A return visit to Manly NSW  is always enjoyable. I visited when young. Later, when studying for the priesthood, I lived there for two years. I still like to return. This free verse captures some of that love of return.


It never leaves,
that welcome beachfront,
the Corso of character,
it courses in your veins
Once visited,
lived in,
Manly becomes
part of you
and you
part of it.
Like a homing pigeon,
swift as a swallow,
opportunities to return
are grasped.
And there it is!
Sea scent filling the nostrils,
sun warmed breeze
brushing your cheeks.
Children direct
their Lycra clad mums,
seniors trundle their trolley-bags,
that quintessential survivor,
the ever present seagull,
is never far from sight
or sound
or food source!
Then comes the memories.
Not systematically,
like timely tides,
but a random reverie
of cameos:
The vacant bandstand
once filling the Corso
With “Walking in Memphis”,
or sounds of Salvos
playing their brass.
And the College,
up Darley Road,
formerly St. Pat’s,
people and parties
lectures and lunches,
they all spring to mind.
Or days of ‘drearies’
or dread,
When the foment of formation
(Or, was it ferment?)
weighed down like a heavy surf.
How it brought out the best and worst.
Some friends
we would have
possibly always.
And others, yes,
those other
predatory persons,
bristles stand on the neck
at the thought,
even the thought,
of some.
Yet others,
searching and lost,
who had cast themselves
adrift in our halls,
another tide
beckoned them elsewhere.
I take it all in,
the foamy breakers,
the shifting sand
bringing it all back.
And I am there again,
like a delighted 22year old,
walking the promenade once more,
decadent Danish waffle cone
in my fingers,
Wet ice cream sluice
cool on the lips,
as the sea breeze has its way again.
It whispers:
“Welcome, come again!”
return you will.
You know
you will.

Simon C.J. Falk 30 August 2014









We have all had experience of compulsive and addictive behaviours. It could be us, or those we love. This little free verse touches on some of the insidious experience of addiction.

Comes in slows waves at first,
Just a social smoke
With mates after work.
Smell on the clothes triggers the lecture
From unimpressed others.

Years on:
Those quiet minutes,
In the garden
On the verandah,
The drawing in
Of the exhilarating exhalation.
Those minutes,
Those moments
Of restfulness and peace.

Cigarettes gone:
The dartboard gets a workout,
Pummelled by uncoiled tension
That used to be released
On smokey out breath.

That’s OK.
The exorcised anxiety found other shapes
And repossessed its host.

Now the keyboard and the monitor,
The apps on the touch screens,
Are the new fixation
For the frazzled.

It robs you of hours,
Drained away
Like a persistent leak
Or an unseen, internal haemorrhage.

Just when you are tired of it,
You succumb
And fall
And again,
Like an iPod on repeat
That never goes…
You are flat
From the shame
That flattens you
In its wake.
You become
Sick and tired
Of being sick and tired
And lack the get-up,
The will,
To change
Or be changed.

Simon C.J. Falk 5 August 2014

Richard Foote Art

The Unique Art of Richard Foote

Moira McAlister

Writing about Reading and Reading about Writing

Salini Vineeth

Fiction writer

A Hundred Quills

There's a new sun burning, and soft fruits ripening, my precious grizzled tresses tumbling, Dylan's humming 'The times they are a changing', these parting verses are mere shadows merging ...


An Empyrean Cycle

Dr Kate Gregorevic

Virtual verse from a viewpoint

Daydreaming as a profession

Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.

Virtual verse from a viewpoint

Asha Seth

Bookworm. Poet. Story-teller.



Monica Applewhite

Virtual verse from a viewpoint

Ailish Sinclair

Stories and photos from Scotland


Pen to paper

The Light Behind the Story

Seeking the magic and light in life's journeys


Brett Kristian

%d bloggers like this: