In Answer to the Bully

Dedicated to the enemy within that sees only the enemy without.

The world spins round,
we walk on it,
the sky don’t fall,
the sea don’t flip,
the ground don’t smack
us on the brow,
we stay upright
we trust in how.

The seasons come
our hearts beat on,
soft rain falls sweet,
harvest is done.
Our children bloom,
posies of hope,
and lover’s
love us
without scope.

The tide brings in
great shoals to share.
The green blue earth
wraps us in care.
Strong hands reach out
to catch our fall,
warm hands to hold us
when we’re small.

The heat of love
in cold night hour,
is alchemy,
our soul succour.
Beneath warm sun
our work is done,
where bathed in gold
green things
grow on.

A child’s delight
at all things new
reminds us to
we really are
in this rich Now
sister, brother,
from hour to hour.

But on black box,
that empty eye,
distorted lens,
projects a lie,
at 6 O’clock,
channels the doom
broadcasts bleak things,
into our room.
Only the  bad
reflected there
the mad, the sad,
stories to scare.

The talking heads,
spins webs of fear,
around our hearts
barbs made to tear,
at ties of truth
that keep us close,
that show us love
matters the most.

In Africa, another me
starved by the lie-
false scarcity.
In tribal lands, democracy,
poorly disguised hypocrisy,
roams large and wide,
while we at home
think we’re scot free.

This tele- terror
keeps us at heel,
present the problem,
roll out the reel.
Show us the Other, the Strange,  Not-Me,
Unknown, Unfriendly, The Enemy.
And when our knees are knockin’ loud
present solution, proud and loud
and make the bitter into sweet
with words that take sting out of  heat –
damage that’s just ‘collateral’
sounds better than the “dead people”
and war becomes an abstraction,
a” kinetic- military action”,
the truth of nation vs nation,
an “overseas-contingency operation”,
and soon we’ll all be in accord
with ‘conflict manager’  for war lord.

A million kindnesses a minute,
thousands embrace with
good will in it.
So many bodies
meet in passion,
a lover’s love
always in fashion.

Upon our lips
hot fevered kisses
and dreams alive
that once were wishes,
and pats on back
and warm handshakes,
and blessings made-
joy, warm and bright
to take from every day
and night.

In answer to the bully’s din,
befriend the enemy within,
then look without, clasp tight the hand,
be in those shoes,willing to stand,
and know that we are all same,
we long for love to end all pain.

Author Notes

Empathy and compassion – super powers that can heal the world.

© VioletRosePoetry. All rights reserved, 2 months 


For Tanya

Let’s blow up the fucking Universe
Sister Poet!
Armageddon out of here
and I want you to come.
The little man-god is dead,
leave him with the rubble for a headstone.

We’ll stride out into some new stars,
fertilise a another galaxy
with our potent elixir,
bloom our way across a dark canvas
as blossoms of light strike from our heels
like bonfires
and whole worlds birth
from our roaring mouths.

Author Notes

For Tanya, mother of Henry, sister Poet who roars and rails!!

You Are Here

Ten thousand cups of coffee black,
much numbing wine at day’s bleed out,
so many meals have passed my lips
sweetened by love
or bitter pill,
and just as many words have spilled
their perfumed drops or
caustic tears.

The slip and slide of kisses deep,
the lullaby of near heartbeat,
the bruising hand indifferent,
the knotted scar grudge left behind
have all been mine somewhere in time.

So too the heart did oft contract,
when terror knocked with red right hand,
and grace of peace was given me
abstruse, unearned, yet given free.
Such moments made of sweet or sour
have lead  me to this here and  now.

Funereal breath of flowers dead
forgotten on the mantelpiece,
two lazy flies buzz slowly by
and I am caught in my mind’s eye.
I feel again the cradle rock,
the cool embrace of water’s touch
that etched a salt tattoo on me,
a lacy talcum filigree.
The sea crocheted a frilly hem
black Cockies slashed a ragged seam
into a bone white heat blanched sky,
and I am stitched with every scene
forever forged  by what I’ve seen.

