Posts Tagged ‘philosophy’


The Cycle (revise)

July 7, 2014


Snow vomits down,

purging itself from the sky.

Frozen parcels bond and form

in perfect unity. Symmetry.

How do they choose who to grasp?

Much like us I suppose

by the random grace of proximity.

Freeze in form and tear away

leaving gases and liquids

for something more tangible.

Seizing one another until the weight combined

is too much for the sky to bear.

Plummet down

individuality forgotten

for a common need to survive.

Finding shared purpose

in the roil of frozen storms.

Clasping one another through the cloud break

how must they feel?

As the ground moves closer

is there panic, fear, resignation

or nothing?

Soon nothing.

Soon as much as there ever was.

As much as they ever were.

From the sky to the sea to the earth

and all again they return.

A brief cohesion and confusion

settling once once more

into the cycle of rebirth.





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.



September 10, 2013

My life is before me.

Like theatre in a dream

I watch it happening.

Recognise that I am the protagonist

but only watch things unfold.

Whether I want them to change

or not

I can only drift.

Tag along steps behind.

The gentle currents of life

and its fates




For Good – From the Me of Before

August 29, 2013

“What can I say?

He didn’t look enthusiastic.”

I wasn’t trying to be unsympathetic,

those were my only thoughts.

However, reality didn’t hit me

until the six o’clock news;

seeing his home and family on exhibition.

I only realised then

what the job can mean to some.

What it becomes.

The next day I couldn’t handle it;

Seeing all the faces;

All the glancing eyes.

His empty desk

and the silence.

Outside my window concrete sat

sombre under a grey sky.

I too felt cold.

So I got up and got out.

Just like him.

For good.





On holding back…a question to and conversation with the void…

August 13, 2013

I have often said that I want my writing to be as honest as possible. But what does this mean for me? And what does it mean for you?

Does it mean by having all your writing about actual events in your life? By laying out all your flaws, faults and mistakes onto the internet? It may for some as honesty may mean many things to many people. For anyone’s better or worse, I have often done this…

How about letting your true voice and feelings be put down on the page and affect your writing? By not copying anyone else’s, but by being inspired by theirs? I hope I always do this…

By not phoning in the emotion that is not truly there? By talking about things that we know little about or have never experienced? By posting something to be popular, sensational, and make us feel good without being authentic? I have sometimes done this, too, unconsciously and regrettably, consciously!

Those are all some points that are true for me. I am guilty of many of them. Writing something and then realising after much effort…what are you even talking about?! How about yourselves?

So…we can be honest and true in our writing. But, what should we hold back? Are there some things that we should not say, even if we mean them? Confessing love, a crime, dishonesty, disloyalty? Is the truth not better out, because, as Shakespeare wrote ‘Truth will out!’ anyway?

Well, perhaps somethings should be kept with those it concerns.

But when it comes to our art…to something so close to us…representing who we are as much as we can express it as humans…well, it’s personal isn’t it?

And sometimes you feel the shame or embarrassment. Once you post a piece of writing, a picture, a painting, -whatever; and then you look back and think; why did I do that? People will think I’m stupid, look stupid, acting stupid? Well, who has not. For me it has been a daily exercise for most of my life, retracing my ridiculousness, and trying to figure it all out. At first, perhaps, regretting things, and then handling it. Owning it. And it is hard to be ourselves. And it takes practice. Practice practice practice in not stopping doing these things, but in acknowledging them and owning them. You can’t change who you are and if you want to make a stupid post of any kind, fill your Facebook and Instagram with silly photos (mine are) I won’t judge. As a matter of fact, I will empathize and understand.

This is just a post about honesty and holding back; a question into the void and a conversation with it.

Any thoughts?





Late Night

August 13, 2013

Harvest moon, empty streets. A man,

older than young, clenching a rock,

crouching on the pavement outside

the new mall’s car -park – absorbed.


Late night, lamp light, no-one around but I

beneath the trees beside the bus station

and he on the curb above blood, fur,

and his own long shadow.


I wasn’t one to fight, but I felt it inside,

a knot feeling for its moment,

but I wasn’t one to fight, so when,

after he paced around, threw the rock,

ran down the street, I followed.

It was the least and most I could do.

Death outside a fast food store?

It was the least I could do.


His home wasn’t bright, just a strip

down the door that he slid through.

Leaving me, sat outside on the low stone fence.

Long grass, old Mitsubishi, red brick.

All around the neighbours houses

were doppelgangers. Dots in a broad picture.

No stories and no reasons at all. And this

just another house on a street: anybody’s.



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I.J. Keddie

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


Craft tips for writers