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Ali Baba (from the sky)

We are still

under the sky,

In the guest room;

Beast and cryptic.


Everything crawls.

A car flings us.

I see one peeling

The middle east.


Down there, it’s still

Exotic; an open sore,

With a mule-cart

Full of gold.


I am sorry



I am sorry
I don’t want to stand still
I want to begin to crawl
And walk, run and jump
But the sinking sand stops me
Me and all of my stars high in the heavens.
I am sorry
My heart is weak and I am weak without a heart
My lungs fill with toxic air
Air I must escape from. A distant dream lost in my imagination
I am sorry
I’ve lost the days and months and years to be what I’ve should have been
I am young and hidden
Hidden behind a cloak, my true belonging invisible.
I am sorry
A shy, enclosed caterpillar wanting to change
A mature young adult desperate to catch
Catch a shooting star going places beyond the skies
I am sorry
Future self
Please forgive
My ignorance
Your regret
My mistakes
Your memories
Our missing chance
I am sorry

A poem by Origin8

Purse Kept Gems

To search outwards defines strength,

To wander in the fields of black roses and purple orchids,

Dance around and around under the late summer sun,

Tumblers of pink lemonade, gin and chock full of ice cubes,

Straws and a slice of lime to accommodate,

Gather yourself and meet us there,

We can watch the sun cast it’s light across the evening setting sky.

This art does hurt.

The fusion of good words,

Entwine the threads of conversations,

Little purse kept gems,

Cropping up matters of hope,

Decadent the poison is to be removed,

A vortex of whims dragged below the lavender flower beds,

The chopped heads of flowers will fall to the earth,

Dusty and devout throughout the late afternoon,

Struggling for breath in between,

Drowned in a river of mothers weep and pink lemonade.


these days there is a shadow on my heart
a stone so weighty breathing is suppressed
such sadness from this time we’ve been apart
and memories of times when we were blessed

no sleep while eyes keep searching in the night
your warmth no longer felt here at my side
without your arms to hold me nothing’s right
no comfort to be had for tears I’ve cried

why did you have to be the one to go
how could I be prepared for such a day
you’ve taken secrets only you could know
I’m left with all these words I didn’t say

dear love, I do so long for it to be
no longer ‘I’ but once more back to ‘we’


Poetry – Memo to self

a rhymer’s style is one that’s neat
following form and counting feet
free-versers claim their way is better
no need to follow to the letter
some poems only seem to ramble
endless screeds all in a tangle
esoteric styles depress me
grandiloquence just don’t impress me
so what’s the best thing I can do
(the point of this iambic stew)
– read those I love and worry less
write from the heart, not to impress

2017 © Lesly Frances Finn

planning for Light

When I drift off and wander
homeless months no other man
is there, I take along my patterns:
Contemplation, Mindlessness,
Sexiness; behaviour-geese,
who nip and honk the conscience,
can only come so far
along these urban walkabouts,
being phoney with their fitness.
There’s a freeing up of feeling
moving as a witness —observing,
all at once, from an elevated place,
a break in the rain, the light
firing roof tops white; the sane
responsibility of iron, and tiles
are like these poems
under which I play and shelter,
they’re like a bus stop for the hands,
a carving for the mind to turn
polishing until, in it, I can admire
myself. And if wet Spring has sunlight
on her hands sometimes a little poem
self-seeds and grows a city Bush walk
by the same time next year.


Will stay


but not fight


in the lewd sun.


Bring down infamous rain;

the fingernail and the boot.


I will sit here. Tender.


But a still-life is a dead thing.

I saw one sit and never breathe again.


I paint corpses,

apples and such,


and the red ones dance

like they were paid.


It’s all in the head.  They are dead.

And roll off the stage.


Feb 26



I sit; a nut,

turn in my shell,

eyes in backward.


Dig a wee self;

forage in the glen

of fine, crude cells.


I’m pressed.

Ears in the ocean


a mutinous song.


Feb 23 2017



I was born on Saturday.

Turned 30 on Monday.

The days between, a blur.

Especially nought to four

and the early 20s

when breast and bottle was everything.



I’ve said before: I recall

crawling across the floor,

soiling the moment, thinking

Shit. Again!


A nought to four experience I think/

I hope/ I know the blood that came

like a spring after rain, came

from the mouth, the source;

found the gap,


out to sea. I’d turned 3 and got

3 stitches to match. This hurt,

after the buzz of the honey tree.



I know the slow trek across the desert,

camels, horses; long-legged birds

at the water; crocodile, hippopotamus;

the speared fish caught in the rip,

dragged by the net; the furtive

glance of primate: I climbed a tree

and disturbed the colony.



At 15 I hung from the curved

branch of an apple tree; slid

down in slow coils, and you fell,

on all fours, my girl.


I remember your chestnut curls,

the reddening skin, still pale, I skimmed;

and him, he stood erect,

petrified. We swooned, and he too


Hello Friend


Playing my old guitar ,
Old days like dead stars, falling apart
Memories hold me back, they’re trying to Steal my dreams away
I’ve never seen such a lonely heart, making my six string Rot and stale.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Please don’t forget our time she said,
the time when we played and laughed away
the time when you kissed my soul, my name
for all to see who loved us just the same.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away,
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Oh I see,
you played with me played with my name
My soul feels tired, it wants to rest now
my heart is broken it needs to be fixed now
Just go away get the fuck away,
The time has come for you to go home now.
Just leave me in pain, let me be how I know I need to
I cannot be broken I am not my old six string.
Though I’ve lost my name, but soon I’ll find it.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken, has lost its name

from: Pocahontas, Alcoholism, The Compass, & The Word.

The shadow 
stays dry as the waves 

For almost a full decade I
have not used the strong
drugs of illumination
yet the hunches gather into
something formidable, the
doorways in space are open still,
but I nod & I indicate again
that I decline, feeling
I could tear along the dotted
line of beach, rip the ocean
from the land, twist myself
right off calendar time.
Poets, after all…

Walking past the Bars, seeing the
padded circular stools,
lit, from the doorway
in pools of communicable light,
does tempt my song-quest enter
in with Dylan, Berryman, Hank
Chinaski closing an eye on
one of the licentious lady poets
out, after lunch, in search of material,
the younger people vaping nicotine,
the one-toke spot, the single malt
spiral burn turning in the wide
free area of the night, a safety net
of days off.
Isolation is sheer, sharpest

together, it is reaching into
the soapy hot water of the sink
with the knives no one told you
were in there, fly-wing thin edge
on the broken pint knocked off
the stammering table, so deadly
almost invisible; together alone
the singer moans, the unsharable
singularity of two sheets of glass
come together sliding heavily,
easy, impenetrable actual solitude
of being and I haven’t real longing
for that racing of each other up

the smoke, along the white lines, besides,
time & culture have left me behind,
this new team goes off at needle-point,
their confabulated embroideries,
amazing skin being replaced
with idle thoughts, the inklings
scholars classify as primitive
acceptance rites.

Love Cats

He figured she must be the same as his last cat                             two-cats-love

Had often strayed as a kitten

But hadn’t been given full satisfaction

He was going to make her feel like the sun

Take her all the way there and some

Give her burning eyes whenever she saw him run

Rock her in his arms until she slept

Protect her from any threat

How others would stand up to take notice

Knew what to expect

If they dared to go near their nest

He’d breathe her every word down deep in his lungs

Follow her adventures climbing furniture

Massage her paws whenever they hurt

Brush her fur when she felt inert

He’d point her towards each sunset

Tell her he drew it for her

Tell she was equal not his pet

Love is not love when it comes to cats

But these are loved cats

Love cats

Love cats

Love cats.

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