is it like we were never there?

November 10, 2004



When life has got you down
And all your leaves are falling to the ground
When you just can’t go on
And feel that your winter will never end
Call me and know
That you have a friend;
I'm always there for you.

When you are weighed down
And overwhelmed by all life’s demands
When you can’t stop the tears
And the cruel memories running through your mind
Call me and know
That you are not alone;
I will walk through life with you.

I love you,
And am there for you.
But I need you, too.
Will you be there for me?
Can I call you to walk with me,
To bring sunshine to my grey?

To be my friend.

November 14, 2004


Does it need an explanation?


Yet feeling so remote,
She claims my mind and body,
When I thought
She was hidden…buried

My memories,
She inhabits and taints
This one I mock, sometimes hate,
What she did,
Who she was.

Blaming her,
Disparaging and despising,
Seems easy and flows forth, yet
Leads only to destruction,
Pain, and spiralling

When will I learn
To release it and let go,
To allow myself to accept
Wholly who she was
That she was

November 17, 2004


The Self

I wrote this poem after a friend and I had had a really in-depth (and slightly bizzare) DMC about self-perceptions, etc. I can't remember all of the conversation anymore, but I kind of like the poem.


Does anyone see her;
Know her?

The one I know,
Who is more than I am.
The eloquent one,
The self-assured one,
The wanted one?

Who do they see
Who is it that they know;
Think they know?

The one I see,
Who seldom appears.
The beautiful one,
The peaceful one,
The desired one?

Who is it that I see
Who is it that I know
Who is it that I am?



Is this me?
Or she?

October 31, 2004



I wrote this poem in about August 2004, although the events that inspired it occured at the end of 1999 when I moved to Australia from PNG where I had lived for 10 years. It describes a time that signifies a finale; the closing paragraph in an era of one's life.

For Kimbe

Eyes try to say what words cannot
when there is so much felt
left unsaid,
maintaining a facade
when your heart is breaking.
soul screaming.
Being shredded.

No second chances;
this is all
The End
an inevitability
a dissolution of Life here

We all knew it would come.

But now,
unprepared for this moment,
thoughts, words, plans, and love,
futile and unfulfilled,
fuelling regrets,
fuelling grief,

Falling over an abyss
into seemingly endless despair and pain
for what has and has not been;
for what you can never return to.

Because here at the end, goodbye is all that remains.

August, 2004


About My Poetry: An Introduction

In no way do I consider myself an accomplished poet. While much of my poetry is rather personal (I use it to process a lot of intensity in my own emotions) and some will not be posted, I will be posting most of it.
I love poetry and music, and I'm interested in how words can be used in different ways.
Thus, I muck around with ideas and words. I mostly write from and about emotion, and relationships with others. I use first person a lot, even if the descriptions and emotions in the poem are not necessarily from my own experience, and I usually write in free-verse. A few of my poems are simply ramblings exploring a concept, but I will try to tidy these up before posting them. Most of my poems will be better understood if read slowly. Usually there is a lot under the surface.
Sometimes I use poetry to express emotions that are difficult to put into words, and I aim to write something that is meaningful and that will provoke a reaction (such as understanding or thought) in my reader. As you will see, most of my poems can be a little intense, but this isn't me all of the time, I promise you!!

I will be posting them chronologically, so that they are archived by the month they were written in. Some poems I will write breif introductions and explanations for if this background is needed, but for the most part, I think what the reader understands from a poem is up to them; you can take it at face value, or you can read more into it.

I would love to hear any comments.
I also ask that you please respect my copywrite and not copy my poems. Thanks. Feel free to tell your friends about my blog, though, if you feel they should be shared.

Other Poetry

Here are links to some of my favourite poems. Some are well-known, some are not (the ones that are not are generally not written by famous dead guys).

What are your favourite poems?

When I Rise

To My Child

Annabelle Lee

To The Virgins

The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner

Death Be Not Proud

She Walks In Beauty

The Road Not Taken

The Highwayman

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Psalm 16