You Don't Know Me (Yet)

Your tales are told with marble eyes, a whistled promise, the perfect sigh.
The day's away, the night is here, a crumpled hand, unwelcome tear.
The trees can fly, the birds can sit, there's nothing more, you're here, you're it.
Settled skies have never grown, I'm delicate like a glass gnome.
With silver shoes and patterned dress, you walk along and I'm a mess.
The cloth of time upon my face, I'll rip it up and make my chase. S.H.

Ta Douleur

Ta douleur, ta douleur, never do we bleet more than for the shackles that hold us to be lifted.
A common occurrence among many is to feel the worser for our wear. For some this sense is a justified, if not still unhelpful way of thinking. But for many of those that crow the call of the wounded beast hard done by, a heady lesson in deference would do all their hearts well.
Often it is unfair how some have some and some have some more. But while this state of affairs may cease to breed humility, it is all a statement of the past and the present. The future is there for the victor to evolve, the canny to manipulate. What is now can be shaped into what will be. And while a certain nothingness may house the scene in front of our eyes, it is the warmth that exists behind the trees that can be seen but not yet visited that will forever be all one will speak of and know. S.H.

Soldier's Poem

I saw the plastic soldier man today. Walking to and fro along the beachside path, dressed in uniform of baggy tracksuit and clear thin poncho. He marched a steady beat, step by step and heart to heart, thickened eyes gave me a careful look. We passed a second time, his form irresolute, and I left him on his way, moving off to make the world a better place, and smote any new rain drops that dared to splatter his transparent plastic poncho. S.H.

How To Explain

Concerning those ladies with the microphone and speaker in front of the jewellery or clothing shops. Are they aware that every one seems to be ignoring them? This one I saw today was all smiles and radio voice with the volume on eleven. Everyone in a six block radius could hear her, but they were trying desperately hard not to show it. Even the people that had their hair parted as they walked past the speaker blast held a resolutely passive facial expression, continuing on as if they had not just temporarily deafened.
The lady doing her thing today was outside an upscale jewellers. She was busting out the latest offers on top form, but had to unfortunately compete with the loudness of her trousers. It looked like she had stabbed a male peacock to death and then sewed the poor creature's tail feathers together, wrapping them around her legs and finally securing the whole lot in place with a Pritt Stik. It wasn't pretty. S.H.

Great Southern Land

The lightning is painting the night sky in flourishes, the air is warm and the insects are singing. Great Southern Land. S.H.

Today

The day today. Up, breakfast, Ellen, write, washing. Lunch, movie, write, read. Shopping mall, walk, music, paddle pop, Youtube, read, write. How was your day? S.H.

Carpe Diem Baby

Carpe diem, baby, carpe diem. S.H.

Chase That Feeling

It is said to be luck, a great gift to have a feeling so strong, a burning sense that you were placed on this fair brown land to do one specific thing. Maybe not only that one thing, but it sings certainly as the most prominent, the one act or vocation or doing that without it in your life would be a life ill-used, a time on earth wasted. This "feeling" is told to not only be special but rare. It's not something that one would necessarily get paid for, praised for carrying out or even be noticed by others, but all of this is irrelevant anyway. None of these are the reasons. You feel the urning to do it because the world would crumble if you did not. The skies would remain bleak and the vast horizon would never stop, and no way would you be able to cease your wandering.
To describe such a feeling is impossible to convey to those who do not share it's essential pull, it's numbing ache and filling swell. You know you have to do it. You just know. And until you do, or when you do not, you know nothing, and you may as well fall thought he clouds for a million years, because time means nothing when you are not spending it doing what you were born to do. S.H.

Don't Think Twice, It's Alright

Lately my mind has been walking through places it shouldn't. And across sharp ground with no shoes on too. Reckless? Definitely. Wise? Probably not. Necessary? Indeed. Will any of it prove to be fortuitous? Only time will tell the tale worthy of explaining all the questions. Let's hope this time I listen to the answers when they are given. S.H.

Moving Right Along

Time for an actual blog post. I've been engaged in the tiresome act of attempting to sort out life's various little mishaps. Also working on a number of short story submissions. Along with working on another longer, or perhaps to be more accurately described as 'full length' story as well. Observing some of the world's growing population of simpletons. And trying to remain as even as possible about the whole kit and caboodle. That is all ... at present. S.H.

Walking On The Moon

What do we do but to wander. Why do we wander but to do. S.H.

Truth

Love knows not rank nor river bank, nor street bank nor days dank. Love knows not place nor virtue, not age nor curfew. Love is careless for place nor power, heedless of scantly shack nor gleaming tower. S.H.

