The Motorbike Lesson

We stood on an empty dirt patch

And on the few grass hairs

Lifeless on the surface

Perpendicular to the empty block

Was a one storey building

and a few workers carried large parts of tin

on their way to erect the roof

The sun reflected on my skin

And the colour of paper

Shimmered and made the builders squint

They didn’t know that I spoke their mother tongue.

The motorbike was parked,

Separating Mr Bird and I

As though to our own half of the land

And as my teacher gave me a lesson on how to ride

Our eyes were always paused.

Uncomfortably on the bike

After awhile, the builders had finished erecting the tin roof

And they sat on it, not to test its durability

But to eat their lunch

From the metal containers packed by their wives

And to laugh at a foreign girl who couldn’t ride in a straight line.

Soon, Mr Bird turned to them - scolding

bpit hai naen!

And they finished their pointing and laughing -

Decided to subtly join in on the lesson

By motioning to me with their hands

Because it was the closest they thought they could say – “Hey, this how you do it!”

Prayer

Underneath a symphony of whispers,

I stand beneath the prayer flags

That you hung around up for me in April

And listen to them flap from the breeze.

Although you’re not here anymore,

You’re still here to keep me company – for now

Here, to blow on the flags for your little girl so they fly again

Here, just to whisper, Lily, there is still life.

So go, and wander the villages

Like you always imagined,

I’m sorry I won’t be here to watch you grow

Om ah ni padme hung

You can go now.

The food stall owner

I remember, the first house I rented in Chang- Rai,

And how it sat just opposite the road

From an old man and his food stall.

I remember how he would stand

Sometimes camouflaged by the rising smoke from the stove,

All day underneath a little silver roof

Held by a little silver cart – that he called his kitchen

I remember when I first wandered towards his stall

Not knowing how to order -

But he served me fried egg with pork

That he later taught me to be pad kee mow

I remember that every day, as he cooked

He wore a red cap printed with “Number 1” on the face

And the cigarette clinging affectionately on his left lip

Was his daily dose of some kind of a connection

For months we exchanged no words,

Maybe a nod here, an awkward glance there…

Sometimes when I was eating at the stall,

Sometimes when I was writing songs with my guitar outside the house,

But one day, when he didn’t know I was home

I caught him crossing the road,

shaking a bowl in his hands

Calling, “Pi-casso, Pi-casso!”

I remember how I hid, crouched under the window

and watched as he fed my puppy, Picasso

and watched as he hurried back to his stall with the empty bowl

as though no one had seen that other side of him.

Grapeshot publications

"Streams of Consciousness" in "Grapeshot" online magazine

http://www.grapeshotmagazine.com.au/?page_id=222

Gazebo

From far away,

a white gazebo stood in the middle of the field,

wrapped with gold light bulbs

in the way of how you would wrap a long ribbon

around a Christmas present.

The bursts of light were draped around the roof,

in an almost upwards spiral motion

some, naturally falling from the sides.

Inside, more of these lights were hung

almost in perfect lines, smiling gently from one column to the next.

Running through the grass field,

a pathway led to the gazebo

- a plain canvas, splashed with a myriad colours,

Like a Pollock.

On each side of the path, a dozen or so spotlights

lined up like little soldiers saluting to everyone who walked past

And as the spotlights shone on the surface,

shadows in the shape of flowers, blossomed on the canvas.

For a few minutes the guests would feel as though

they were a part of an art installation, and

that they were walking on someone’s painting.

But today was no art show;

it was exactly the perfect summer wedding

that she had always pictured it in her mind.

She had always imagined getting married at night,

because everything is always instantly more beautiful during this time of the day.

Right now nothing could be more perfect,

than to be married to her high school sweetheart.

Thanks Sophie Ward!

Sophie Ward from the Paper Castle Press put three of my short pieces on her blog, here they are @

http://papercastlepress.com/blog/?p=5448

Puppet Show

It may be an extremely depressing assertion to make, but I am frequently reminded of how inherently weak all human beings are. We all sadly believe that we are in control, but truly - it is this false ideology of control which ultimately leads to all of our downfalls. Because even when you believe that you are in control, there is always someone around the corner who is waiting to shoot you down.

Although there are some who prove me wrong, in the end everybody else whom I have encountered are like puppets, dancing, playing and acting - as though life is like a foolish game. There is no meaning to these masquerades, however, it appears to me that this constant need for deception are a catalyst from insecurity and unhappiness.

In the end, the saddest part of all of this is - by the time you acknowledge what you have done wrong:

Lied
Cheated
Stole
All of the above,

And you begin to finally feel something about what you have done - you are too much of a coward to recognise the mess that you have made. The mess that you are.

Yes, you've fucked me over - but in my own mind, I am clinging to the sweet scent of Karma comming right your way.