Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Twenty Three ‘Villanelle’

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#thedirtythirty #day23 #villanelle

I wandered into the darkness again.
It’s the only thing I know is true.
It’s darker now than it was back then.

Close my eyes and count to ten.
Darker from my point of view.
I wandered into the darkness again.

For reasons I cannot explain.
My heart feels like its cut in two.
It’s darker now than it was back then.

Here in the darkness I remain.
The way back known by just a few.
I wandered into the darkness again.

My feet bare as it starts to rain.
A darker place I’m walking through.
It’s darker now than it was back then.

A darkness that I can’t contain.
It happened when I followed you.
I wandered into the darkness again.
It’s darker now than it was back then.

23 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Twenty Two ‘A letter’

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Twenty Two

#dirtythirtypoetrymonth
#thedirtythirty #day22 #lettertoachildenduringwar

Hey,

A friend asked me to write you this letter. I wish I knew what to write. I heard you live somewhere on the brink of destruction.

I can’t begin to understand what you are facing. All I know about it is buried in a few bad memories. When I’ve seen violence up close it has left holes in the world afterwards.

In my case I could walk away from these empty spaces for the most part. Find new locations and hide out around corners until the world felt comfortable again.

From what I hear it won’t be as easy where you are. There are fewer corners left, and the damage being done can be heard through the thickest walls. Sleep may be difficult soon.

Many of us don’t have a choice in what we face. In a better world children would face less violence. And those who survive it will have stronger words to guide those still facing it than mine.

21 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Twenty One ‘Winning at Easter’

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#thedirtythirty #day21 #culturaltraditions

At least one day of the easter weekend this year was spent with family. I spent Saturday visiting my twin brother and his 8 month old baby. It feels like a lifetime ago that I can remember easter having any significance at all. When I think back that far I am transported to my childhood.

As an adult, I’ve been known to fill my easter weekend with friendly games of Texas Hold’em poker and anything else that might kill the time where nothing much is open.
As a kid, easter was my first taste at bluffing, as if a poker game was going on. The game was to convince your siblings you had eaten your share of the Easter eggs already.

Once they believed you had eaten yours, they would let their guard down and begin to eat theirs. As soon as they had made this mistake the truth would be revealed. You had hidden your eggs and bunnies, not eaten them. Now you were the kid with the most chocolate left. If you could ‘win’ at easter, this was how it was done.

Many years later and hiding chocolate that appears in the house overnight has been replaced with a well timed visit to the supermarket on the day after Easter Sunday to score a few favorites at 50% off.

While I was visiting my brother on Saturday we shared a few small eggs along with some other food. The tiny Crunchie eggs were scattered in amongst the plain chocolate solid eggs, subconsciously I ate more of those ones. My brother making an off hand comment that he’d noticed more of them were going missing than the others. Without realizing I was doing it I placed one of these eggs into the pocket of my jeans, almost as if I didn’t want to get caught taking more of these particular eggs. An action very similar to when I was much younger, hiding chocolate eggs from my siblings to ‘win’ at easter somehow.

I forgot it was there until a little while later when I realised to my horror I now had melted chocolate in my pocket, it had made a mess of my wallet and the plastic that holds my go card. Still trying to ‘win’ a bit more chocolate after all these years. I guess some things about easter just don’t change no matter how old you are.

20 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Twenty

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‪#‎thedirtythirty‬ ‪#‎day20‬ ‪#‎differentstyle‬ ‪#‎sonnet‬ #zombiesonnet

Be heard in words they don’t know how to say.
The frequency of voices underneath.
They trust in walking calmly through the day.
Then showing up armed to the bloody teeth.
Awake and fight the sun right from the sky.
Confronted do you stand or do you run.
An enemy of darkness burning high.
Our dreams are silent battles never won.
The road, it twists then turns becoming steep.
Forgotten songs are sung, between our feet.
Here deep beneath defeat, forever sleeps.
Old stories, left to play upon repeat.
Some fall. Others inspire. some fall again.
Some find a new beginning in the end.

20 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

Poetry Month - The Dirty Thirty - Day Nineteen ‘A vivid dream’

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#thedirtythirty #day19

I woke this morning from a vivid dream. I was at a future poetry slam. The dream felt as though it spanned an entire evening, including the feature poets, every performer who had signed up on the night, even myself stepping onstage and reading something. Since it was a dream I couldn’t read any text. words existed, but they couldn’t be seen. performances could be felt, I had an idea of them, but they never happened. Everyone was together, mingling, drinking, the audience responding to each poet like a wave of tumbling leaves, my mind taking tiny snapshots of a time yet to come. i slept through the judges giving their scores. My bare feet hidden under sheets while people who were not people spoke with words that were not words. The very idea of a slam, an event I now long for, rested as a pillow below my head. Something to look forward to.

19 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

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

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#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’

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#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’

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#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.

Sincerely

Hamish

16 Apr 2014 / 0 notes

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

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#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’

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#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