Forever forged by where I’ve been
each moment past has lead me to
this zero point of here and now,
the place to be or not to be,
that pregnant void where things to come
exist as everything and none.

Author Notes


The Imp of the Mind


Dedicated to all OCD sufferers everywhere.  I get you.

The imp in my mind,
that horny headed hobgoblin
with cleats for feet
and fistfuls of hate,
whispers sibilantly
down endless echoing
corridors…what if…
what if….what if…?

This doubt demon
demands nothing
less than
held dear.
High jacker of peace,
it haunts
every thought
with uncertainty
and leaves hope
​hemorrhagic on
the bathroom floor.

With insider knowledge
my internal terrorist
rigs my mindscape 
with landmines
and dirty bombs
made from memories,
fragments of fear,
worst case scenarios
and a caustic Molotov
cocktail of guilt.

Hyper vigilance its modus operandi,
it seeks danger everywhere.
Even in sleep
its looming presence
sucks all the marrow from my dreams
with its nightmarish mantra;

“No God,
 no Good,
 no comfort zone,
 in this place
 you’re all alone,
 adrift upon and endless sea
 of dreadful possibility…
           …..what if…..what if…

                                       what if…?”



Author Notes

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a congenital, biochemical and structural brain disease that consistently demands certainty in an uncertain world.  OCD tends to’ pick on’ the sufferer’s greatest fears and vulnerabilities and proceeds to strip away faith, hope and joy in a systematic assault that can be terrifying.  OCD is often misrepresented in the media as something quirky and colourful, like the TV character Monk.  OCD is anything but comical. There are roughly 450 000 Australians with OCD and 3.3 million Americans. Approximately 2% of any given population is inflicted with this disease or 1 in 200.


America in my mind.

America in My Mind.

I love the America of my
childhood imagination.

Lost in my dad’s library,
I yearned to be in the land of
tumbling tumbleweed,
to see the bright yellow of 
maize fields gold paving the landscape, 
the eye watering blue of enormous skies 
smack up against the brick-red dirt of Oklahoma,  
and to taste a cherry soda at a 
pharmacy fountain whilst thrilling to 
the classic struggle of insiders and outsiders
in the peacock strut of rival gangs,
on the dusty main street of Tulsa.
I wanted to lie on the  green tufted grassy hair
of graves, next to Walt, his super charged
body electric, glowing phosphorus in my mind’s eye
like a luminous silver threaded
jelly fish.

Smell the fish meal stink of Palace Flop house,
know the sisterhood and savagery
of the Cat house,

the panacea that is Doc’s warm
embrace (loneliest man in the world),
the barking seals
and sardine fragrance
of Cannery Row.

See the picket fences
and petunias,
of the Maycomb lacy ladies,
dainty and dangerous,
hiding scalpel tongues behind
rouged lips as they gossiped tea.
Visit the poor white
fringes of the outskirts
and the warm tobacco
fragrant lap newspaper wrapped
inside of Scout’s world.

Taste the  gold of dandelion wine
warming winter nights.
Feel the chill of the ravine so black and sinister
as to loom monstrous,
daring youth to greatness on 

the winged feet of magical sneakers.

Befriend Ponyboy and Sodapop,
Greasers and Socs,

ask what it means to ‘stay golden’,
and witness the blood in the fountain,
the rumble in the jungle.

Live with cowboys and cactus,

soy grits and pan bread,
camp coffee, so sweet and black,
it set your teeth on edge,
meet the Hell Bent Kid
and all the lone guns that always win
but tragically never
get the beautiful Mexican girl
as they wouldn’t be
lonesome no more
(no mystique in
 married mavericks)

Dustbowls and Okies,
dark waves of humanity,
staining the landscape,
kindness and cussedness,
the dying and dawning of a
strange new world, 

beckoned me.
Home was 
never enough.

I wanted the beautiful  and gritty,

tarnished and tear-stained,
corn coloured, orange dusted, 
red barned, golden soaked maple syrup sweet
kaleidoscope world of America in my mind.