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Love is.......

Love is something that I cannot explain.
Like the look of a dream, or the smell of rain.
Love is like a mountain, that is very hard to climb.
Nothing can describe love, not a song, or a poem's rhyme.
Love is never love, until you give it away.
I think true love is forever lasting, like good tooth that won't decay.
Love sometimes is heart breaking and it really is not fair.
But when yo find true love, hold on, because to find true love is rare.
Out of all the guys I have every met.
There is one that I will never forget.
God told me to choose this guy, from all of the rest.
Because God knew I would love him just the very best.
Everyone thinks I am lying, and that I can't fall in love at such a young age.
But every thought, every sweet thing he says, just makes me write another blessing down, and fill another page.
He loves me when I am pretty, and he loves me when my face is plain.
He loves me on the sunny days, or even when it's pouring rain.
And the day I met him, I started to see.
That the feeling of love exist in me.
Love brings out all my saved up wishes and tears.
Love helps me believe in myself, and fight my greatest fears.

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poem by Heather Noble
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Living Off The Grid

Living off the grid in the interstices between the threads
of the spider webs bejewelling the sky with stars
like the net of Indra in the morning dew. Mark one dropp
and they're all marked. Subtract from one
and you take from all. Same way with our eyes
when they see like crystal skulls right through
the ruse of themselves to the glassblowers
of fifteenth century Germany. Cool visuals.
The light refracting off the nuanced smear
above their left front parietal lobes as if
they had something as happy and irrational as water
to be clear about in a brittle kind of way.

And that's ok, that's ok, that's ok, too,
but you've got to get down and dirty in the starmud
like the root of an optic nerve deep in the dark matter of the brain,
if you want to be what you see in the visionary sense of the word.
If you want to fly with the dragons that bring the rain
you can't sip like a hummingbird collecting blood samples
from the hollyhocks. You can't live like a tuning fork

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poem by Patrick White
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Averaging Out the Crucials

Averaging out the crucials, rolling against the odds,
I've worn my bones down like dragon's teeth
grinding starwheat into luminous loaves of bread
that break just like the heart you share with a stranger.
Or a fortune-cookie of fate. Gray seagull of a day,
a deserted beach on Vancouver Island in the morning,
as I recall it from five thousand miles away,
the windows still numb and hungover
from last night's sunset dispensing with protocol
and letting it all hang out oceanically.
Dying flowers mishandled by the wind like old manuscripts
too wet and esoteric to start a fire with.
Sodden mystics expiring like blueweed in the broken grass.
Fifty years I've run before circumstances like a blue fox
being hunted down by crows in the deep snow
but they haven't dipped their nibs
in the inkwells of my eyes yet and I'm
an excellent broken field street runner with the wiles
of someone who's good at who they don't want to be.

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poem by Patrick White
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Cornelia

I am a massive fan of the actress, Cornelia Frances;
Any TV or theatre show, her presence really enhances.
Since I was fourteen, of hers, I’ve been a very big fan;
To watch her on TV, home, from school, I quickly ran.

In ‘The Young Doctors’, she played the fiery Sister Scott;
Viewers loved her, but her on-screen nursing staff did not!
She ruled the hospital wards with a cast iron fist;
There wasn’t a single trick that she ever missed!

But, through it all, she struck me as a very warm person;
Someone so very different, from her on-screen version.
When I’ve seen her interviewed, as herself, on TV,
She’s exactly the sort of person, I imagined she’d be.

The next Australian TV series, in which I caught her,
Was as Barbara, in the soap opera ‘Sons and Daughters.’
From this, there were many memorable scenes for me,
Especially those ones involving Barbara’s mother, Dee.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Awake and Labouring

Awake and labouring for light in this dayshift of dreams
as the platitudinous dawn takes her make-up off,
her eyelashes the hands of amputated clocks
that once prayed over the ruptured acids
of identical batteries, the premature twins
that exhausted their patrimony of corroded polarities
on the green-blue lichen that eats them in their graves
and spreads like an infection of the moon, I realize
I need a new emergency, a more radical embryo
than this destiny of durable shoes to fulfill the imploding uterus
of a radioactive fortune-cookie. I need more bells,
I need more bullets, I need to rise from the ashes
of my passport to anywhere with a completely new identity
that’s good for an eternity of idiotic bliss. Give me a face
I can believe in that isn’t
a drug-sniffing dog at the border, eyes
that don’t know more about me than I do,
that aren’t surveillance cameras of everything I do,
that don’t watch for me like herons hunting fish. Unspool
the movie and give me conch-shell labyrinths for ears,

