his shadow is cast long by the early morning sun
already sweating though the day has just begun
step after step his tired feet pound the ground
a lone weekend warrior, with his boot camp all around
she wears her oldest clothes and yet she beams a smile
she's glad that she's back and has kept it up a while
aware the hardest part was just getting through that door
a single dancer, moves with her class across the floor
they shake off sleep and the morning chill
time slowly awakening and honing their skill
they pass to one another with a comfort borne of years
two teams of individuals, in a field full of peers
the air rushes from his lungs as he heaves at the weight
he repeats one more time though his need to rest is great
all around him there are others who sweat, moan and groan,
sharing an addiction, and yet each a junkie on his own.
their battle is a mental one, the results physical
but to call them vain or proud would just be cynical
though they fight in isolation, so too they alone achieve their goal
sound of body sound of mind and at peace with their soul.
Written Jan 2009, while running along the beach, started wondering about the individual nature of exercise, but how the individualism is mental and not necessarily physical.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Beauty, The Beast
I woke up this morning, confidence poor
couldn't bring myself to walk out the door
one look in the mirror confirms my fears
use all of my strength to hold back the tears
a discarded magazine lies crumpled and haunting
the impossible beauty of the model still taunting
perfect features and a chiseled physique
same age as me but at their physical peak
their skin doesn't blemish their tan doesn't fade
effortless glamour, heavenly-made
but the clothes never wear as well on my frame,
and I can never get my hair to fall quite the same
my body has curves where the muscles should be
and is that a zit I see winking back at me?
powerless, I guess I'll just grin and bare
apathetic on the surface, even if below I care
a deep breath and with my head held high
I step out into the world, wanting to die
"Mr Pitt, you look great, smile over here"
the camera captures my image, but not my fear
I stare at the crowd, jealously
if only they would trade places with me....
Written Jan 2009 for a gorgeous friend of mine who fails to see what everyone else can.
couldn't bring myself to walk out the door
one look in the mirror confirms my fears
use all of my strength to hold back the tears
a discarded magazine lies crumpled and haunting
the impossible beauty of the model still taunting
perfect features and a chiseled physique
same age as me but at their physical peak
their skin doesn't blemish their tan doesn't fade
effortless glamour, heavenly-made
but the clothes never wear as well on my frame,
and I can never get my hair to fall quite the same
my body has curves where the muscles should be
and is that a zit I see winking back at me?
powerless, I guess I'll just grin and bare
apathetic on the surface, even if below I care
a deep breath and with my head held high
I step out into the world, wanting to die
"Mr Pitt, you look great, smile over here"
the camera captures my image, but not my fear
I stare at the crowd, jealously
if only they would trade places with me....
Written Jan 2009 for a gorgeous friend of mine who fails to see what everyone else can.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The One Year Miracle
The people clap,
The people cheer,
Oh my God,
It’s been a year!
I’ve had my doubts,
You have too,
I had my doubts
After a day or two.
Twelve months on,
And here we are,
Who would have thought?
That we’d come so far.
People have doubted us,
That much is true,
No one thought we’d last,
Even a month or two.
But here we are today,
And all though insults have been hurled,
I wouldn’t swap you, or this,
For the world.
Written in 2003 to celebrate a year with the same girl as previous. Young, in love, and celebrating what seemed a minor miracle.
The people cheer,
Oh my God,
It’s been a year!
I’ve had my doubts,
You have too,
I had my doubts
After a day or two.
Twelve months on,
And here we are,
Who would have thought?
That we’d come so far.
People have doubted us,
That much is true,
No one thought we’d last,
Even a month or two.
But here we are today,
And all though insults have been hurled,
I wouldn’t swap you, or this,
For the world.
Written in 2003 to celebrate a year with the same girl as previous. Young, in love, and celebrating what seemed a minor miracle.
To You, From Me
The crimson maiden’s voice rings true,
Her epic crisis is anything but new:
“See my eyes, feel the fear,
Tell me what I need to hear,”
Her voice is soft but her eyes betray,
The need in her voice, her eternal dismay
Once again the duty falls on the knight,
To slay the beast, and to the princess’ delight,
Run the gauntlet adorned with none but a rose,
Defeat Caesar’s army; vanquish all his foes,
He must test every muscle, every sinew, every nerve,
He must be one man in the name of love.
Though battles and dragons pose him no threat,
Ask him bout his true feelings if you want to watch him sweat.
