The Thimble and Me – Poetry


The Thimble and Me

By J. A. Weymouth


There is a fundamental sense of loss,

Discredited, false, sapling mind that is –

too claustrophobic in its set of ideas.


An infertile thimble now stationed to toss,

Only, at the bottom end of it can I see

Some form of worth.

She takes every opportunity to waste life.


The tall one does not seek the knife,

Don’t misunderstand this as a euphemism for suicide.


Only luck can handle this.


And with an open palm

Can one hold onto the channeling of joy –

Such freshness is met by widened eyes.

Mad Men. (the seekers) – Poetry


Mad Men. (the seekers)

By J. A. Weymouth


Entrenched beneath


as the shadows dance in the hallways of darkness,

a footstep is taken, into the lamp lit room.


Solitary is the hint behind the eyes

the fool seeks the company of mad men.


His face is only half of the moon,

and tempers with the light of world.


Only darkness and blood can enter

though this is no gory tale.


Just a simple mad man


meandering into

the hallways of others like him.


And so they dance.

Something new, something… blue?

I like this time of year. You feel warm. You feel fuzzy. Somehow the light shines through the end of the tunnel and you rekindle with your motivation. I wonder how long it lasts? Is it really only because of the extra Vitamin D that we find ourselves such the merrier?

Hmm. Maybe not.

Maybe things just have an ‘expiry’ date, and somehow, things reborn. Winter is just winter.  Spring comes around again.

Today has been a mixed week.  A combination of being somewhat lonely and somewhat stifled. It is that dreading sense as a teacher, that one day, you’re going to have to face ‘them’ again. Yeah, I mean the kids.  Today was my first day back and it wasn’t so bad.  Actually it was a lot of fun.  I also took on a lot more responsibility as a teacher.


I had a weird day.

Weird… in a good way.

Now, one of the reasons why, I figured, why I haven’t been writing a lot of poetry these days is because I haven’t been reading a lot of poetry.  I used to just read the classics.  Yes, a lot of Coleridge, Blake, Dickinson.  Nothing modern or recent has really caught my attention.

Do any of you have recommendations? I would love to have a read…

Hopes and Fears – Poetry


Hopes and Fears

By J. A. Weymouth

There was something

lost in that sigh.

A paramnesia of windows shutting and

light closing began

in the wake of ideas.


Too far lost those ideas tread

(and they don’t remember their true beginnings)

so far away taken, over long shores and hopes, were they.


Corrosive/archaic from water.

Water is the fearless patient.


What is this wistful feeling?

A searching/yearning/wanting of the things that have passed and have not come.

All that has taken the hand.


Beyond question/reasoning to believe that place is only home,

but that home has become corrosive!


The head, like the hand, has been taken somewhere

away – mingled by the strain of ideas and journey seeking –

living in that false reality.


And I believed in that fantasy.

Hope has taken my hand.

They say it happens in threes.

Is it true?  Or is it really the haunting thought that just lingers over chance?  An unfortunate chance.  Unlucky.  So here are my threes:

On Wednesday I was in a car accident.

On Thursday I fractured my ankle.

On Friday I broke my favourite mug.

So let me tell you the story of last week.  On Wednesday I was in a car accident.  It was a beautiful, sunny day, windy but lovely.  A friend and I were driving back from a town that sells the best fish ‘n’ chips, and I tell you what, they were delicious (I know! So Aussie right?).  We had noticed that it was an especially windy day, but on our way back home a tree, out of no where (yeah, I didn’t see it coming), fell on top of us while I was driving.  The windscreen shattered and I remember feeling the warm breeze of the wind reach me through the shattered glass.  I was bleeding and so was my friend, but they were only scratches.  There were no serious injuries and we were both okay.  Even though I panicked, I was still able to pull over safely.  It was dealt with as quickly as possible once I pulled over and after I took a breath and got out of the car.  The tow truck came quickly and we got out of there in around about an hour. The car was a write off and I got my insurance money very quickly.

On Thursday I fractured my ankle.  Only after I just going through this accident, the next night I go to my usual Roller-Derby training session and by the end of it I end up fracturing my ankle.  Oh, so lucky.  The only difference from that session like every other session is that I had new skates and we were in a new location.  The fractured ankle could be the result of me either getting too full of myself with my new skates (which is most likely), the new, smooth floor, the new, underestimated skates or me simply overestimating my abilities.  I like to think it was the smooth floor.  Boy, I tell you, I got a good ‘kick’ out of being in hospital two days in a row.  Lots of waiting.  But the doctors and nurses were very sympathetic as well as having a good laugh at the irony, well I was laughing too.