Blow Up The Pokies

To further your musical education. S.H.

Seether

For the unenlightened among you. S.H.

What a person does as an individual is important. Not what anyone else tells them to do. S.H.

Bonkers

You're not in my gang if you don't like Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Sabbath.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Metallica.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Ben Folds.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Aretha.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Three Dog Night.
You're not in my gang if you don't like The Whitlams.
You're not in my gang if you don't like The Fugees.
You're not in my gang if you don't like DJ Kool.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Veruca Salt.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Jebediah.
I'm sorry. You just aren't. S.H.

Tightrope Walker

Into the heart of darkness they proudly step, with boots like blocks of stone. Heady mind and sullied soul, the bleak becomes the march.
She pulled her jacket around feeble shoulders and re-secured her hood. Long black lashes like needles blinked the floating rain from her eyes. A wall of dark figures paraded on in front of her, too little she was deemed to take the full brunt. Her muddied shoes slipped and skated, any way but where she aimed them, her focus now drawn to basics of one foot in front of the other. Alone the people on either side of her sat huddled in their castles, marvelling at her spirit and cursing at her rancour. The night was beginning to die, the day not yet begun, and still she marched through cold and dark and on towards the sun. S.H.

Dreams Be Dreams

Today I got a message from a girl I went to high school with, saying that last night I was in her dream. What's more strange is that just yesterday I was talking with someone else about getting in their dreams. Peculiar. How extremely peculiar indeed. S.H.

City Hum

The fluorescent light hummed away its merry monotone tune, but still the cafe remained a little sullen. The early winters evening had wrapped its cold colourless hands around the place with greedy revere. A deep fryer sizzled in the back, the cook's shuffled feet another instrument added to the soundtrack. The kids were eating happily but making little noise, their cheery red cheeks slowly warming and returning to their original pale rose pigment. A few shadows passed by the tall cafe front windows, mostly black blurs of indistinguishable age or sex. The smell of salt and vinegar and hot fried potato was strong to the point of intoxication. The night rumbled on for miles around, the city was happy. And for the most part, so were its people. S.H.

For What It's Worth

There is some drivel about. My word there is some drivel. The level at which a vast number of people communicate is nauseating. It is no wonder or surprise that the population is getting dumber. It is no shock or unforeseen occurrence that society is continuing to slowly descend into mediocracy. Utter balderdash is being substituted for linguistics and stupidity is applauded. Not a good thing. S.H.

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

With the rain comes wisdom. A single drop makes its intense but precarious way from endless amounts of space above.The drop splatters onto the world to join its fellows. Silver petals sheet across the landscape like moving worlds. Their path is set and winding and moves on ahead forever. Lights that sparkle far away call like vibrant laughter with echoing warmth. The vision is set and the shoulders are sharpened. Two paths waiting to be crossed, two drops waiting to continue on falling as one. The clouds carry the message. It must be made so. S.H.

You've Got To Learn To Live With What You Are

What if the trees were tired of their roots? How would it go if the sun didn't like the ground anymore, didn't care to warm the soil? How could the clouds pretend to be empty, and the rain forget to fall? And the wind had no strength to blow, dancing grass by my feet no longer. And the bees sat down, and the birds didn't fly. The fish went home and stayed there. The animals hid in their holes and never came out. If we all gave up what place would this be left to call home? S.H.

Staring Down The Sun

"Hi."
"Hi."
Not knowing, then knowing. The strangeness was dispelled and the familiarity pitched.
"Didn't I see you this morning?" said she.
"Ah ... I believe you may have, yes," said he with his voice, while the rest of the dissident's internal capacities ignited and flamed, a gentle warmth now spreading everywhere.
"Looking for a new dress?" she said. His eyebrows darted together and confusion beset. He looked up. Then he looked around. While possessing eyes for naught but her, unbeknownst to him he had wandered into the women's clothing section on that floor of the department store.
"Ah - yeah - I'm just browsing, actually." Her face was painted in neutral tones, despite the obvious inference that the supremacy was with her. She could have chosen to wither him right there and then, but she did not. How can this be possible? he thought instantly. She stood out to him like a blazing lighthouse on a single dark hill in a single dark night. Not just beautiful, beautiful didn't cover it. He could have spent a lifetime writing that word over and over and over again down on endless sheets of paper, and still it would not match what he sought to now describe, to feebly put into words she which stood before him. S.H.

