Category Archives: Poetry

A dedication.

Time marches on, and so it comes round again, that hubby has gone to work. He flew out this morning (still in flight on the first leg, as I start writing this) for another stint overseas. I find this term vaguely funny, because while technically it is overseas, he needs a passport and visa to travel there, it is only a 3 hour flight from Australia and in the same time zone. He will be doing two week blocks, and this makes it easier but also harder.

After speaking to several people, some of whom are in the same position we are with FIFO husbands, unless you have been here it is really hard to understand how someone could do this. As I’ve said before, it takes a certain kind of person/relationship to be ale to do it, and not everyone can. But then I also believe a lot of people should give it a go for a couple of months and see the changes in their relationship – hopefully for the better.

Granted, 12 years ago, well before we moved to Queensland, we would not have survived. Time, new circumstances, a bit of wisdom thrown into the mix, and a better understanding of us and our relationship and we have found we love it. It suits both of us, and the benefits are pretty good too. (I’m not talking about the money here either).

This brings me to posting another poem I wrote when I was 16. I have changed it slightly, re- writing parts and leaving others out. But this is how I feel, today and every other day he flies out.
I love you babe, keep safe 🙂 ❤

His gravelly voice,
So, sexy and serene,
Probing thoughts, hidden desires.
The time comes, of desires never felt or thought of before.
So strong, so sensual.
That all things cease, and a deep warmth emerges.
Taking over the body,
Those feelings are aroused, building, growing.
His voice continues, to caress my mind,
I melt in his eyes and succumb to his pleasures.
Pleasures like I've never known, I feel so complete.
Nothing will stop me.
He can't deprive me, any longer.
I live with desire.
I live for the pleasure.

I am watching him.
He swims, lazily.
I look into his eyes, and melt once again,
Although the water is cold,
I do not notice, through the heat of our bodies.
His eyes are smoky, and full of desire.
No secrets are hidden, I know what he wants.
Because I want it to.

This love. So warm, so tender.
Beautiful, passionate and all mine.

Hope you like it,
Have a great day 🙂


I’m not a writer. Really, I’m not.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you remembered something you did in high school English class and then, knowing it is still in the house, you have to hunt it out. I did that today. I’d been thinking of this particular thing for at least a week, but tried to push it to the back of my head. I didn’t really want it to go away, I just didn’t want to deal with it. And in all reality there is nothing major to deal with. A particular poem I had written in high school was replaying in my head – like an ear worm – and I had to find and deal with it.

After we had moved into this house, I had all these boxes of those sentimental things from my youth recovered from storage. Glancing quickly through them I realised I should put them inside, and that’s when they start playing on my mind.

I finally sorted those boxes today, 2 years later. And had a few lots of cringe moments upon reading them. Amongst all sorts of newspapers, old photos, and the school magazines (one day I may show a picture of me, back when I had pigtails and glasses), I found what I was looking for. My memory serves me well, I knew the folder as soon as I saw it. And what it contained. Those papers proudly labelled “manuscripts” and story plots, a few really bad short stories and that pile of poems.

My teenage mind worked in very strange ways and if I recall, even back then I had no idea what I was going on about. If you ask me, I will deny everything, not that there is anything to deny…. Although, if I channelled it and had enough coffee, I could probably work some magic now.

But I am not a writer. No offence to my writer friends (you know who you are, I love you all) but it seems every man and his dog wants to be a writer these days. I am not a writer. Sure I loved English, and the creative writing sessions, but I have no inclination to write and publish my works.

For me, blogging is completely different style of writing to wanting a book published.
Writing is a form of release, a state of emotion, a conversation. Some of us are really good at it. Able to put meaning and emotions into a small space. Others, not so good. I try and get it right half the time. It’s one of the reasons I keep the blog going. Writing, sharing my thoughts, my life.

This first poem is vaguely amusing in its obscureness. As I read it to write, I am already re-writing it in my head. If you ask, I may put the revised version to page.
I see this relating to all the blogs out there, the plethora of voices, everyone calling out, wanting to be read, liked, enjoyed.


Converse, talk, blabber,
Yell, shout, curse,
Whine, moan and complain.
Flat tone.
Long, monotonous,

Boring, tedious annoying or funny.
Hilarious, frightening or warped.
Bubbly, chirpy, happy,
Songy, wiggly, wobbly.

Morosely, mad and zinging.

Sweet, mushy, sloppy
Thick, slimy, messy and slow.

Shrieking, drawling, crying,
Gravelly, sensuous and low.

High, horrid or hungry,
Big, beautiful or bountiful.

Panicked, preoccupied and plentiful.

Just remember. I am not a writer. I am not a writer. Please let me know your thoughts on this strange little prose, all comments, good and bad, are welcomed.

Jennifer, at 16. 😉