Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Eighteen ‘Some days’

#thedirtythirty #day18

Some days are almost completely empty.
A few moments held together,
silence following itself around
until the next day begins.

Some days are as full as weeks,
contained in a smaller package.
The echoes and shouts,
sound stuck on repeat.
Drown out the thoughts,
I needed to speak.

Some days are like sunburn.
Some days are like sleep.
These are some drawings,
I’d like you to keep.

Some days haven’t happened,
some wish that they had.
Some days I’m happy,
others I’m sad.

I try using words instead of numbers
I put a few aside each day.
They still don’t add up,
So I give them away.

18 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Seventeen ‘Lost Weekends’

#thedirtythirty #freewrite

The Easter long weekend, a collection of spare days.
I’ve spent them in the past in a number of ways.

One year it was a lost weekend of poker. I played several games at a friends house, then spent many hours watching whole downloaded seasons of ‘High stakes poker’ in between at home. Every waking moment of the weekend was texas hold’em madness.

Another year I found myself single, so I set about creating a lost weekend of blind dates. After tinkering with a profile on an online dating site I found myself scheduled for 8 blind dates in 5 days. I guess that’s one way to lose a long weekend.

Some years I do nothing over the weekend itself, but I visit the supermarket the day after easter is over. Early in the morning, just in time to grab as much half price chocolate as I can carry.

Other years I barely remember it’s easter at all.

This year the majority of my family is using easter as an excuse to get together for the first time in a little while. So I guess I don’t need to get too lost this weekend after all.

17 Apr 2014 / 1 note

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Sixteen ‘A letter to Miss P’

#thedirtythirty #day16 #alettertosomeoneiloolupto

Dear Miss P,

I don’t remember much about the 22 different schools I went to growing up. I do remember you though. This is what I remember. Our school wasn’t a private school, but we did have a dress code, a uniform that apparently had to be upheld. Then you would be there, standing out among the other teachers, with your vivid purple hair. Purple contacts in your eyes, dressed in what a fairy might wear to something official like a job interview. Professional, but at the same time, a complete purple freak show.

You reminded us we could all be individuals, despite the uniform we were made to wear each day. You taught a semester of English dedicated to how poetry is written titled ‘language of the night’ and my pastime of writing whatever I felt like in notebooks became a legitimate thing I could study.

You had a decade of past students favourite quotes and drawings covering your classrooms walls. When the school was renovated and your room was destroyed, some of your past students drank wine with you and took pieces of the wall away afterwards. Our whole class wrote on your new classrooms walls during our final weeks at school.

You gave each one of us a bookmark on that final day as well. Chosen specifically based on some insight you had gained while teaching us for a few short years. Mine featured Edgar Allen Poe and included a note about how you thought it related to my poems filled with the imagery of dreams and the unseen world only visible at night.

You taught us English, Logic, and one day we found out your stash of lollies was never intended as a method of motivation for students, but was actually an emergency supply of sugar in case if diabetic emergency.

You were fun, yet completely professional. You are one of the only teachers I’ll bother to remember. You, and that crazy science teacher in the Northern Territory who used to blow things up Mythbusters style.

Thanks Miss P, I hope you are still rocking the purple and making life at high school a bit more interesting for the current generation of students.



16 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Fifteen ‘Death’

#thedirtythirty #day15 #death

Death visited me the other day. No real reason for stopping by. I guess he just wanted someone to talk to.
We decided to go out for coffee and catch up.

Are those new shoes? I asked.
Yeah, they are Airwalks. I got them in purgatory, it’s the only place that still sells them. A bit of a hassle but they are so comfortable.

The cafe was older than the other shops around it. It has survived on this corner since before I could remember. Death took a deep breath, like he was about to ask something important. I interrupted with some small talk.

Seen any good TV shows lately?

I’ve been a little busy for TV really. I’m a bit behind. Any that you think I’d like?

I’ve been watching Hannibal, it’s pretty decent. You might like it.

Oh yeah, maybe. I heard it’s a bit grim.

Even for you?

Even for me.

Death pulled out a small notebook and starting writing in one of the pages.

What are you writing?

Oh it’s nothing really. Just a bit of poetry. It helps me process some of the day to day stuff I have to deal with. Here you can read some if you like.

I could barely read the words scrawled in the tiny notebook. Death had the handwriting of a serial killer.

We finished our coffee, then Death got up to leave.