Where Two Oceans Meet

The unavoidable position left no room for his initial reactions to be fulfilled. The drums were thunderous explosions, the sound waves echoing off the inside walls of his skull. She turned and the air rippled, the tottering surrounds oblivious to the effect. Her hair it moved like she was underwater. All on the outside looked calm among him but for the symphony of clatter that coursed its way around his body. Her eyes looked up and the atmosphere froze, the air itself seemingly ceasing to be. A second past. No more than a second of time elapsed and he was held firmly in place for a year. It felt like even longer. Her eyes of forever held his face with soft hands that could not be shaken nor moved. The drums ceased. Everything ceased. And the one shinning thought that now filled his head was "what the bloody hell do I do now?" S.H.

Jungle Drum

The drums began to tap in the distance, gradually building up their volume like an approaching train. The dissident looked for somewhere to hide, an instinctive reaction, and tried his best not to unsettle his head. The figure drifted closer, but still she did not see him. There were enough clothes racks and shinny shelves to help him blend, the constant buzz of beings helping his cause. She moved closer still. He tried his best to think like paint, to become part of the scenery and melt into the walls, a white boy on the white wash. He had noticed her in an instant, his body realising before his brain. The sight of her face from afar enough to squeeze his heart like a sponge. His skin crackled and shifted its nervous weight with alarming fervour, his blood thundering around his veins with exactly the same idea as to what to do with itself as he. S.H.

Go

With the drum rattling gone, the day carried on, and the dissident left the pavement. Over the road and onto the grass, a wide open expanse, skipping over a path or two when he came to it. Milling around in a great arc and the steel above his head subsided. Never able to keep away from the bustle for long, he turned into the sweep, the sway and to and fro, the marching mass, as it ran like a conveyer of faces. Through a door, into a store and the gentle browsing begins. The eyes wander and trip over a sight. The sight of a figure. A familiar figure? S.H.

Dissident

The dissident stands muddied and tired. He walks the uneven path with straightened conviction. The traffic noise sings around him and he settles into his skin. He passes the familiar sights and comfortable landmarks. He turns his trail down a side street and is met by a figure. The figure doesn't talk but he thinks she does and he chirps a friendly reply. An answer is given by the figure as she flows past. He turns and watches the figure depart, the drums in his head thumping and ratting a mad tattoo. S.H.

For Love Or Money?

Some time ago I decided that I would do what I enjoyed as work, even if it wasn't the highest paying or most sparkling of status positions. The work I do DOES enable me to look after myself, save money and do just about what I want within reason. I won't be buying a brand new beamer or owning that six bedroom home in Hertfordshire any time soon, but I've gotten along alright in the past.
The problem I find myself being readily confronted with is what will happen a decade or so down the track. Will I still be content with enjoying what I do, even if it means I have to scrimp and save a little in order to support my future family? Or will I HAVE to reeducate and up or even change completely my qualifications in order to get that "real job"?
I guess the crux of my query is this - is a guy's salary really a big pull or deterrent to a girl?
Add to the pot that what I do is not considered a "regular" occupation for a guy to have (for the record, I work with kids) and I have had many a girl who has turned the other way when she has found out my status among the career world.
Unfortunately, all this means that now more than ever I am faced with a simple question - do I continue to do what I love, with the risk that I will never be taken seriously by another as a future other half? Or do I change my ideas radically and go for the practical option, get another qualification and start doing a job that I may not enjoy as much, but at least I'll be able to park that new BMW in the front drive of my six bedroom house?
It all comes down to one. Does the higher flying job and larger salary package really mean that much? (We're not talking about the difference between being flat broke and a millionaire here. It's more the difference between having a second hand Toyota Corolla or a brand spanking new Mercedes C Class). Or is it really true that as long as there is love, you can always find a way to make it work no matter what? S.H.

The Star

I looked upon a star as it sat atop a hill. I saw this star in the day time and it was only me who saw it. I gazed at length and thought of how it got there. It twinkled for me, like a shinny fleck of steel. It went away then, but its job was done. It met the thought it sought to chose and pushed and shuffled things. The blue swallowed it up, the day smoothed it out. It joined itself back in the air in hopes of finding the night. S.H.

The Concrete Pond

I looked over and across the square. The dark umbrellas were like twirling lily pads on a concrete surfaced pond. They rushed along at a dizzying pace, spinning and swishing this way and that. The odd blots of colour looked like round frogs, zipping along on their own way, a coloured umbrella the sure indication of a more imaginative amphibian.
The fourth floor was a pretty good vantage point I had decided, definitely good enough to see anyone I was expecting as they approached the building. The rain seemed a little frustrated I thought, so many prepared commuters, their heads being astutely kept dry. But the skies would have their fun with at least one person today. This I knew for sure. The frog that I was looking out for had decided to swim through the crowds, not jump along with them. They had not forgotten their waterproof skin on this dampened day. They just never had one to begin with. S.H.