Through His Eyes. A poem.

See the world.
But not through your own eyes.
Try his.
Try seeing and yet not seeing,
failing to understand
what they truly perceive.
Messed up signals,
like a traffic jam waiting to happen.

Open your mouth,
like his mouth,
and watch the words tumble out:
unannounced,
tactless and indiscreet;
a crossword of errors on a big broadsheet.

Walk alone,
not by yourself,
but like him:
truly alone,
like the world has eaten you up
and spat you out.
Deserted, when you truly needed love instead of doubt.

This is how he feels.
So extend a hand.
Feel with him.
Don’t let him misunderstand.
Don’t let him be alone.

Time to prove your worth, and atone.

The Novel-writing Locomotive.

My novel is (once again) back on track.

How many times have I said that? It seems every time I slip the rails I have some new excuse (for a list of the latest ones, click here). Coupled with my short attention span, my novel-writing train has jumped the tracks every few weeks, as if it was passing regularly back and forth over the NSW/Queensland state border where the rail gauge changes*.

My rescuer (or track repair crew, depending on which metaphor you prefer) is my delicious new iPhone (even though it’s not edible, it’s the next best thing. If they introduced edible iPhones I’m sure I’d be first in line to buy them and ravenously consume them**). I’ve downloaded MS Word onto my phone (which is an iPhone 8 ‘large’. Or ‘big’? Whatever they call the giant version. I personally like iPhone ‘humongous’, but that sounds both compensatory, and a bit too Mad Max, I suspect). I’ve moved my novel’s Word files to the cloud and now I can write anywhere. Yes, even in my favourite writing venue, the water closet***.

I admit this is not particularly innovative—I’ve been writing poetry this way for months, using the notes facility on my phone which auto backs up to iCloud—but I just wasn’t managing my time effectively enough to write on my laptop (I use it for my uni work, but I generally need a break afterwards. A looooooong break. Longer than a Kit-Kat, anyway).

So, I’m back to writing in small doses (that’s generally how I best interact with anything and anyone—you can only take so much manic or morose Steve at a time. That includes me dealing with me). And small doses is better than no doses.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

PS Why use Word on iPhone in place of Apple’s Pages or a writing-specific app? Because I already started my novel in Word, it retains all the formatting without having to convert it between apps, and it has a neat little ‘fit-to-screen’ word wrap button that Pages doesn’t. Technical Steve 😉

*Yes, in Australia we have different rail sizes. Yes, it’s stupid.

**Mmmmmm…I’m patenting that scrumptious idea.

***Dunny, loo, crapper—to all you uncultured larrikins.

Invincible. A poem.

I’m alone against the storm,
wearing custom-fitted armour,
courtesy of the Lord.

I’m a lone wanderer in form,
but my way is assured,
courtesy of the Lord.

I’m a fighter on the boards,
wearing gloves of solid steel,
courtesy of the Lord.

And I’m invincible,
a man of principles.
Courtesy of the Lord.

.
I haven’t written a Christian poem in a while. It’s about time I did. 

Here’s one for the big guy upstairs.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

Heartbreak. A prose poem.

My heart was broken, and the pieces lay
scattered across the floor like so much
fractured crystal. It lay where it fell for
days,
weeks,
months.

I fixated on my shattered heart for
a long time. Everywhere I looked,
everywhere I walked, I was in danger
of cutting myself on a fragment.
Visitors and friends stepped delicately
around the shards like navigating a
minefield.

Every once in a while I would think about
tidying up. But the strewn slivers were a
reminder both comforting and saddening.
One day, I awoke to find the pieces were
gone, as if they had never existed; never
split and skewed, never callously been
torn out and flung aside.

I walked out into the fresh air, the hum
of the world around me. I still remembered
my broken heart, and the pain of
every
little
piece.

But it was time to move on, and face
another heartbreak.

Maybe this time I’d find some glue
to hold my heart together.