“But who really could?” the knight often wonders,
Express what the heart feels without those awkward blunders,
Convey the desire, the passion, the emotion,
Raging more fiercely than a tempest, than an all-encompassing ocean.
What words could possibly do any justice,
To the feelings that run so rampant between us?
What man would be foolish enough to even try?
Express the love he has for the one for whom he would die?
But alas, dear lord, this is a quest that he must make
To stifle any possible doubts, not for his, but for her, sake.
It surprises me daily that you remain unaware,
of the feelings I have for you, the love that we share.
Lost would I be without your “gentle” touch,
On the edge of a precipice, you’re the rope that I clutch,
Vertically we differ, there’s a sizeable gap, but
Everything always seems so right when you’re on my lap.
You are the one, my rain, wind and fire
You are the one, whom I’ll always desire
You are the one:
M ystically
I rritating,
N aturally my
E verything
Written in 2003 for my first serious girlfriend after continually being asked to "express how I was feeling". I have fought the overwhelming desire to change any of the lines, aiming to keep the poem as originally written.
Her epic crisis is anything but new:
“See my eyes, feel the fear,
Tell me what I need to hear,”
Her voice is soft but her eyes betray,
The need in her voice, her eternal dismay
Once again the duty falls on the knight,
To slay the beast, and to the princess’ delight,
Run the gauntlet adorned with none but a rose,
Defeat Caesar’s army; vanquish all his foes,
He must test every muscle, every sinew, every nerve,
He must be one man in the name of love.
Though battles and dragons pose him no threat,
Ask him bout his true feelings if you want to watch him sweat.
“But who really could?” the knight often wonders,
Express what the heart feels without those awkward blunders,
Convey the desire, the passion, the emotion,
Raging more fiercely than a tempest, than an all-encompassing ocean.
What words could possibly do any justice,
To the feelings that run so rampant between us?
What man would be foolish enough to even try?
Express the love he has for the one for whom he would die?
But alas, dear lord, this is a quest that he must make
To stifle any possible doubts, not for his, but for her, sake.
It surprises me daily that you remain unaware,
of the feelings I have for you, the love that we share.
Lost would I be without your “gentle” touch,
On the edge of a precipice, you’re the rope that I clutch,
Vertically we differ, there’s a sizeable gap, but
Everything always seems so right when you’re on my lap.
You are the one, my rain, wind and fire
You are the one, whom I’ll always desire
You are the one:
M ystically
I rritating,
N aturally my
E verything
Written in 2003 for my first serious girlfriend after continually being asked to "express how I was feeling". I have fought the overwhelming desire to change any of the lines, aiming to keep the poem as originally written.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The CrackBerry
In those moments where I find myself standing alone,
It only takes seconds to pull out my phone
I’m not checking the time, or a text from a mate
I’m just trying to look cool while I sit here and wait
I need something to do with my hands and my eyes,
Is she looking at me, what about those guys?
Where are my friends, the bus or the train?
On my own only my cell keeps me sane
Before the phone there was another distraction
A way to make sure there was never inaction
Constantly fidgeting because I’m too important to wait
There’s a high-powered meeting for which I’m obviously late.
Why do I feel this constant need to impress?
They’ll never see me again and I couldn’t care less
I’m only the centre of my own universe
She’s not interested in me, her head’s in her purse.
But what makes me so afraid of just standing and being
No matter who is looking, nobody is seeing
These moments alone are a misused gift
The chance to stop, reflect and let the mind drift.
So when the urge next strikes to stare into that screen
Instead I’ll think about how good my life has been
So limited is my stay on this earth
Its time to treasure these moments alone for all that they’re worth.
Written Dec 2008, to all the insecure people who fidgit while waiting alone in public (of which I am definitely one)
It only takes seconds to pull out my phone
I’m not checking the time, or a text from a mate
I’m just trying to look cool while I sit here and wait
I need something to do with my hands and my eyes,
Is she looking at me, what about those guys?
Where are my friends, the bus or the train?
On my own only my cell keeps me sane
Before the phone there was another distraction
A way to make sure there was never inaction
Constantly fidgeting because I’m too important to wait
There’s a high-powered meeting for which I’m obviously late.
Why do I feel this constant need to impress?
They’ll never see me again and I couldn’t care less
I’m only the centre of my own universe
She’s not interested in me, her head’s in her purse.
