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This Path

I walk This path Empty But for dust balls Of shame I have prayed For redemption But from what? I am Still unsure The rosary Of my prayers Countless And still Unanswered Silence Shadows me As I walk This empty Dust filled path. Pray, they say God answers. Wishful thinking Made powerful By repetition. Yet in the Silence that surrounds me No answer Is given And I walk This path, my Path of shame...

Two Tracks

They went From here to there Though where there Was, I didn’t know Two tracks Imprinted on Heavy-dewed Grass Footprints Side by side Not close enough To be lovers Though, perhaps Lovers, tired Of closeness Needing space I, on my way Saw their footsteps Brief witness to them Passing this way. For soon Sun dried grass Will ghost their footsteps And none will know There were two tracks Footsteps...

In Praise of silence

In a world often dominated by noise, silence has the power to make us anxious.  The space of silence makes us uncomfortable and we want to fill the space with something, anything to distract us. I experienced this the other morning.  I was meeting a friend for breakfast and caught rideshare DiDi to where we were meeting.  Within 30 seconds of getting into the car I realised...

The spaces of silence

Rain drops Drum with Rhythmic certainty. Disconnected patterns Of accidental Design, thrum In my mind. I lie Suspended between Two states, waiting While thoughts Subside into neural Swamps of Slumber It is, in The in-between, In between thoughts In between falling drops There is A second of Stillness Not the stillness Of nothingness Rather, the Stillness of Silence. Eternity’s Inbreathing The...

Living with Bent Paths

One of the things with walking a labyrinth, is its disorientating nature.  You can never see into the distance.  Your sight is constrained by the next bend in the path.  When you do get to the bend and look right and left both views seem to the same, leading to the quandary do I turn right or left? Robert Frost captures this perplexity in his poem, The Road Not Taken Two roads...

We are the silent sons

We are The silent sons Of silent men. We were Not born This way, But have Grown so. Slowly silent A severity, We were told For our own good. We climbed Our fathers Mt Moriah, To find No sacrificial lamb But us. Our father’s God, Content to sacrifice His sons. To bleach their Bones, on the Alter of respectability. Grey suits Crushed into Conformity. I am the Silent Son Of a silent man, Yet silent...

it came back to me

It came back to me From years Long gone, Faint memory Mouldering under The crow-cold Beady-eyed Judgemental Father Memory Emasculated By the Cryogenically Frozen Crone Still, It came back to me From years Long gone. Resurrected, Though perhaps It never Died Just buried In fear. Yet, I Have walked With death, And kissed Santa Muerte. I have survived The grey necrosis Of vapid gayness Masquerading...


Before this


This luminescent

Inbreaking of

Light on leaves

Before these


The still

Intake of

Natures breath

Before this,

Before these,


There was


In the silence

Of the before

The before

I was.

We were


Wrapped in the

Still embrace

Of the Divine’s



Words formed

Flow, with metronomic rhythm,


Consistent cadences

Stultifying, then

Suffocating silence.

She weeps

In stillness,

Does silence.

While words

Trade their


With finery


Fascinating the

Foolish, with

The sounds

Of pyritic wisdom

It’s all in the perspective

In walking the labyrinth, we leave the entrance and begin a journey towards the centre.  This got me thinking about the leaving’s I have experienced in life.  The first leaving I remember was as an 8-year-old.  We left Scotland, sailing from South Hampton in England on the Ellinis one of the last ships through the Suez Canal to come back to Western Australia.  [I had been born...