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poem by Patrick White
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My Heart Said Yes To Everything My Mind Denied

My heart said yes to everything my mind denied.
Certain women, poetry, doorways, cosmic risks,
a few back country roads that knew enough not
to ask me where I was going that late at night.
My absurd familiarity with sacred clowns
and this ghost dance of stars I see in their eyes
whenever one of them makes me cry in remembrance
of some old rag of laughter that ran before the bulls
like a rodeo clown in a whiskey barrel of fermented sorrows.
I said yes to exile. I said yes to my homelessness.
I said yes to the reflection of the kid
in the broken window of the burning orphanage
he'd just pecked his way out of like the shell of a phoenix.
I said yes to the abyss, to nothing, to emptiness
to the purr of the tides of sand in a desert
combing out the manes of lion-fire
that bloom like spiritual ferocities on the wind.
And I said yes to the rocks on the mountainside
who repeated what my secret teachers had said.
If you're still clinging to one placard of your freedom

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poem by Patrick White
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Full Moon And The Mournful Thunder Of A Train

Full moon and the mournful thunder of a train
passing through town. Venus, Jupiter, Mercury
long gone down for the rest of the night.
Orion a pale imitation of itself in the west.
Mars near Regulus, the little king with the heart of the lion,
and Saturn off to the east. Like water returned
to the river it came from, everything immersed
in the fluidity of silence
swimming through the trees
as if virgins were older than fish at the spring equinox.

A habit of wandering when no one else is around
walks me out of town like some unknown journey
stringing my feet along with a line
and two minutes with a lunar hook dangling
in the effluvial plains of the moon's volcanic seas
as if I needed to be played into it by the sacred syllables
of ancient starmaps talking in tongues like oceans of awareness
into the ears of the seashells who can repeat
every word they say to themselves in secret.

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poem by Patrick White
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A Moment Away From The World, Please

A moment away from the world, please.
Denude me of this coat of killer bees.
I have endured its agony long enough
to know there's not much honey in a stinging nettle.
This kind of pain doesn't break into flowers.
The stars have been telling me that for years.
The darkness doesn't ask for a sacrifice
and you can tell by the New England asters
the light doesn't treat them like martyrs at a crossroads
between the high and the low. You just have to look
at how wide-eyed the day lilies are
even when they're dreaming to see
the sun doesn't burn their eyes out with its blazing
and their tangerine goblets are always full.

Drain these toxic squint-eyed metals out of my blood
but don't ban me to the slogans of a religion
when what I need is an environmental protection agency
with soul, instead of being buried under
this avalanche of pebbles in a gold rush of cornerstones

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poem by Patrick White
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These Late Night Sessions With Myself

These late night sessions with myself
that crowd the world out
to make room for me to be alone
delinquently with myself
while the rest of the town sleeps,
barring a cabbie, a cop, the grocery clerk
that works at the all night Mac's Milk.
Can't sleep.
My pillow's a hive of killer bees.
I'm swarmed by the lethal trivia
of high-maintenance anxieties.
The picture-music's running the rapids
in a jazzy clash of high hats
and I was hoping for something like Paul Simon.
The medium waits like a seance
for me to appear
like the message that was summoned.
Something resonates like a wavelength
from a tiny point in space
and calls me home like a Martian rover

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poem by Patrick White
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If You Were To Give Me Your Hands

If you were to give me your hands, break your prayer
and offer each wing up to me, broken halves of the heart,
I would make one burning dove out of them
that would carry a ribbon of flame in its beak,
a comet in the night, a vision of life and love,
a message to God she couldn't ignore, a wild flower
that emerged out of the ashes of her abyss
like a star waking up from a bad dream
in the skies over the darkening hills of Perth.

If you were to give me your eyes for a moment
like the lily pads of two eclipses, I'd put my lips
to each of your eyelids like the kissing stone of the Kaaba,
and erase all memory of its igneous fall to earth,
and when you opened them at moonrise,
where I touched you, there'd be two waterstars
shining as if they'd just fallen from the Pleiades
among the waterlilies and crazy raptures of the nightbirds.

Spare me a tear, and I'll return it to you like an elixir

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poem by Patrick White
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