Adventure by Ollie

A Search for Purpose in a Random World

hast thou? three questions and a brace

hast thou a wishbone?

a wishbone for me?

I’ll take a quarter ’til

a quarter past three,

stir it in my teacup

teacup and tea

spoon in some sugar,

some sugar for me.

hast thou a needle?

a needle and thread?

I’ll put a pin prick

in my bread,

pour over cream

until it’s dead

give it to Susie

standing on her head.

hast thou a corner?

a corner to share?

I’ve got a will o’whisp-er

in my ear

hot cross, hot cross

hot cross buns

give us a kiss and a

nickel of fun.

Tomato Sandwich

I just had to.  Send it out.

Sprinkle it with salt.

It wasn’t neat, not at all – it was

mayo spread thick over bread,

gushes over the edge

butter slapped onto it

onto the crusty corners sweet

and lavished with tomatoes

bright red juicy tomatoes –

the devil’s fruit, and I stacked ’em high

as I wish I were high as I wish I were high

and threw them out into the world

discus style – one here, one there-

here you go, provecho-

sandwiches, holy moly sandwiches

that collided into things and people and

things and people and things and people until

someone said, “I like tomato on bread with mayo

and butter and mayo and butter and mayo and butter

because the world is like that bright red juicy

green and blue and green and blue tomato.”

and someone else said, “Why?”

I  didn’t even know,

“Just DO it.” Oh Holy Muse,

thy dictate I shall obey,

Oh my Lover.

The Fish and the Boy

keep calling me to you and I swear I’ll come

children play near the pond

one brown haired boy dangles shortbread for a fish

deep in the bottom lies a golden fish,

such pretty scales, fins delicate and fine

hungers for the bait

such a pretty fish

such a pretty boy

so much water in between- deeply burnt; the bridges

a flash of lightning, and so deeper dives the catch

but oh! how badly it wants you.

I know how to meditate on your name, your face, your hips,

the sound you make when you breath in and out

your gait, the swing in your walk, your eyes youreyesyoureyesyoureyesyoureyes,

the smell of you – your sweat mixed with your cologne

and the bright, happy way your body curves, dips, rises-

landscapes for my tongue to trace

and OH! The sound of your voice carries,

ripples across the surface and echoes back again.

I am a little brown haired boy

dangling shortbread over the water

and dreaming of a kiss from a fish.

Love is innocent,

so I swear I’ll come

Keep calling me to you.

journal entry 8/2016

doesn’t matter who put me in it- this frame of mind,

who or what doesn’t matter – either way, I’ve been burned-

postal posted, blurry eyed, no way to deny it

if I don’t believe, don’t believe, don’t be

leaving soon, If I don’t begin believing soon,

I’ll die.

Just take the first step and know that

I know, though I might not know how,

somehow the next step will be there for me

waiting for me, I’ll see it, feel it lifting me

and if I just keep climbing, keep climbing up

I’ll fly.

These Changing Bodies

These changing bodies

fold and fold again

a many hued landscape-

capture the movement in the wind;

beneath the current of shallows

plays the genuine

of landscape, rearranging.

Quick to perform a ruse, and

shape again the light.

How soon from sunset unto dawn,

and then another night.

Such palette rolls across the face

like clouds across the sky

fades into its own beginning

as I sweep it all away

and move dust from one place to a new

as waves move the sea side shore.

How Quick I

Was how quick I to deepen glance

the reason our meeting be?

I’ll trifle not the shape of lips that

prefer I to mortal none

other than the words they shape

from ear to soul caress

of healing love thee transform,

and I do mostly bless.



Two reapers walked out into the field,

where wheat, yellow and tall, stretched high

and gave it’s worship to the wind and sun

leaning and bowing.

Side by side, the reapers did hew

to the left and the right; each together

strong arms, swift swing of sickle, high to low

sharp and as round as the setting sun.

The rising harvest moon rose and approved

smiling down upon the lovers

who victorious fell into each other’s arms

leaning and bowing.





