Some Of You May Not Know…

hooping, living, loving

That I’m a hoopdancer.

And of late, I’ve been falling in love with hooping, all over again.

Hooping? That’s a THING?

Why yes, yes it is. And trust me, there’s a lot more to it than waist hooping. Inspired by the joy of movement and other amazing hoopdancers around the world, I’ve started keeping a record of my jam sessions in the park.

If you have a couple of minutes, check it out. And decide for yourself whether I have ninja status yet!

Heheh.


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A Land Truly Girt

living, loving, photography, rhymes and rhythm

 

I met this white man once in Europe, and have since kept him recessed online

to remind me why I think the way I think,

and respect those who I respect,

and revile those

whose words, spat with poison and written in blood

inject hatred, aggression and ignorance into Life.

It detracts from the discourse, the joy of the commune, so it’s time for simple poetry to address the malignancy of fear.

 

 

A Land Truly Girt

 

Shall I remind thee, human

Of our tiny tormented Blue Dot?

Should I iterate that irritations in noses get covered in snot?

Bear with me child;

Collective consciousness is just an airway

and racist dust does not last long; empty cells at the top of a stairway.

 

In this way you create your own prison

And scream at others to join you inside

Well, I’d much rather breathe in my Freedom

Having power with love in my stride.

 

See the movement of minds that are more than just matter

Overshadow the shallow dark waters you taint

and they’re cast from a mould that is forged in a mettle

where the torch is so strong that your image is faint

Overcast by the beings who soar high above you

you’re alone with your hatred in shadow on earth

For great heat dissipation takes place when damnation

grows a xenophobe mind in a being since birth.

 

Malignancy in tongue is more than cancerous to mind

You cannot sit with poison and expect all else to hurt

You’re blessed with eyes and ears and voice but use them all to bind

what could have been a resource in a land that’s truly Girt.

 

Til you find me one more planet to inhabit as a human

We are all a refugee and cling to life on the crumbling crust.

And these solid plates of agar, floating colonies on liquid

have been moving since Gondwanaland divided up in trust.

This behaviour’s kin to yelling at tectonics down beneath you;

“Get THE FUCK BACK ALL TOGETHER OR I’LL SHOOT YA IN THE CORE!”

No matter how you stamp your foot demanding all this movement,

Friend, you’re just a ball of atoms floating too on an infinite shore.

 

The robustness of your case to send back queue jumpers to sea

To keep your Straya drunk with fighting whites that’s right for you

Will be vilified, exemplar of the Racist Uptight Knights

and reminds me of a 3 year old I nannied- oh, wait, he was two.

 

You’re systematic in attacking what you fear will threaten your skin

Oblivious it cheapens all infinity to nought.

If aliens come to harvest some poor human for their sin

You’ll be the first to go my friend, and you can take your Thoughts.

 

 

peace

and solidarity

 

 

 

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Here Flying

living, loving, noteworthy, photography, rhymes and rhythm, travel

 

 

Tis a photo of joy that reminds one to see

Past the murmurs to nudge toward something alive

Being that which connects and collides in a frame

Saturating a feeling of brightness inside

There atoning in wonder; illusioning fear

But you prospect for metals that steel your third eye

Fall upon this small magnet, deem one to be three

For the fourth is enforcing the fort caught engrossed

In my moment of sharing a careful word worn

Wearing waste jarring charred tarry stars from their place

Is a wayside where whey splits from curd and the corn

Found its oily way into good cooking and space

Here you wonder aloud where the crack has been formed

One can plunder light, draining some quiet repose

Lying low, waiting words sweeten rupturing line

To demand mindless maker defeat its caked praise

Ode defining the miners who seek what they find

Bolsters boyishness dearly adhering to rows

Taking weather near hither or thither to be

Coming back to the colour that brightened your sighs

In a thronging sensation; a resounding vibration

Persisting through filters that aid percolation

And a clear conversation, intent on elation

Bringing lingering things to the boiling point nation

Rolling out of the grey where you stay in all day

Reeling back from the black that attacked your old fray

Polling hacks that enraptured the brackish to clay

One can see now how clouds can delight in array

 

 

And like a bird, held mighty word

And like a bird, held mighty word

 

 

peace xxx

 

 

 

 

 

Catching a Sydney Ferry Sunset

living, loving, photography, rhymes and rhythm

 

Not long ago I caught one of Sydney’s iconic ferries to Manly Beach.