But what makes me so afraid of just standing and being
No matter who is looking, nobody is seeing
These moments alone are a misused gift
The chance to stop, reflect and let the mind drift.
So when the urge next strikes to stare into that screen
Instead I’ll think about how good my life has been
So limited is my stay on this earth
Its time to treasure these moments alone for all that they’re worth.
Written Dec 2008, to all the insecure people who fidgit while waiting alone in public (of which I am definitely one)
The Love Story – A Novel Romance
They say its not right to judge a book by its cover,
but if you aren't entranced from the outset will you ever really love her.
Sure its the chapters inside that capture your heart,
but you'll never make it that far, with no reason to start.
A book without a reader is just blank pages bound,
Its not until you look inside that the magic is found.
But no matter how pretty the jacket or tempting the blurb,
There is something bigger that makes the match superb.
A book chooses you as much as you a book,
It was across a crowded room, and yet you knew in just one look.
For years you had searched, seemingly to no avail,
Then just when you gave up, there was the perfect tale.
Was she big or small, her cover soft or hard
A Mills and Boon or a sonnet by the bard
Was she new or had her pages been turned by other guys?
Does it really even matter if she’s perfect in your eyes?
No matter how many times you’ll thumb through the same pages,
One book for the good times, the bad times and the rages,
The story is ever changing, each new page a surprise
Never on another book will you lay your eyes.
Though you used to like a genre, be it fact or fiction,
You can now say proudly, and with conviction
“Between these covers is the story of my life,
I don’t exist without it, without you, my wife.”
Written Dec 2008, what began as a silly couple of lines turned into an idea...
but if you aren't entranced from the outset will you ever really love her.
Sure its the chapters inside that capture your heart,
but you'll never make it that far, with no reason to start.
A book without a reader is just blank pages bound,
Its not until you look inside that the magic is found.
But no matter how pretty the jacket or tempting the blurb,
There is something bigger that makes the match superb.
A book chooses you as much as you a book,
It was across a crowded room, and yet you knew in just one look.
For years you had searched, seemingly to no avail,
Then just when you gave up, there was the perfect tale.
Was she big or small, her cover soft or hard
A Mills and Boon or a sonnet by the bard
Was she new or had her pages been turned by other guys?
Does it really even matter if she’s perfect in your eyes?
No matter how many times you’ll thumb through the same pages,
One book for the good times, the bad times and the rages,
The story is ever changing, each new page a surprise
Never on another book will you lay your eyes.
Though you used to like a genre, be it fact or fiction,
You can now say proudly, and with conviction
“Between these covers is the story of my life,
I don’t exist without it, without you, my wife.”
Written Dec 2008, what began as a silly couple of lines turned into an idea...
Bateau-pia
At 16 boys have nothing but sex on the brain
And parents, and pimples and the odd growing pain,
Trying to talk to girls, while discovering who you are,
Working out what’s “cool”, and how the hell you drive a car.
And yet somehow right in the middle of it all
They decide to throw you life’s biggest curve ball.
What’s you plan for your life, how will you get paid?
And no porn star is not an option, you’ve never even been laid.
So a clan of young boys, no different to most,
Found a refuge from these questions, up on the coast.
A haven of sun, surf, sand and beach,
Where the trials of reality were just out of reach.
A place you could get away and dare to dream big,
Sneak a forbidden drink or two and maybe even a cig.
Where the local girls were all preggers and everyone ate corn,
And Beautiful Bounty was the number one porn.
Where they’d never seen an Asian, but the fish and chips flowed,
And men with shotguns protected the signs on the road.
They’d pack up the cars and away from the parents they’d sneak
Each bringing something to the adventure that was a little unique:
Ali could drink his quota and maybe even a couple more,
Chris will tell you he was the X-Box champ, though no one kept score
Long legged Andy could sleep on the most short-legged chair
Pete was the hottie, but was losing his hair.
Gardos could chase down the ladies in his big red car
Though all he ever caught was Stu’s new camera.
Chong could microwave bread, for over an hour,
While Mark held the keys and subsequently all the power.
Smitty wielding a cricket ball kept any batsman in check,
And when the king’s cup came out, T hit the deck.
Cricket was played for hours, on the beach and tv,
Thoughts were on anything but the HSC
Girls were discussed, again and again,
Table tennis tables were destroyed by the rain
But it was the ability to escape and keep the pressure eased
That was the secret to their success, and kept their parents pleased.
