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










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






Make light of it





Eat It

noteworthy, photography, rhymes and rhythm

Know the back of your fridge like the back of your mind

Keep in touch with the contents of cupboard

For it seems many people are widely resigned

To food wastage lately discovered

It’s not just a pack of fresh bread gone to waste

Though a small simple thing it may seem

Like poison in water may not have a taste

It still finds its way down the stream

There’s a bigger incredulous picture at stake

And if lucky you might sense your role

In the power you wield by being awake

And aware of waste’s energy toll

Now the sugar has travelled from China to Seoul

Then was packaged in Delhi to boot

And the butter flew in from New Zealand and earnt

Several thousand more air miles en route

And the flour was trucked across desert plains

To land in your crumpets and pie

Where you promptly forgot that Small Purchase you got

And it sat in the kitchen to die

And with each little waste that no one did taste

a part of me shrivels inside

this distortion of food versus need does allude

to a glutton of comfort prescribed

It seems so distorted to hear news reported

Of famine and people deprived

When finding that tupperware fare has been thwarted

And growth of black mold has arrived

It is not that I judge, I don’t aim to offend

Though it’s hard to let go every time

All habits can change with the will to amend

And avoid what I see as a crime

Oh harsh! You might say; Helen with your assumption

But how does change come lest with action?

Consumption without simple care finds resumption

And all blame is placed on distraction

I call out to those who have all that they need

To remember first food you possess

And if finding a great deal of wastage may need

To address the neglect of excess



Dumpster delicacies

Dumpster delicacies

Oxford Street Muddle

living, loving, rhymes and rhythm



Damned be the bouffant that rests on her head

in a way that conveys what is thought but not said

And long live the doorman who whistles with pride

to the sound of the cars and the traffic outside

There’s a puddle you know, at the fall of the rain

where you’ll see them with faces betraying a strain

like an upturn of nose that defies Newton’s laws

off to Newtown they whisk themselves meeting more bores

It’s my city, my home, where this bubble exists

Barely touching the life all around that persists

In a way it’s the richness of beggars that seems

to put in sharp relief pockets lined to the seams

We’re no more the better if we’re bitter in wont

Take heed in your footsteps that fall, mes enfants

Walk in knowledge of them that invest in façade

to acknowledge those who you hold high in regard







Meddlers mess muddled puddles on Oxford Street



Last dance of the Limeñon

living, loving, rhymes and rhythm


I fear not all detritus for the soul´s a speedy runner

and it races for the betterment of sanctity in time

Nightly knowing dreams of haunting charm ring bells within the tunnel

Satisfies the hastened voyage to the staircase you must climb

Now I know you´re thinking nought defies the chaos in the corner

There indeed resides a mortar grinding pestle in the dark

Tis not easy stopping runaways from fleeing to the former

humbled author with a message in the form of matriarch

But she waivers with a startle and the crispy air´s upon her –

neath the curtain lifts a shadowed hand that shallowed course of flame

With an odour fresh the leafy créche is dawning on her honour;

when waivered will of the greatest ilk attracts a cause for blame.


and peace x


Helen´s head in the clouds




Lima´s limitless laughs

living, loving, photography, rhymes and rhythm, travel

Crazed hoards flock to cabins where horoscopes hold hope – home to kin of a people superstitously stocked. And see sugar, oh, the sugar.

Powdered ice, sauces smother, in hands of heavy women wanting takeaway wantons. Near the Big Red of Chinatown, buy Chaufa at Chifas then later feel cheated and crack up at jacked up costs – for you´re just a gringo.

But nightfall is different.

It´s lively, there´s laughter from little young chicos. They´re lining the streets wanting sweets (getting bought them) whilst locals are lining their pockets (and then some). There´s a definite instance of spoilt young children in Lima; where money´s made, parents will spend. And it flies in your face – sharp relief to the grief on the street in the cities more steeped in misfortune. Yet these children are spritely; they speak with you nightly and nought can null confidence innately possessed. Two young sisters approached in the Plaza, persistent the older had perfect white skin ¨just like mine¨. The distinction she drew between her and her sister was strange yet expected – here White is Divine.

If you walk around early you miss the absurdly late markets meandering all down the path – with plastic pigs barking, bird whistles for larking – while mascots for merchandise stores make you laugh. There are grown men in clown suits, getting beeped by the horn toots of limitless taxis who tax up your time. Very happy to charge but their knowledge ain´t large of the streets that comprise their own city and trade. Then your patience it quakes as they jump on the brakes and their head starts to shake, blaming ¨traffic today¨.

Yet for hassles surrounding, you founded your love on the trials and value of travel, compounded. Cloud clears from all sky, for tranquility´s eye keeps a close watch on what is obscured (but is nigh).

And you know that back home you´ll be missing the grown men in clown suits; instead, only clowns in their day suits. And the holes in the pavement you frequently trip on; replaced with monotonous concrete in-line. And the thrill of the street food that might give you gastro; you´ll find only over-priced Maccas and Fries. Yes, you can start complaining of danger and lamely avoid going out after dark around 9. And you might start to hate all the hours you spend here in transit on buses to get to That Place. And you might even tell me you´re tired of paying much more for things based on your skin and your race.

But I love all those travels – they´re part of the journey, and of much greater interest to me than your woes. Give me time, maps and courage for adventures to flourish and an acid-free notebook to record how it goes.



Hazy, lazy Lima

Hazy, lazy Lima

Here be musings

living, noteworthy, rhymes and rhythm, travel


Thoughts lying on a couch, in Argentina. My diary records me.


Spy those legs that weave around the table,

teaching me, as I forget

your name, it’s your name, and I forget it.

With new turns I do remember

Reading always means existing

long forgotten, never learned

But learning is recording, that is all

that is all.


My learning is a constant

and submits to massive failures

yet same constant is my freedom

it’s my burden and I’ll keep it

For the beauty on its table

under darkness, in the stable

left for loneliness the token

Fine-tuned journey, wisened teacher.

And the preacher near the doorway

tells me I have not yet spoken;

but I’m screaming

and I’m deeming him to be deceitful,


Then the silence in the slumber

of my waking world assaults me,

for there’s truth in what the preacher

prays to tell me for his part.

I have not yet known the netting

that protects me from my neighbours,

a perversely porous bubble

brewing trouble in my heart.

So I thank the man and take my toil

tangled in tomorrow,

to enjoy the jousting justified

by jaded faded means.

Meander in the mires but

remember mighty focus;

that we travel tasting all

the tainted tethers of latrines.





Iguacu the Mighty