The Ecclesiastes Remix

Nothing new. Nothing new. Cool cool cool.

Hey friend,

I don’t want to brag (I’m super humble), but I’ve written A LOT of poetry over the last few years. It kinda snuck up on me. A poem here with

Part-Time Poets

, a couple there with The Snuggle. But I was reading some the other day, panic-scrolling my Google Drive, trying to work out what on earth to write next, and I realised my poems have been circling around core themes. If you’ve read The Snuggle for any length of time, you know I’m basically incapable of summary and themes. So this was fun.

My plan: I’m going to (drum-roll) share some remixes. Like a few longer poetry collections with poems from both publications but one theme per post. Things like: discontent, anger, fear, and letting go of control. I’m a delight, I promise.

Poetry has been an unexpectedly fun way to process my neuroses. Publicly. I’m fine. You’re fine. Whatever. I just have a bunch of poems all influenced by Ecclesiastes. It’s fine.

I recently hit 500 subscribers and I thought it might be a fun way to celebrate this milestone and share some of the back catalogue for some of the newer subscribers ❤️

Photo by James Coleman on Unsplash

While I Vacuum, I Think About The Mistiness of Life

The fridge fills and empties,

but hunger remains forever.

Dishes come and dishes go,

hurrying back to the cupboard.

I vacuum the living room,

the kitchen, the bedrooms,

around and around,

but the floor is never clean.

All laundry flows into the basket,

and yet the laundry is never finished.

To the cupboards the clothes

come from, there they return again.

All things are wearisome,

more than one can say.

What has been will be again,

what has been done

will be done again; there

is nothing new under the sun.

Originally published in Poetry Collection No. 5 (The Cloud Prescription) in The Sunday Morning Snuggle

A Dirge of Chattering Birds

My boys gift me strips of fine paperbark,

and I hold it up to the golden evening hue,

behold a filtered light shine through.

I’ve been alive twelve thousand,

five hundred and eighty one days.

As the day flees my frail fingers,

we lay fleeting paperbark upon

the little creek, watch it mould

to the mottled ripples, fold

with the breeze, and be farewelled

by the trees. It floats downstream

like a flimsy Viking longship.

The dirge is chattering birds.

And there was evening, and there

was mourning, my twelve thousand,

five hundred and eighty first day.

Originally published in Part Time Poets, Issue 11

Castles In The Waves

My son sits in the waves,

slapping sand into a castle,

screaming every time

a wave breaches the wall.

I indulge him, smile

at his innocence

forgetting that I, too,

build castles in the waves.

I slap sand on my career,

ministry, motherhood,

restlessly agitate at the next thing…

              worry

                       worry

                                 worry

I forget all is mist,

a castle in the waves.

Originally published in Part Time Poets, Issue 20

There is More to Life Than Grey

I was a serious baby, frowning

while relatives jumped in front

of me to smile for the picture.

I was a serious child, reading

books about the Holocaust,

while the Spice Girls blared.

I was a serious teenager, studying

in an empty house after school,

while my brother went out to play.

I was a serious young adult, pondering

the meaning of life, studying

psychology, while my peers travelled.

I would tell my younger self, there is more

to life than grey. You don’t have to smile,

but grasp the rich tapestry before you.

See the cerulean, the moss, the ruby,

the outrageous pink sunrise, the electric

orange sun setting in the sea. Taste and see!

Twist, tear, take colour in your hands. Nestle

colour away like a magpie. You need to fight

for joy. It was not made to be a crumb.

Originally published in Part Time Poets, Issue 10

Lightning

I sit on the front verandah, seek refuge beneath tin,

watch the first storm of the season roll in.

The pink heavens are set ablaze by lightning

while the rain rages. Refulgent, radiant

pink reflects off the road. The trees sway,

leaves framed black against the gleam

of a coruscant sky, while I clasp my pregnant

belly. My baby thuds in time with the thunder.

I want to hold this moment in my palm,

like the third trimester of this pregnancy,

stow it away like a pearl in a jewellery box.

I want to hold joy and pain intermingled.

But I know fervour will flow through

my fingers, like water in my palms.

And so I sit and I relish.

Originally published in Poetry Collection No. 8 (Cast the Coats Away) in The Sunday Morning Snuggle.

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If you want more poetry like this in your inbox (Discontent! Anger! Fear!) 👇🏻

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Lastly, in the spirit of building things in public, I have one dream for The Snuggle this year, which is to write some prayers in villanelle form. This is proving difficult. It’s not just the sleep deprivation. I’m procrastinating by writing free-form poems, like this Prayer for the Overstimulated and the Touched Out. But I would like to return to villanelle. I am simultaneously delighted and terrified by the form, so if you could say a quick prayer for beautiful poems for me after reading this, I’d appreciate it.

Thanks for reading my chaos every month.