Cigarets and long blacks,
Working half the day,
Two hours to carve out a song,
And carve from time a record made.
To teach and learn and read the signs,
The words to songs you’ll sing.
In short coffee shop conversations,
We map productivity.
Reuben Solomon
reuben
I live in Sydney, Australia and populate my time with inspirations and fascinations. I'm currently studying literature and working as a cook but I spend most of my time reading, writing, playing chess or country music and asking myself if it's too late for coffee or too early for wine. The poetry marathon seems like a wonderful way to further distract myself from everyday affairs.
Nailed it
Jesus is a state of mind,
A promise of the afterlife,
A puzzle piece encased in time,
A question mark of questioned crime.
Two thousand years of short shots at eternity,
Two thousand years of sprint from sin,
Two Thousand years of persecution,
Two thousand years of “search within.”
The timber starts to break apart,
Can we now climb up from the cross?
Can we now open hearted love,
Without the fear of lust or loss?
Family
We were raised on soil,
tilling this old earth and slaving bloody days.
My people were hand shakers and bond breakers.
But as we grow we break apart,
So in these changing times we try, cling tighter still,
Tradition does not hold us back but redefines our future.
On Riding
The hills of our small town seemed tall and you could see the city from the top. We rode ourselves to death on the incline to feel the wind thrash our faces on the way back down. We learnt to wake up early and to make a plan.
Let the leash hang loose and test the boundaries. I took the next step forward and looked to see where my friends stood. Some moved and others seemed fixed.
I took a breath and began my decent, letting everyone and everything flash past.
While Waiting
Crow call,
Somewhere Behind the sun where eyes won’t go,
Feel the light but see no wings.
You Walk
In the cold soft blue winter light, morning,
You Walk.
No arm no more to hold you back in bed,
You walk.
No longer fighting days awake with “five more minute” sleep,
You walk.
The empty house you own, empty bed and empty thoughts,
You Walk.
You walk to be seen, to know you didn’t fade in night.
You walk to see and hear the voices full of life.
You walk to fix a point of motion, always moving forward or fall behind.
You walk to run from age, from dark night grave, from helpless plague.
In morning, so open, quick, the door, and to the street, to left or right maters not, only forward, away for all the still,
You Walk.
This side of empty
Purple deep and dark,
I hear no trees but wind-cars.
I will fall back in.
Making Shadows
What lurks in corners of the mind,
No doubt will one day rise,
And in the coloured photograph,
I’ll redden both my eyes.
For time and night and sleep-slick-stalls,
I pass another test.
And in the working waiting grip,
I’ll deny myself what’s best.
L’ha’alot
Wake me up and keep me up and hold me up to throw my up.
Later on I’ll sleep through all the troubles of the mind.
Build me up to blow me up to call me up and tear me up.
Into these quiet corners I pour all my wasted time.
There once was a man in Sydney,
Who tried to write poetry.
As the hours went by,
You could hear him cry,
“This all might be too much for me.”