A Rabbit Passes. A prose poem.

The rabbit’s body is stiff and heavy in my hand. I wrap it in its funeral trappings, a plastic cloak as light and airy as its existence. It’s family lies in burrows deep below, the farmer’s poison dried within withered veins. I place it within its casket, a waste bin its solemn ferry to where its family’s souls gently sleep.

There was a family of rabbits that lived next door. The guy there has chickens and sheep, so it was only a matter of time before he took steps to bait them. For a while that happy family of rabbits was something for me to look forward to each morning and evening, when they would enter my backyard to feed. 

Now they’re a reminder that not everything lasts forever, a sad metaphor for the briefness of our lives and the need to achieve what we can now, before our own time runs out.



Dog Walk. A poem.

I walk the city
Dog by my side
Past a canvas of history
Vanity and pride
I smile when she stops
To deliver her scent
Onto every pallid corner
Near every park bench
Climbing up hills
And following paths
Through dim alleyways
And the greenest of parks
All records held previous
Will fall when we go
Every kilometre counted
Towards a new long term goal
I walk the city
This dog by my side
And my love for both
It seems cannot die

A Dog’s Nose. A poem.

A dog’s nose smells every blade of grass
Painting a picture in scent of everything that’s passed
Counting the stops on every sandstone brick
Smelling the reminders on the tires of, oh so expensive cars
Rolling in the grass of innumerable companions past
No time for harbour views or human history
A dog’s nose is its true best friend until the very last

Cat and Mouse. A short tale.

This story is the prequel to a poem I wrote on my blog a while back. You can find it here.

I wrote this brief story for Uni. Now that the course is over I can post it.


The cat sat on the mat. She preened and purred, purred and preened. She watched the mouse. The mouse sat across the room, just outside his hole-in-the-wall. He did not preen, or purr. He watched the cat.

The cat had never eaten a mouse before and wondered if he tasted good. If you’re not sure of these things, it’s always polite to ask.

“Are you tasty?” she said.

The mouse seemed confused. “Tasty?” he replied. “As in, ‘my, you are one hip, cool and funky mouse’?”

She smiled. “No. As in, are you good to eat?”

“I guess that depends on your perspective,” said the mouse. “I would say definitely not.”

The cat yawned, rolled on her side and pawed the carpet aimlessly. “Are you fast?”

The mouse’s eyes narrowed and he rubbed his tiny paws together. “Do you want to chase me and find out?”

“Not really,” said the cat, drifting off to sleep.

Cat and Mouse. A poem.

The mouse scampered across the floor
He was seeking cheese, or something more
His nose twitched, he raised his head up high
But there was no one there, so he breathed a sigh.

Then the cat had him between her paws
And he realised, this time, she’d won
The cat purred and smiled,
The game was finally done.

This poem is the sequel to a short story I wrote for uni. I’ll post the story once it’s marked (I can’t post stuff I’ve written before it’s marked because the plagiarism checker will pick up my blog).

The change in meter from verse 1 to 2 is deliberate. 

I’ll leave it up to you to decide how you wish to interpret the poem.

It was a change of scenery for me.

J’aime Mon Chien

I started this blog to publish some of my uni work (to find how that turned out, refer here), to encourage me to write, and as a catharsis for my generally sombre and depressed state of mind. I wasn’t worried about traffic or who actually looked at it. It was like a daily therapy, allowing me to talk about my life and the things I like to do, to vent about things that annoy me, and the things I miss in life.

Take my dog for instance, a little black rescue mutt (whom I shall refer to as Black Doggo, as I like to think of him as a little pirate) that my ex-wife and I acquired about six months before our break up. She got Black Doggo in the breakup and I haven’t seen him since. I think she may have gotten rid of him, but can’t be sure as we haven’t spoken in over two years (except via divorce lawyers) and my emails and letters have gotten nil response.

That little dog was originally acquired as my ex-wife wanted to walk more to lose weight. From the very first day (as I suspected), I became the one who walked Black Doggo, looked after him, took him everywhere. Because he was little (about twice as big as a Chihuahua), he conveniently fit nicely in my small car (my version of a handbag, I suppose). I would take him on long drives on weekends, walking along the beach, visiting parents and friends (a convenient substitute for my ex-wife).

I heard Joe Cocker’s You are so Beautiful today, and it brought tears to my eyes as I thought about Black Doggo. I will write to my wife again and ask if she still has him and whether I can take him off her hands. I’m not allowed to have an animal where I live at the moment, but I think one look at his cute little face and any “objections from management” might be lifted.

I’ve only owned one other dog, a German Shepherd rescued from RSPCA death row (once again acquired by an ex-girlfriend, then left with me indefinitely). I had her (the dog, not the girlfriend) for ten wonderful years until she died of cancer. I cried like a baby as I carried her body from the vet’s to my car so I could bury her. I don’t think people in the waiting room were prepared for such a display of emotion from a man (this is Australia, after all).

It’s amazing the attachments we form with our animals. Often they are more valued to us than the attachments we form with other humans. It’s a fact that companion animals can help people living with depression and other mental illnesses*, by reducing anxiety and stress.

Dogs are incredibly loving and giving, they never hate (unless cruel owners teach them to), and are always there for you. Based on my track record with human partners, I’ll probably be at the end of my allotted time, lying in my death bed with a dog by my bedside.

And that’s okay with me.


*Don’t believe me? Check out the links below. And, yes, my spelling above is English, not American. Don’t hold that against me.





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