My first book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available now as an e-book from most online distributors. To find out more, click here.

Haiku Friday. Three freaky haikus.

Message
I got a message,
anonymous, confusing.
“Don’t wait up,” it said.

Nerd
Glasses, weird hair cut,
quirky disregard for all.
“Grab a seat, player!”

Dog
All dogs love me so.
Must be my cool aftershave.
Or meat in pocket.

.
Haikus, those wonderful little 5/7/5 syllable Japanese poems, are usually serious.

I decided serious is not for me, today.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

Guest Post: Mind Matters 

I’ve never had anyone do a guest post before, but I was chatting with my sister-in-blog Donna, of mind matters, and asked her if she’d like to write one.

Donna and her family were traumatised while living with a religious cult, and she works through her issues in her blog, along with providing snippets of her photography and poetry. Sometimes she’s a bit controversial, but she’s always interesting.

So here is the first guest blog! Enjoy.

Steve 🙂

I Beg To Differ

Is chivalry dead? Should it be? A lot of people might say yes.

Sometimes certain issues seem to illuminate themselves in me. The other day when I was heading into a store, a man who had already walked out of the store turned around and grabbed the door for me. It was kind. It was an innate response. He didn’t even pause. He just did it. Then, when I was leaving the same store, a young male teenager whose hands were loaded with cartons of napkins, reached out–causing his load to teeter–and opened the door for me.

My point is: maybe a cause can begin in a legitimate way and then morph into something it was never meant to be. By then, it’s too late to back up. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be kept down by the opposite sex and stripped down until I thought I was nothing. But I also know what it’s like to fight my way through raising five kids and getting a degree in my forties.

I know I am not inferior to any male. But everyone is uniquely endowed by God, who equips us all differently for purposes and roads that lead in many directions. Is either sex inferior? No. But generally a man’s body is built differently than a woman’s. If we are at war, who would I want at the front lines in battle? A man. Does that make me sexist? No. When it comes time to do one of the most important things in life, who does it? A woman. What am I talking about? Giving birth. We as women are equipped to grow a human being in our bodies. No inferiority complex here.

Anyway, back to my original point of a gentleman opening a door for a lady. I love it. My husband opens the door for me. I am grateful that the women before me fought for the rights that we didn’t have before and I am in no way disagreeing with that; I just wanted to give a little food for thought.

You can read more from Donna at mind matters. 

Dead Men Deep. A poem.

Hulls of broken ships,
scattered like white noise.
The sea bed, as black
as a charcoal cellar.

It welcomes sailors
to their ends,
bloated corpses sleeping
in hammocks of crusted ribs,
drunk on briny, antique wine.

Coral wreaths
and sawdust mouths;
barnacles, the new tattoo
that marks the passage
from man to martyr.

Here among the starfish
and crustacean shells,
unworried by the weather,
seabed tales in whale song
punctuate their empty dreams.

Writing…stuff.

So, I’ve posted a few things about writing. Not that I’m an expert or anything, but readers seem to like me rambling on.

I’ve made it a ‘thing’ (I like to do that–‘Haiku Friday’ anyone?). So, now you can find all the posts grouped under Writer Interrupted in the menu. It saves me from creating another blog (I’m pretty lazy, y’know).

As always, I love your comments, and I love the fact that you pay me any attention at all.

Cheers

Attention-seeker Steve 🙂

 

City of the Lost. A poem.

I looked to the city.
The lights were on, but nobody was home.

I was alone.

I expected dust devils to whirl
as I walked through my world.
Behind every door a Marie Celeste,
of empty chairs and still full plates.

Always alone.

Wherever I looked reigned emptiness,
yesterday’s news and mild distress.
The dust and dirt of memories
clung to my walls like tragedy.

And then the lights went out.
That was when I knew, without a doubt:

I would always be alone.

But what was always there,
that I just couldn’t see,

were all the souls
surrounding me.

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