Towering City Ports and Ships in a Blackened Bottle (caving)

Some things in the world need to be seen to be believed, rare, hidden parts unseen. Where few venture, and some don’t want to leave, where it’s like first light, but far, far beneath.


Towering City Ports and Ships in a Blackened Bottle

In only a single way
Backwards through a darkness
Convergent in non-lineal descent
Narrows grind, shred existence
Passing inside a spiraling throat

To emerge within akin to a blackened
Bottle, where rigging, masts to ships in the depths
Bend light between bent caverness looms in
Shadows, their flight above a cold unknown
Sea, confined in space and time, forward

Down through refracted dark shards, deeper
Until a faint light turns beneath a shallowing
Above, an upward climb ensues after departure
Many minutes from a blackened bottle ships’ anchorage
Breaking surface tensions, emergence into a towering

Vertical city port, escape within an evapouration as light
Curls through tubes to a citadel, rare, unpopulated
Silence sings at fringes to a milky gloom, beneath,
Unknown rock formations, in a stretch beyond sight,
Above, weight in water, ships, and city ports we never sea.

Wrap me up in some paper and ink


Wrap me up in some paper and ink

Wrap me up in some paper and ink

Throw me far over the rooftops

To a speakeasy littered with

Some tables and chairs, turn

the lights low, a little music

clothed with some spoken word,

Then let’s get some dance on,

Uptown in some cotton club look

Alike, Where  the cool people groove

All night til the stars loose the sun

Walking home those lucky hand in

Hand, kissing and telling stories

From all the days spent on the run

Kissing and telling stories, words and fun.

Wrap me up in some paper and ink

Set my world on fire, launch me twice

Out around the sun, perhaps the air might

Graze my cheek, swift now hurtle back

To Earth, Where each story begins, and ends.

Revised in thought to a thirteen degree sun


Below is a revised version to a poem I wrote a handful of days back, it was preceded by “A few more miles into the wind”, a short story. Both have different lead characters in similar situations, but with different outcomes, while the first reveals, and the second (A longing goodbye to a thirteen degree sun) conceals. But none of that is what has my head working overtime. Back some time ago, a couple of little short story projects, “The adventures of Megan & Jack (“El camino de la roca” & “One night in Mexico”)”, and “The MFR Collective – Broken Light”, well, all these are about to change drastically, while also taping into aspects to a couple of little shorts “Few expectations” & another one (different to the rest), to which I can not remember the name of at present. So between the below, and the preceded one above, a set in part relating to character redevelopments have been rattling of in connection to Megan & Jack (logistics & preamble) in starting , under the umbrella to the MFR Collective. I’ve a rough map with characters strapped against a beginning, and middle for a much larger writing piece, but thoughts on the extents to an end still hang. Megan, Jack, and MFR are a couple of plus years old, and with some consolidation well overdue, a reinvestment of time may just build something readable – conceal, and reveal (perhaps).


A longing goodbye to a thirteen degree sun

Thick black curls roll in waves across the
Brown gold surface to her back, a t-shirt adrift, a wind.
While with the slightest gate in her movements
Julie Ro drops down through the waking gears
Her Bonneville’s exhaust crackling beneath the
Thunder to its unbroken heart’s compression.
Together they lean right, swing off the highway,
A long way from the far north, passed by Canadian Rockies,
Dust and pebbles, flick up as deceleration kicks in,
Down between a multitude, stationary road rigs.
These juggernauts of long haul men, women,
And a few others in the count, some dormant.

Some bursting to life, and the odd few rolling out,
Returning to wandering reaches, a wylie black top.
Such highways from once they came at times
In their endless rumble through the isolation within night.
Julie Ro, cuts a slow path, steady passing amongst the
Giants emerging out from their parallel drift in tales.
To reveal an expanse, an odd collection of buildings,
A truck stop, the last of the roadhouses before
Ten or so miles to one in many borders between lands,
On each, to look forward, to make haste down below the equator
Pointing her Bonneville to a near vacant pump, her mind at rest
Julie Ro pulls up alongside, dragging the bike up on to its stand

Her slim six foot Maori frame, brisk at the break
Unwinds from the early morning miles left behind.
Where the past night’s feet find their cradle unto the
Earth once more, on parched dust covered concrete.
Coated by the winds to early Autumn’s (Fall’s)
Favour in a day’s rolling start beneath a ten degree sun.
Before long, Julie Ro quenches the Bonneville’s thirst
From its journey, in slow haste her feet cover two
score or so feet, making an exchange, a hand full of US
For fuel and a bottle of water with a little time to breathe
To roam around a few coloured corners, in search for the
Bathroom, when passing a woman, tunes she’s singing,

