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The first poem was written one clear sky'd evening in Radelaide. I later decided to send this in a letter to my friend, Chrystelle, who was interested in seeing the finished poem. Writing the letter for her produced the second poem and final short turn of phrase.

Un Poeme Un Anglais

If our sleeping dreams could be real.

                Si nos reves de sommeil pourraient etre reel.


If we were to dream with our eyes welcoming the world, the doorways to our soul would sing through choirs of Imagination.


Delight would flow as a river that would quench the thirst of time itself.


Joy would sprout through the wet soil, growing the flowers along its gushing banks. The petals, a vast quilt, spreading its nebula of colours with arms embracing the horizon as if never to left go.


And… shhh… Do you hear that? You must be still to hear. The deep, unceasing, thunderous call, which sculpts the will of rock, creates paths and passages, and has so much potential. The waterfall of Hope.


We listen patiently for its song, carried on the misty breeze that kisses our steady beating hearts with Courage.



Modern life constantly seeks to throw barriers in our path to connection. Too long have I let these barriers herd and direct me. Too long have I sat in the dark. Alone. With not even comfort in myself.

The voices though, reaching down into the mountain, bouncing off walls, around corners, echoing along the lonely passage of my dark, damp cave. They called to me, ‘Run out! Into the flowing air, the soft kiss of the sunlight. You have friends out here.’ People, never met, calling themselves friend.


Standing beneath the sky once more, no obstacle of time, distance, language or technology can match my desire and will to connect with the meaningful people in my life.



May the energy from a thousand sunrises flow through your fingertips, that your cooking may sear pleasure through every morsel your plates deliver.


To the curiously cute, beautifully rare and passionate natured,




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