So post-school the trips continued, a chance to catch up with the guys
Talk some smack, drink some beers, but soon they began to realise,
This jaunt had to be a little shorter then the last
And a little bit different from those of the past
New faces appeared, while others were lost
Food and booze were no longer rationed because of the cost
But the injection of the girl had the biggest impact,
An unspoken sign of having to clean up your act
Taking over the kitchen, assuming they were performing a favour
But removing the thrill of the challenge and the volatility of flavour
What started as a test of each boy, and his culinary skill,
Became no more than fast-food, take your plate and your fill.
In fact the whole dynamic changed a lot over the years
Of course there’s still sand and surf and plenty of beers
But the talk is of settling down, joining the race
Not of impossible dreams and the legs that they’ll chase
Don’t be sad, its just different, still plenty of fun,
But it bares no resemblance to how it begun
No one killed it though, it was a victim of life
The monster the boys tried to escape is what wielded the knife
It came so quickly and subtly that they failed to see,
There was no refuge from reality, down by the sea.
It was not protected from time, just look around
At what has become of their old stomping ground.
The race track is a home for the old and unwell,
The mighty roar of the ocean is no more than a swell
One day soon even the old house will be gone
But there is a place in their hearts where it will always live on
Cause even though some will return, and some never again
It will forever be the house that turned these boys into men.
Written Nov 2008, after a weekend up the coast with the boys (and girls)
And parents, and pimples and the odd growing pain,
Trying to talk to girls, while discovering who you are,
Working out what’s “cool”, and how the hell you drive a car.
And yet somehow right in the middle of it all
They decide to throw you life’s biggest curve ball.
What’s you plan for your life, how will you get paid?
And no porn star is not an option, you’ve never even been laid.
So a clan of young boys, no different to most,
Found a refuge from these questions, up on the coast.
A haven of sun, surf, sand and beach,
Where the trials of reality were just out of reach.
A place you could get away and dare to dream big,
Sneak a forbidden drink or two and maybe even a cig.
Where the local girls were all preggers and everyone ate corn,
And Beautiful Bounty was the number one porn.
Where they’d never seen an Asian, but the fish and chips flowed,
And men with shotguns protected the signs on the road.
They’d pack up the cars and away from the parents they’d sneak
Each bringing something to the adventure that was a little unique:
Ali could drink his quota and maybe even a couple more,
Chris will tell you he was the X-Box champ, though no one kept score
Long legged Andy could sleep on the most short-legged chair
Pete was the hottie, but was losing his hair.
Gardos could chase down the ladies in his big red car
Though all he ever caught was Stu’s new camera.
Chong could microwave bread, for over an hour,
While Mark held the keys and subsequently all the power.
Smitty wielding a cricket ball kept any batsman in check,
And when the king’s cup came out, T hit the deck.
Cricket was played for hours, on the beach and tv,
Thoughts were on anything but the HSC
Girls were discussed, again and again,
Table tennis tables were destroyed by the rain
But it was the ability to escape and keep the pressure eased
That was the secret to their success, and kept their parents pleased.
So post-school the trips continued, a chance to catch up with the guys
Talk some smack, drink some beers, but soon they began to realise,
This jaunt had to be a little shorter then the last
And a little bit different from those of the past
New faces appeared, while others were lost
Food and booze were no longer rationed because of the cost
But the injection of the girl had the biggest impact,
An unspoken sign of having to clean up your act
Taking over the kitchen, assuming they were performing a favour
But removing the thrill of the challenge and the volatility of flavour
What started as a test of each boy, and his culinary skill,
Became no more than fast-food, take your plate and your fill.
In fact the whole dynamic changed a lot over the years
Of course there’s still sand and surf and plenty of beers
But the talk is of settling down, joining the race
Not of impossible dreams and the legs that they’ll chase
Don’t be sad, its just different, still plenty of fun,
But it bares no resemblance to how it begun
No one killed it though, it was a victim of life
The monster the boys tried to escape is what wielded the knife
It came so quickly and subtly that they failed to see,
There was no refuge from reality, down by the sea.
It was not protected from time, just look around
At what has become of their old stomping ground.
The race track is a home for the old and unwell,
The mighty roar of the ocean is no more than a swell
One day soon even the old house will be gone
But there is a place in their hearts where it will always live on
Cause even though some will return, and some never again
It will forever be the house that turned these boys into men.
Written Nov 2008, after a weekend up the coast with the boys (and girls)
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