Humming notes, and writing them down in a notebook.
Sing it out loud sista, get it down, and let it run in song
Julie Ro says, as both women exchange smiles, and
Continue upon their individual unwoven paths as a sun
Clocks eleven degrees to a distant red washed horizon,
More dust dances to the songs along the road giant lines
Rounding the last, through a swinging door corner, and
There she was, a solemn empty stare right back at her
Tangled red hair, small tears rolling down her cheeks.
Words, then silence. They’re all gone, they’re all gone, here this
R oad grinds to a halt, bolted with no choices left. Who’s all gone?
As Julie Ro washes her hands, the woman, in unbroken silence

Stares at her through the mirror, tears still meandering
Tender contours to her face. Then soft echoes escape her
Everything, all I want is out. As far south as far south as I can go.
Listen Sista, a peaceful ocean and a little luck is with you today,
And with just few shots more in conversation, the girl turns,
Silent leans the women back inside a stall, black bag her at her side,
Julie Ro takes her by the hand exiting the bathroom, silent a woman
Trailing close behind as they walk direct, almost in slow-motion
Back out around each painted corner in tin, concrete, or brick, on a
Clear path towards her Bonneville, not a word is spoken, not a
Sound, the world seems silent around both Julie Ro,
And the women, a stranger, her tears slipping beneath the silence,

Beneath a twelve degree sun as they arrive close together
Pausing at the pump, where in one movement, Julie Ro
Turns as the woman hands her the rucksack, it contents
Split between the Bonneville’s saddle bags, finally to
Leave it empty atop a pump. As  keys slip into a warm
Ignition, both women mount up to go, while as Julie Ro
Pockets the stand beneath the Bonneville’s belly, sounds,
A crackle to the exhaust, and thunder in its heart. Life
Breathes for the road once more, now a company of three.
Wait no longer for a transit sun, the vast journey South
Taking a few moments more, Julie Roe ties her long
Black curls back in a ponytail, fastened in four

Places as it stretches the length along her spine,
To then with the silent women at her back, she looks
Up once more, to see a thirteen degree sun, passing
In time with the day, a share to distant southern roads ahead,
Pulling away a roadhouse exit, behind rising dust across distances,
Slices awake upon seeking a free stillness between each stories’
Movement once more, until day for Julie Ro slips, sinks a slowed
momentum. Before too long finds its way passing into an estrange to
night, with a silent women in hours for miles across vast unbroken days,
A longing goodbye to a thirteen degree sun..

Library, a walk in conversation

A walk down hill

Library, a walk in conversation

Descending the hill between clouds

And river, a wide walk in thought

Can lines, words make any difference

In passing another on a boulevard

Exchanges in conversations, while

A bundle of books they carry

Glistens in the sun, many varied

Titles, living, and past authors

Did what they write ever make

A difference, such a stack just

One weeks worth of reading

But the value in the walk

Will always out weigh a cost

Time to devour more words

But does the writing of them

Ever make a difference to

Worlds we live in, or those we

Escape to, between conversation

Channels in each bundle, each book.

Changing tides, these currents in people

Changing tides, these currents in people

Exploring carved worlds inside of different houses

Homes to histories expressed through spoken words

Languages fluent to what has gone before, a past

A present regaining lost, out to mend broken lands

Reclaiming all that has past, and every bit to follow

A future steeped in language, not written by others

Navigating changing tides, these currents in people.

Round hill don’t turn us

Round hill mountains

Round hill don’t turn us

Round hill don’t turn us back around
Send us not back far the other way
We don’t want this story to be over
Our trek across 9000+ miles, more months

To start out we left in winter’s darkness
A sun it crawled low each day across
Horizons, while nights took their time
Beneath a populated bright way cut sky

Days passing by, devil in a blue dress
Nights look back, lady in a green gown
Spread amongst 3000 miles in detours
Directions banked, on just a floating leaf

Each day, each night, someone no
Longer a stranger, shared with us
A story, while we parted with our own
People being people, meals together

Out travelling down on a long high road
Mountain chains winding sideways in
Winds as they curl slow from North to South
Altitude a friend, sleeping with four seasons.

Now here we arrive to a southern Summer
Two riders, two trekkers, at mountains’ end
Where cold ocean waters, and time we stop
we pause this story, leave it waiting on the line.




Tethered causeways

At rest on tethered causeway today

Black rocks scattered, spew forth

Flood waters receded, no

Empathy left behind, while

The long walk through a

Windless corridor, a wind to

A creek’s, hence a hazardous

Path traveled in hours rather

Than minutes, but still rain

Persists to green the towering

Walls, as time trudges soft silt

between the rifled black stone

Once more again to, rest upon

another causeway, tethered to

Water and dirt..