Posts Tagged ‘writing’



Like the second cup from the leaves


green, brown.

Or the goodness still

in the coffee lees

of thoughts.

Early autumn

the aftertaste of summer.

Julian O’Dea



Following me all
my life like a coloured
the woman I might
have been.

I see her sometimes
smiling softly

loved only himself
but I dream of
the hidden woman
I would have been
if chance had set
another scene.

If my father had not
intoned a son
but I has been born
a daughter
to happy laughter.

I see bright eyes that
might have been mine,
rising breasts,
eyebrows cresting on
waves of youthful
joy, so unlike a
glowering boy.

But you went your way,
girl, and I went mine,
a boy, twins separated
at birth, closer than
brother and sister,
but never to merge
although I love you
as myself, lost female
version of me.

Julian O’Dea

Light Wind

Light Wind

Near the lake with

a head of thoughts

some germinate and

need attention

but others the kind wind

blows away

blown out of my hair

even if I try to gather

them they are gone

lost in the trees

or grass

like the moths that

fly just enough

to evade every attempt

to capture them

and will not be

pinned down

good for the moths

and good for peace

of mind.

Julian O’Dea

There is a hawk

there is a hawk

on the poet’s shoulder

watching for morsels

of life

to pull apart into

pieces and verses

drawing lines from

inside reality

Julian O’Dea

better to write

better to write
one death poem
than one hundred poems
of death in life

beats, beats
pump out poetry
from deepest veins

the reading heart
at a beautiful poem but
must go on

Julian O’Dea



too many fine birds

in your head

cage of ivory, cage of bone

let one out to be a poem

to flutter, utter

Julian O’Dea



This Canberra sky is blue with cold
A three-quarter moon hangs
half-way up
Single notes from an unseen bird
hang liquid in the air
Trees and shrubbed cliffs
crowd around below

There are supposed to be koalas
in this reserve
hunched over and sleeping
in the recesses of winter
Hunched in a coat I feel a
Koala Dreaming

Julian O’Dea



Now winter begins

like a long argument

you cannot win

Wrangling with the wind

and scolding cold

taking a dim view

Walking past parks

and cold-lit grounds

with departed sounds.

Julian O’Dea



Fearful the moaning

of the wind,

far worse when it begins

to speak

however low and


of what you suspect

but dare not think,

rising and falling

like a conversation

in another room,

soft then loud

like bad news arriving.

Julian O’Dea


putting her hands
behind her back
to unhook her bra
a gentle struggle
a hint of bondage
supplicant hands
with red nails
turned to heaven

Julian O’Dea