Who needs sleep anyway? (an insomnia tanka)

Author’s photo — original 1997 retro telly, old school CDs and all

Sunk in couch — just one
more song
— he’s off to bed, you
linger on, no plans

ahead, another fave — it’s
4am; that’s Sunday gone.

a fable, as song lyric — with audio (words and music, reunited)

“Wide Lovely Eyes” — Author’s digital artwork

ㅤㅤHe said,

you can be
someone more like me —

gently despising,
while brutally deriding
dinner party artfulness,
suburban banality.

People disappoint, with their
nonsensical fallacies.

Hiding behind these
tricks of the mind,
their logical deviations
reveal their daily consternation —
resistant to a closer examination.”

ㅤㅤI said,

you could be
kinder in what you see.

Maybe you’ll find
the slant of your mind
influences consequence,
creates distorted cognisance —

an intellectual deviance.”

ㅤㅤThen he smiles,
ㅤㅤso beguiling,

“Can’t you see?
Delusion is what amuses me.
Skewering their butterfly frailties,

I’m a Happy Misanthrope.”

He kicks off…

Author’s photo, through art filter

a haiku chain (with audio)

free verse poem, with audio

“The Weight” (2005) – Author’s painting

As a boy, he felt the weight of his heart
heavy in his hands. He worried on

ㅤㅤwhat to do,
ㅤㅤhow to hold
ㅤㅤthis load
of longing, hauling him down,



ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤinto blue depths
ㅤㅤㅤㅤof unknowing.

The smile of a girl, gentle
rosebud bow, with a quiver
twinned the beating mass
his chest.

He could not replace it then. What was
once whole, bled unstopped
through the splay
of quaking fingers.

Open hands. They held
so poor an offering;
bound to be

So he closed his fist, held tight the tear
as tears

said the sneering inner city raving greenie to the politician who denied climate change — a mod-Oz Haiku

Apocalyptic Haze – Photo: © Mr Sagacity 2019 (used with permission)

We’re front row at the
Apocalypse — lattes in
hand. See. Told you so.

those questions of consent – a #MeToo slam poem (with audio)

Photo by Dan Farrell on Unsplash

When I look at the statistics,
I’m thankful — glad it hasn’t
touched me, not really — but then

there was that time on the train,
coming home from uni — he had
mirror sunglasses, stared
ㅤㅤstraight ahead
and a leather sheepskin jacket
he threw across both our laps

ㅤㅤ(I can smell it still,
ㅤㅤfrom a distance
ㅤㅤof more than
ㅤㅤthirty years)

I should have said something, but instead
I read my book, and thought
how strange it was his jacket
felt like fingers — then I looked

ㅤㅤand couldn’t see
ㅤㅤhis other hand —

yes, I should have…

a haiku of life

Author’s photos — the city, in a pretty pre-apocalyptic glow

So, thoughts and prayers – that’s
how they tackle climate change;
meanwhile, Sydney burns.

Yesterday morning, I left for work under blue skies. Yesterday evening, I stepped out of the office to the smell of bushfire, a film of smoke filtering the dusk. From the train, I saw the setting sun blaze eerie orange through the haze. And walking from the station down my street, I felt the grit of ash irritate my lungs. Yet I stopped a while, to see the city alight in a gorgeous, pre-apocalyptic glow.

But already my eyes were starting to sting, and when I…

Zarina Dara 🥀💃🏻

sneaking poetry into the corners of the day, and telling stories to myself in grasp of sanity.

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