See you round.

Not too soon I hope.

14 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Fourteen ‘My Parents’

#thedirtythirty #day14 #parents

My parents found a time machine.

At first they used it for harmless enough things. They’d go forward in time a few days to check the weather. Or go back a week and remember to set the DVR to record that new show everyone’s watching.

Eventually though, they became curious. They started going much further back. They started spending weeks away chasing their younger selves around shouting regrets and lotto numbers and theories about how it could all be a bit better if they paid attention.

They probably should have paid attention to the dates they were typing into the machine. My parents younger selves got so caught up distracted by my future parents that I was never born.

So in the void that followed they contemplated a million alternate lives, had a few alternate children, kept checking the weather ahead of time and going back to record whatever everyone was watching when they realized they were missing out.

I guess my point is, it’s all such a splinter of chance in the end isn’t it. A moment, unlike any other when they become your parents, and you exist, and it all just begins. These moments pass some of us by. We don’t all share this fortune.

But mine did. And I am grateful. I made up the part about the time machine.

14 Apr 2014 / 1 note

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Thirteen ‘Better than this’


#thedirtythirty #day13 #socialjustice

We could be better at this. We really could be. Some of us should be. As a society we discriminate everyday, based on things we fail to understand. Waves of unnecessary hate born out out of cruel needless ignorance.

I didn’t always realise how bad it is. I guess I just assumed we were better than this, most of us. Those of us I trust and care about. Enough of us?

I just don’t know anymore.

When the family of someone you love can turn around after getting to know you for all of five minutes. Can hear one fact out of place and decide they know better, while knowing nothing. When they believe it’s their place to voice that our relationship should simply end. That they could do better, and that they don’t approve and refuse to share company or communication with the two of us. That we separate out of necessity of their jumped conclusions.

What was it that prompted this?
One thought, one little detail they didn’t bother to ask enough about to begin to understand. The fact that I suffer from a mental illness. That I have at one time lost contact with the safe reality we all naturally take for granted.
Forget that I have survived this and more. That I don’t just live with it, I’ve overcome it day to day and still kick ass and take names. Forget that it makes no difference to the majority of the people in my life.

They could be better than this. They really could be. I don’t think I want to know how many others should be as well. If not for your own family, out of love, what other reason do you need? To listen a little more, hold your judgement for a moment. Accept that life isn’t always in one piece for all of us all the time.

Don’t bother apologising, your silence can sit here with the silence of the others. A room full of empty words and moments lost to a force we could all overcome with a moments patience. If we were better than this. I guess that day hasn’t come just yet.

13 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Eleven

#thedirtythirty #day11 #listpoem

The reasons I fell.

Because I wasn’t aware of the massive holes in the world, they seem to be everywhere these days.

Because of a combination of low blood pressure and side effects of my daily medication.

Because I tripped over one too many bad days, who keeps leaving them lying around anyway?

Because I needed to lay low for a while, and I guess I got carried away.

Because I ran out of reasons to remain standing.

Because all the other dominos had fallen and I was next in line.

Because the first person slipped and fell out of the tree, the second person was hit by the first guy and I guess I just thought it was a game.

There isn’t always a good reason, but someone has to take the fall in the end.

Because falling is somehow better than standing still.

Because I always do, especially for you.

11 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Ten

#thedirtythirty #day10 #haiku

It begins again
Days, wandering into weeks
Our time apart, lost.

9 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Nine


Had a bit more trouble than usual waking up today.
Drank a fizzy substitute for coffee while I walked to catch my bus, no change.
I select an appropriate playlist for this type of morning, audio caffeine.
The music holds my eyes open, just barely. The beat bumps into my head ever so slightly. Or maybe I’m just hitting the window with the side of my head as I rest here on the bus. I am not awake. Though I am forcing myself to stand up. Today begins slowly.

8 Apr 2014 / 1 note

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Eight


We were far enough underground that the sun could have gone missing and no one would have known.
Perhaps it did. At least for a moment. Things can disappear when you are not paying attention. Some conversations are full of clarity, some are filled with misdirection. Some are hard to hear because of problems with the connection.

We were far enough into the game that anyone had a chance to win. 4AM, playing cards until the sun chose to return. I left my cards on the table and started walking back towards the surface.

I could tell when I was getting closer to the sky when I found myself walking in the rain. The sun was nowhere to be seen.

7 Apr 2014 / 0 notes