On Friday I broke my favourite mug.  I tell you what, it’s a real bitch getting used to crutches.

The moral of the story?  You could go through most of your life without getting into an accident and without breaking a bone, but sometimes, life can surprise you.  I have never been in an accident and I have never broken a bone in my body.  But to have them happen all at once?  I’ve broken plenty of mugs before of course but you could either look at your circumstances and think ‘boy, I’m unlucky’ or you could look at them and say ‘boy, I’m pretty lucky’.  I have had a week off work, I got more money back from insurance than I expected, and I’m learning to be pretty patient.  But I tell you what, out of all of this, I couldn’t have done this without the love and support of my friends and family.  They are all truly amazing.

Gosh darn it, I’m pretty fucking lucky.

The Night Drips

The Night Drips

By J. A. Weymouth


The night is dripping

Soft melancholy

of the night.


Soothing thoughts of nightmares weep for better words.


The nightly whispers.

Red roses are not thoughts.

that sparkle sound

that shines

is dim in the dark.


And here I am sitting/waiting.


Quiet lights put pressure

on the mind,

while speechless/sensless

I am driven to a quiet world.


There are many whispers in the dark while I search for it.


A knowing.  A caring.

Distant.  It sits still.


What am I in that dark place?


That night drips

and I float alone

with soft words of reason.


Quiet words they are.


The Ripple of Inspiration

Okay, so a lot of you know that I haven’t been on here much lately, really at all, hence the title, and I bet you’re guessing what that reason is.

For the last couple of days, in my town, it has been raining quite a lot.  Today, I was outside (God knows why) and I was sitting watching the rain fall into slowly growing puddles.  I watched these puddles ripple as the rain fell.  There’s something graceful and curious about rain, especially when you watch it really closely, when you give yourself enough time to watch it and not just watch from inside but actually listen to it as well, you can see everything magnificent about the rain and see the brutality of it all.  Rain is not kind.  It is patient but it is not kind.  There is something gentle about rain of course, but like any form of pressure, it starts to bruise if it is repeated.  Over and over.

That is how I am feeling at the moment.  Even a small amount of guilt can bruise over time.  There is a pressing on my nerves.  Stories untold, ideas not expressed, and poetry withdrawn.  This is what I am doing to myself.  And, just like the ripples of water, the pressure of inspiration needs to be released and if not released naturally, it will bruise.

Whether it is the adjustment to winter, or because of the sudden change in my life, the lack of inspiration is hindering on my mind.  It is there, it can be done, but I need to see it to be able to let it go.  Put the pen in my hand and just let myself go and the let the ripple of inspiration begin.

So sorry for annoying you all with this melancholic post though with it I guess I am trying to inspire myself.  And hopefully you may get something from this, too.

Hope you are all well, and thank you all again for the support of this blog.

J. A. Weymouth

The Hand – Poetry

ImageThe Hand

By J. A. Weymouth


Faded/split into two.

Other side is conscious and knowing while one waits silently at the door.


Curious as ever,

Its eyes move rigid, pressed against untamed littlies.

Watchful, hateful, noiseless.


Finger tips encircle a crown as golden entrails seep outwards.


A word is rested,

sentimental even –

with festering purpose.


Circles ins and outs:

reflections of an ill-mannered past like pictures reminiscing velvet lies.


And I shudder.


Still shivering like a child who holds on.

Never alike to the become and the then before.


Always a child,

and never more.

Enter, our fate – Poetry

Enter, our fate

By J. A. Weymouth


So to hear that fate

who crumbles sleep

enters the place of will

to no rest


But oh, that red

that rattles my breast

Caress? No colours

ought. Seems to the eye


Through the turtle shell

A sage ponders

Could I envy?

Such clear thoughts?


Led through fields

of obtuse trees

for the Shepherd

There they sit, passive.

He weeps.

The Mask – Poetry

The Mask

By J. A. Weymouth


A string of thought that is corrosive and intrusive

Is known to be cruel and enlightening – wide eyed and open armed

There is a colour in its mouth – heavy

If heavy was a colour.


The mouth is thick with words that do not spit

Words in plenty and enchanting

But they hold back.

We forget their feeling – their depth of spirit.


The thought is still there.

It is carried barefoot/homeless over the shoulders as it sinks in

Deep within, straight through that beaten one

Until the alcohol slurps a new idea that then, then it becomes buried.


I was buried

In that dark open eye

Through those listless words

Inside a heavy box

Behind an unchanged mask

Always unchanged and forever.