Archive for the ‘Isles’ Category


Isles Poetry – On Credit

December 12, 2013

The sun swoons over the bay

drunk on its own heat.

Expanding over visitors

who pay the price for idleness

with throbbing tans.

The flame of their imaginations

fanned by thoughts of the future.

Of lives appreciated

from short sold holidays.

Only thoughtless wishes

bought on credit.


Back at home we ride office tables

like hurricane flotsam

the only thing keeping us afloat.

In the distance of computer screens

we see oases shimmering

merely reflections from windows.

The lustre of dreams fades

to reality and realisation

that escape is indefinite.

Only thoughtless wishes

bought on credit.




An Ending + Lazy Posts

December 3, 2013

This is a lazy post. Or perhaps its a rational one. I think its both. The below poem was a fragment to a poem. The start of a poem that was meant to end, but was left. I like it however. As although it is small and was the start to a poem, it is also an ending. It is both. Going back and trying to change it would alter what I felt before. It would add the me of now to the me of then, and, although we are the same people, we are in different times and places. So in that way, it is rational to leave it as it is. And it is also lazy to leave it as it is.


An Ending

A peach sunset falls slowly over the bay.

The beach cools, the tourists shake their towels and stroll,

the shadows on the green hills darken.

I sway in my seat, sip my beer, and mull.


Isles Poetry – Connexion to Mars + Thoughts

November 28, 2013

 The journey is almost complete. I have 1 more hour left of work. I have let my replacement take the rest of my classes and I will…well I don’t know. Have some drinks? Do some writing? Watch TV? I am all excited, nervous, and unsure about what is next. Even the next couple of days. I still have to do a couple of things, but there is nothing really to do but catch a plane and all the shit that that involves…first world problems…really, no plans, except the rest of my life.  Just another step down and a darkened space below. That was a long way of saying, ‘I don’t know what to write.’ Perhaps when I reach the afterglow, when I leave and reflect back I will have some thoughts. I still have many incomplete poems to finish for my poetry project Isles, which recounts my thoughts and experiences of 6 months of life working on a little island in Thailand.

Here is another poem for the compilation…digest.

Connexion to Mars

The speedboat thumps over a sea like broken glass;

sparkling, jagged and blue.

I recline and rock with the motion

shading my eyes while stealing glimpses

of clouds like thought bubbles in the sky

thinking beyond these

of one way tickets to Mars and the fact

that there is nowhere now we cannot go.

Other passengers grumble discontent at the crowds

disturbing their deserted paradise.

Mystery is the bliss

of the ignorant fantasies we create.

But reality and its routines create familiarity.

From one tropical island to the next

we pass dozens more

filling a line up to the mundane.

Plane tickets to deserted paradises

are packaged with paradox illusions.

Connexion has killed isolation.

Mystery dies as we are one step

closer to Mars.



Chasing Highs – Isles Poetry

November 6, 2013

Camera 360

I can remember it now.

Know the actions and consequences

from years before.

A factual description of events

like entries in a journal

but I can’t summon the feeling.

The visceral moment.

The psychology of forgetting

bans emotion.

Keeping the highs.

Curtailing the lows.

Is this for our protection?

Would a rap sheet

of failures and faux pas

available at any low moment

leave us emotional wrecks?

Why not let me feel the past now

in the present

when it matters?

I should learn from my mistakes

don’t they say?

‘Time heals all wounds’

has discarded the rod and

dangles the happy memories

devoid of hangover and heart-ache

so that I chase these highs again!



Bursting For Flight – Isles Poetry

November 1, 2013


Just a little poem I wrote while watching young hummingbirds jumping around these flowers.

Bursting For Flight

Fluttering with their nature

young hummingbirds hop.

Thin branches flex as they bound

with graceless flapping.

Energetic bursts of their youth

crashing through the spindly leaves.

Hovering at yellow-belled flowers

tasting sweetness for mere moments

before capitulating

to swing on long fine stems.

‘Twit twit twit’ they taunt each other,

vent their frustration and laugh.

Vibrating where they stand

feeling their potential for flight

all their energy pulses out

as they strain to earn their name;

humming humming humming.



The Creature – Isles Poetry Project

October 30, 2013

What creature am I? Who bees are magnetic to? They crawl all over. Licking with their tendril tongues like pollen loving puppies. Their enemy, the wasps make their nest at my door. Encroaching beside my window and bed. Shipping wet earth with their mouths. Constructing their crusty cocoons. Laying their long green caterpillars in their clay cradles. I destroy them and watch their forked bottomed babes wriggle and then still. I avoid the mother when she returns, hovering where she knows they must have been. At night the mosquitoes feed on me, finding me with their blood-soaked eyes. I slap them to the tiles then feed them to the wandering ants who help me clean my floor. Small moths inspect the room fluttering aimlessly, harmlessly. Flies come and go whirring in like distant relatives. They only need an open door to take the hint and leave. Fresh cut grass glows a lustrous green in the sun. A worm wriggles across, confused. We live with our decisions and ignorant we die. Choice celebrates freedom so I don’t help, but walk away. The bushes are wild with flowers getting butterflies drunk. We just pass each other by. Amidst all this I’m here and thinking; what creature am I?


Isles Poetry – “Out of Place” – Routines, Breaks, Resistance Training!

October 24, 2013

This is another poem in my collection, “Isles”.

Now about habits, routines, taking breaks from these routines, and fighting through resistance. What are your routines? Sometimes they are hard fought. Waking up early and getting to work on something. Sometimes they are such a habit, that they happen naturally. Often times we have had these routines but they have been broken.

This has happened often to me, and it is sometimes hard to get back into it.  Though a routine for me is the best for quantity…sometimes not for quality. My routine is usually to write in the morning after exercise and breakfast and during tea time…but after days of this routine under threat, what can I do? I become frustrated and it becomes harder to start again with a different routine. For me I try (try) to look at the change as a good thing. A holiday to improve the quality of my writing and focus on another aspect of writing, such as editing my writing, writing down ideas, putting physical copies to digital, and reading more. Also thinking positively that, although I am not writing, I am supporting that writing.

Those are a few points from me, though if you are really struggling two books, “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield and “The Power of Habit” by Charles Duhigg are great books to help kick start you and give you lasting change.

Finally, I would love to hear how you mix up your routines…how do you break through resistance…how do you make the best of a bad situation?

Cheers and enjoy the poem!!


Out Of Place

The seasons have different names here:

Low and High, Wet and Dry.

Clean and Dirty. Easterly, Westerly.

The wind berates the island

pushing debris in from the sea.

‘How could you do this?’ Tourists scold.

How can the locals explain

that it’s not their trash

but others out of place?

The “big clean up” must happen anyway

as the High and Easterly approach.

They scour the shore

clearing refuse of every shape and sort.

Stacking it and burning it all

so that a pernicious cloud

stalks the brush and thicket.

This is where I exercise

another thing out of place

amongst the palms.

Picking a stretch of beach

to sprint, push and squat.

On every length I spot

some bottle brown glass and

fill a cup with the shards.

I face the sun reflected waves

breathing the heat,

feeling the sand beneath me

once tiny parts of something else

wondering about all the pieces of everything

from every corner of the world

that have washed up here

forever and before

out of place.

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I.J. Keddie

Poet (of sorts). I'm hiding behind your curtains.