On a rainy Sunday I turned eighty-three,

And right by the bed, you sat with me.

You looked at my hand, I looked at your smile,

We sat in the silence, then talked for a while.

I told you that you were my last old friend,

And I saw the confusion on your face extend.

I explained that we'd met over ten years ago,

On a warm summer day, by my Winnebago.

You had asked for a spanner, or a tool of some sort,

And we'd finished the day with a bottle of port.

At that point in time it had not crossed my mind,

In that moment, you'd be the last old friend I'd find.

Since we met I've known others, family and friends,

But quite often for them, I've been a means to an end,

People come and go, but rarely do stay,

And with that I'm reminded of you and that day.

We laughed and we shared, and we drank, and we cried,

And we held each other as our older friends died.

We visited each other, and wrote via letter,

And when you got ill I'd pray you'd get better.

As I lied on the bed, on that rainy day in June,

I knew I'd be leaving, passing by soon.

I never knew how important our friendship would be,

My last old friend, and the last one I see.

Bernard was a bird, all covered in white. 

He hid in the daytime and glowed in the night. 

One day he decided he’d no longer chirp.

Nor whistle, nor squark, not even a burp.

He’d heard of a whale who moaned quite a bit,

She whined about nothing, but hunger and sh*t.

Wanda the whale had lived a long time,

But the constant complaining, Bernard thought a crime.

He once had some friends, when he lived in a store.

But never spoke to them. Not once, not at all. 

When he moved to a new home, his owner was shocked,

He kept his mouth quiet, he kept his beak locked. 

He wasn’t a Buddhist, nor from Verona.

Bernard was a budgie, with a modest persona.

I am Aboriginal, but I am white...

And I know that’s confusing but if you listen you might,

See what makes me this way is the blood in my veins,

Some from Germany and Ireland, and Australian plains.

Now I know what you’re thinking, such a tiny percent?

And you’re right, in terms of science, if that’s your intent,

But as people, we’re more than our bio you see,

I am human, I am dreaming, I am spirit, I am me.

My connection to country may be tainted by fate,

For the history of my ancestors is both violent and great,

I am complex in terms of ancestral past,

Call me diluted, weakened, or less than half-caste.

But the reason I’m white, if you ponder you might,

Just see that the causes are something of height,

My colour is the result of a love between races,

Of the footsteps and risks that my forefather faces,

In a time when their coupling was something of rarity,

My ancestors were brave and sought love as their clarity,

I am proud of my heritage, regardless of my skin,

And this place is my home, it is where I find kin,

I’m Aboriginal by spirit, by belonging to this place,

So consider my depth and don't categorise my face.

Oh, toilet paper,

As white as snow,

You always helped,

At the end of the flow.

Oh, toilet paper,

With many a use,

For noses and bottoms,

You've suffered abuse.

Oh, toilet paper,

So rare and so sweet,

Who would have thought,

You'd become such a treat.

Oh, toilet paper,

You're making us nuts,

Fighting in aisles,

By hungry big butts.

And so there he was, just running away,

Not bearing to wait another single day. 

He felt free and unrestrained, solo flying,

See he was living adventure, not the mundane and dying. 

Now learning to love his inner child,

The shadow, the self; the good and the wild. 

For peace in the mind and the soul, is ideal;

And a full sense of self, both the dream and the real. 

As the storm was approaching, he bid his farewells,

For a new life abroad, beyond all the swells.

A bittersweet leaving, with friends left behind,

Calling comfort inside, both body and mind.

To travel is to learn, to find and to grow,

Both the fast paced explorations, and the moments to slow.

Is it really correct to say running away?

Or is 'to go' just a form of seizing the day.