Grandfather Clock

That clock never ticked

although I love it so,

it never told time, no never told time

and it collected so much dust

looming down at me


that I believed it did seem to say

I am real, IamIamIamIamIamIam

real as time is time is real

real as any other human being,

and it really was: walking, talking, breathing

down at me, dustily,

but it never did

tick, that clock.

Drawn in the Sand

waves come in, into the shore, rub up against silent musings

all the unspoken stories, the final ones, left behind- lines drawn in the sand

the willet and the sanderling, the small and gentle plover,

sea gulls come and mark them over, just in case, God didn’t see, or care,

or wasn’t listening, and tears away the words while picking for gems

left, lost behind, in the breeze, in the lines drawn in the sand,

on the shore while waves come in, rubbing up against all the small stones,

the fine grains, the powder soft grit, shells and driftwood,

until the tide rolls out and in and out and in and out and in

and some bird carries the words freely and quietly away

into the expanse of blue nothing they call a sky,

but sometimes a few of those words which slip and fall away

find themselves washed ashore again, spelled out amongst the seaweed,

unearthed from some watery grave, where

perhaps it should have stayed, but still that is how

I come to find myself silently musing over

your words once more, and they follow me again, and the waves come in.


Rocky River Bed

When I look in the hand glass, hand glass,

all I see is gold, see gold, see gold

shining up from the deep blue, deep blue

too deep for you in the clear blue, clear blue

rocky mountain river bed head, bed head,

and it’s not my fault dear, fault dear, not my

dear oh dear, that you wrecked your truck there, truck there,

there’s no despair for your truck dear, wrecked there,

couldn’t care, couldn’t care, couldn’t care less, care less,

for your mess, what a mess, such a mess,

mess you made, when you laid in my

blue mountain river bed head, bed head,

what I made in my sweet, what a sweet treat, sweet meat;

pretty little wrecked trophy, little trophy in my bed.


Home in me,

and I in you,

the pulsing, raging, blood red lust

breathes against the window pane

creates a mist and drips beneath the heat

how we conquer mind numbing nothingness

beats me, beatsmebeatsmebeatsmebeatsmebeatsme

and I remember wishing she would just beat me like that

instead of blessing me with words like this,

“You’re worthless,” and “You’ll never be.”

and I agree, you are better at home in me –

How we kink it up, phone chord tangled around fingers and ask

how are you? No. No safe wordsnosafewordsnosafewordssafewordssafewords

just truth.

Body Talk

Talk about my body,

beautiful like yours,

curves that fill up the room

and continue to expand:

meant to be seen and tasted.

There is bread and butter; there is wine.

Let it overflow,

like heaven’s glory.

Let it come rushing –

deep water breaking free.

Your steps mean war –


Let every animal, man, and spirit

know you are here.

We Live

we love we live we dance  we hope we dive

red ocean  blue ocean green of sea bed salt

the sky the clouds the rain the sun and all

the wrinkles tell great stories as scars reveal


and much is snatched away in sudden time

the breath the wind the air inside and out

is step walking running flying being high

we cling we sing we live welivewelivewelivewelivewedie

abundant store of emotion and of mind



and oh the muchness of living we have done

in short amount of time


I Am, You Are

I am every eye,

I am the moon,

every rising, setting, eclipsing

all the seasons, the waves

splashing hard and fast upon every shore

as every kiss is wet and sweet, I Am, You Are

each bird song that thrills my heart and soul

the sparkle in every star

and I am every woman-

you,  every man

in every love story ever told.


My Face Reflected

like tree roots in an old graveyard

wasted is the day

staring into mirrors,

where no one comes any longer

to lay flowers,

to sit beneath trees,

to speak with dry bones.

make me not look in,

but let me dive,

and die

let the light embrace me.

leave me not with time.

every second sixty thoughts

crackle with the wind against the cold marble

and none of them,

upon examination,

contain my face reflected

in the twin pools of

thine eyes

or pondered within the expanse

of thine mem’ry.

let the dead carry their dead

cross over to life again.

waste not my coin

for I shall not waste yours.


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