Lost Soles?

Vincent Van Gogh did a number of studies on work shoes. He saw the meaning and story behind them.  Even the philosophers, such as Martin Heidegger, would write about it.

This frivolous verse seems light and vague at first. Beyond the humour is more. 


Lost Soles?



Discarded or


Lost soles

Looking and



Oh the hide

Of separation!

Past postured parable


Of the lost soul

Who lost them.

Booty of the bereft


In lack

For a place

To pace

Where soles

And souls

May roam free.


Simon C.J Falk  27 April 2020



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On the Prospect of Not Celebrating Easter this Year


On the Prospect of Not Celebrating Easter this Year

Will Christ not rise again

This year

For us?


Is he in fact


Dying among us?

In those succumbed

To COVID-19.


Or is he



Is he in the tomb

With us?

Quarantined from life

Before rising

Infected and decaying

With the virulence

Of toxins?

Of needy-greedy panic

Grabs at shopping shelves?

As panicked voices

Constantly ask questions

What about this?

Or that?

What now?

What now indeed.


Will there be no people

As the body of Christ

Holding their candles

Light in the Lord?

Signs that Christ

Has risen

And shines

In us and

Among us?


Or are we consigned

To private piety,

In our own place,

So foreign

To genuine faith

That seeks to hold us together

As parts of the body

Of the Risen Lord?

What of this distant,



Dying alone

In the dark

And waiting

In the tomb?


When will we rise?

When shall we hear?

Magdalene’s cry:

“I have seen

The Lord!

And heard his voice!



Simon C.J. Falk 21 March 2020


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Pebble in the Sand

Pebble in the Sand

This little verse of whimsy is a response to a sketch by Anthropologist Alice Roberts as seen on her social media @ancientmodernist .


Pebble in the Sand

Pebble in the sand

of what epochs do you tell?

Sifting across sands of time

in well

moments, and in storms.

What of those shores have you felt?

In sediment or on lava melt.

Pebble in the sand

Tell the stories

of this land.


Simon C.J. Falk 22 February 2020

It is Awakening

It is Awakening



The spark of interest

Fascinated and curious


On a face

All animated with the story

It is relating

That is









Out through arms and gesturing


It on

To us.

Too full!

Shouts the heart

Absorbing all of it

At pell-mell pace

The words

And the whole

Beautiful face

Awakening an interest

Fascinated and curious

So full it floods.

The waters remain

Soaking the desire

For more.


Simon C.J Falk 16 February 2020



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Remembered Scent


Remembered Scent

 Car ignition

The motor and

a smell

long, long



A long forgotten


of him,

one loved deeply.

The same smell.

And we


The nose knows

and remembers.



Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2020

To Forget

To Forget


We at table

talk –

to forget.

Muse over a morning

of banter and doings

of what we do –

To forget.

Pick up pages

of someone else’s

story, in a book,

escaping to….


The window hazy

The smoke entering

Open door

We remember.

Lest we forget –

The furrowed and frazzled brow

Of Firies*:

their boots

seared to the soles.

Sear not their souls

too much

we plead

as images roll in,

role in too,

as politicians posture.

The worn weariness

worn like a day’s drearies,

As its been months’ now

that our bush has burned.


We remember

The Firies

and those who

offer water


food and

their love

tapped away on keys

that carry updates.

We remember

sacrifices made

by volunteers

leaving homes,

some leaving


at the call

of the crisis.

Children paddle

families to freedom

Sons bear medals

Meant for their Fathers

Under the smoky

Southern sun.



*Firies is a term of endearment for Firefighters.

Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2020

Short Read


Short Read

 Short read

Refreshing amid

Verbiage jungles

Containing its own

Compact wildness

Adventures unspoken



Simon C.J. Falk 29 December 2019.



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I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense of A Silo

I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense Of A Silo

At times people use the image of “silo” or “silos” to describe people working independently and for their own ends.  It has never sat well with me as an image. For reasons shown by the poem in this post.

This could be because I spent many years of childhood in the sheep and wheat belt.  Later I would return there again (twice) to live and work.

Perhaps the disparaging image of “silos” comes from the Christian parable of Luke 12:13-23, where a greedy land owner was seeking more and more profits for himself. The image is not a good one for many of us and can increase a misunderstanding between city and country, rural and urban lives. In times of drought and bush fire we are best not to fuel any city-country enmities.

So, before bringing the “silo” image from our metaphorical storehouse, we might spare a thought and dig deeper into our imagination.



Picture: Ardlink Grain Dump just West of Ardlethan NSW a few years ago.


I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense Of A Silo

I am a silo grain dump,

And live on the edge of village and of town,

I often have a fuel pump,

And dot the plains or down.


Sometimes graffiti coats me,

Or I’m adorned with mural art,

But in harvest time they come to me,

And trucks and trains then dart.


They come to me in many trucks,

From farms big and farms small,

And now with massive agribusiness,

I struggle to fit them all!


So scattered near my concrete side,

On specially prepared ground,

Tarpaulin covered grains dumps,

Keep grain stored safe and sound.


I’ve witnessed many tragic times,

And lots of moments of young love,

Of busy and of fruitful times,

Or when no rain falls from above.


School leavers find some work with me,

And uni students do the same,

I’ve taken on some newcomers,

Or those of long time known family name.


Yes, some approach me greedily,

Thinking of number one,

Others come skidding speedily,

To get that fast job done.


I hear some make an image of me,

To talk of people and of teams,

Who keep things cut off separately,

And store isolated dreams.


Before they talk of silos roughly,

They need to come and visit me,

Then they’ll get the message toughly,

That does not describe me.


I don’t hide away people or ideas,

I network the city and country,

And stage people’s tears and fears,

The locals catch up by me.


They may see someone not seen for weeks,

They may see for frequent visits then,

And as harvest season peaks,

They may not be seen again.


Before you use me as an image,

Of some isolated or greedy lot,

Come pay me a visit,

And then you’ll get the plot.


Simon C.J. Falk     17 December 2019


Picture from the Australian Silo Art Trail. More here.  Accessed 17 December 2019





Coming Of Age

Coming Of Age

When an infant small

I could not feed

Myself at all.

My food came from

Your hand.


In brokenness

Of a fall

To our distress

You are fed

But from my hand.

In this maturing of

Coming of age

We are both nourished

For a different stage.

Simon C.J. Falk 19 July 2019

A Neighbour Passed By


A Neighbour Passed By…


I sat


Bereft from the beating

Wasn’t they raised with

“You don’t hit girls!”

Or, do I not look

Like a girl?

Whatever that means.

But I wasn’t letting them off

Easily, with the ‘Big Issue’ cash

Not for their stash

Towards their double-dealt slavery

To their cravings and fealty

To the faceless dealers.

Suit-clad women and men

With important looking papers in their grasp

Tapped a rapid rhythm

As their fashionable footwear

Bore them away

To offices of the clones.


The odd Christian and Muslim cleric

Passed by

Looking furtively from me to there

And where others

May be observing them

From the courtroom of current conventions.


Before they all passed

Another left me lying.

It was I.

I passed me by

Passed me off

Passed on.

I could have called

“Help! I’ve been beaten!”

“I’ve been robbed

By broken people

And a broken society

And my own broken spirit!”

I was not a neighbour

To myself.


From where

Would come the help?



Simon C.J. Falk 13 July 2019