The journey there was beautiful; blue skies and sun warmed wooden benches on boat’s bow.

An afternoon passed on the beach, lying still, watching all.

Here the clouds inched over, high above in a non-threatening gesture that spelled to beach-goers “we’re here to delight, not rain on your charade.”

This movement overhead geared towards something brilliant; as temperature was cooling, the sky was only warming up.

Swooping birds bore down on a boardwalk stretch beyond a gargling bay, as I boarded one last ferry, green and yellow floating in wait.

If a silence is golden then the girl standing one deck above me was glowing in rays. Though temptation of ten thousand cameras around us preserved through the pixels and lens, her and I were were the contrast that both used our eyes instead to remember the scene.

With a static air that charged the very nature of my being, and a place to stand on benches looking out across the bay, waning sun was melting down toward the landscape of the city, and it felt to me as though the time stood still in a timeless way.

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PEACE xxx

 

The Pause

living, loving, photography, rhymes and rhythm

 

Among the cars, the light to see

The folded root in pavement

Beneath a trunk where grow did she;

Pedestrian amazement

 

In flight the answer clear enough

On peppered figs like cotton

Upon the saddle, over rough

For ridges grow forgotten

 

But time on lime of grass sublime

Arrived the simplest answer

To what once more befell on rhyme

Remembrance of the dancer

 

There cloth had worked as sail to wind

Here clothing serves as master

As flailing flag in wind is thinned

A breeze blows ever faster

 

But, still in movement stopped the call

To go with haste, directed

Gradated green away from wall;

Away from screens erected

 

Now fathom this – your time in flow

Trick kisses from created

Cremate to ash the past, let go

To find a mind elated

 

 

xxx

 

 

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Twenty First Year Manifesto

living, loving, photography, rhymes and rhythm

Twenty First Year Manifesto

 

Twenty one has been kind to me, here on the earth
And I’ve nurtured a humour with ongoing mirth
There’s been gifting of friendship and travel and love
Such elation at hoop-dance that fits like a glove

But with all of this growth I still need to confess
That my room is a shithole – an artist’s own mess
Here beneath all the piles of papers and pants
Are a few little things that still hold some romance;

Small drawings of anarchic doodles in pen;
A postcard that tells me I need to be zen;
The pink tube of bubbles I stuck in my bra
and promptly forgot about at Mardi Gras

A blue book that tells of the wisdom in words
And man’s greatest treasure in being absurd
I’ve learnt more than ever be honest, be true
But those with closed minds are a task to eschew

To cultivate love in its highest of forms
Needs movement, and stillness, defying thy norms
And pushing the boundaries that bound many years
You defy forceful factors that fracture small fears

For they’d splintered like wood into stagnant sharp states
Where they grew with conditions; for conditions are baits
But, empowered by those who live love with their being
Who resolve, knownst or not, there’s a gift in their seeing

In the thousands they meet and see right to the bone
To the human inside; to the voice, not the phone
Which then begs the question, how know you these friends?
Helen grins and leans back now to tie poem’s ends

With a homage to life, and a thank you to kin
My next of which lie in a heart that’s within
But let’s now make light of my Twenty Two year,
Whilst I love all these wishes; go buy me a beer

 

(jokes)

XXX

 

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Make light of it

 

 

 

 

Let’s Hear a Story

living, loving, noteworthy, photography, travel

 

 

 

As promised, I went to the arid and dry.

Only, something had changed in the landscape of late.

Great plains, always salty, cracked and creeping on for miles sat below a liquid surface.

Here upon the plains a quiet; something stirred in ghostly waters.

Badger Bates, respected elder, told of slaughter on the flood plains; how the killing of native people echoed on and on for years.

It was then we heard the students who’d been present here before us often came to tears; unsettled in this place of darkened desert.

It was not until the elder smoked the students through a fire, and he spoke to spirits settled in this place of violent past. And what followed was a calm; a lifting light, a subtle sigh. The feeling of the landscape changed, no more they felt the morbid weight and felt no need to break the camp.

For my part, there I stood and felt with heart the toiling on the soil. My science told me “silly!” but my instinct knew much more. Who am I to judge from outside that the spirits were not haunting? There indeed existed much more than my sweeping visit told.

 

peace x

 

 

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