Lone Swimmer

Waterlogged driftwood sinks beneath the swell.
The swimmer seeks shelter
on the summit
of a glorified boulder.
He explores guano fed gardens
in search of fresh water ponds.
All but one is a glorified puddle.

Giant crabs lurk in the caves below.
Their pincers have the power
to launch frying pans into the ocean.
They challenge seals to bloody brawls.

There’s enough skeletons
to keep the fire burning until spring.
The swimmer boils algae
in the remnants of the storm.
Will the moonlit beaches he dreams of
be stolen by the waves?

The swimming season is nigh.
How far beyond the horizon
to the next islet?
Sailors wave and smile politely
as they tack westward
in search of distressed canoeists.

Thirty nautical years to the continent,
reads a rust ravaged sign
peeking above the high water mark.


Mr Pseudonym

Everywhere with a more serene ambience
than intercourse with Godzilla,
is a haven in his eyes.
His quest for meaningful conversation
is reminiscent of the search for wildflowers
in a desert carpeted with rain makers bones.

He is one with his flamboyant rhythms,
and surging labyrinthine tales.
The worlds he’s created are loved,
but the man behind the literary veil
is as unknown
as the whereabouts of Tasmanian Tiger colonies,
as ignored as Yoko Ono’s Greatest Hits.