Tag Archives: Lindsay McLeod

Lindsay McLeod, ‘The Swing’

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The black dog comes less to me lately
I fight the bait of the Siren’s barbed songs
I’ve tightened my belt to the hunger I’ve felt
scanned the sky for a place to belong.

But I’ve been to this point of the compass before
since we twitched off our vows and our rings
alone in the dark at one end of the arc
where that half-broken pendulum swings.

Still I’ve nothing left here to hold onto
afraid I’ll fall back to the place that I came
where I’ll take up my axe to the rainbow again
and bite deep into bright shining pain.

*****

Lindsay McLeod writes: “Fear not for my current mental health, as I wrote this 20 years ago.”

‘The Swing’ was originally published in Snakeskin.

Lindsay McLeod is an Australian writer who lives quietly on the coast of the great southern penal colony with (yet another ferocious Aussie animal) his cattle dog,  Mary. Lindsay still drives a forklift to support his poetry habit.

Image: “Feeding The Black Dog” by @mich.robinson is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Lindsay McLeod, ‘She’

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She drinks a bit more
she loves a bit less
she no longer fits
in her wedding dress.

She’s given up trying,
accepted her fate,
feels herself thinning
while she stacks on the hate.

Doesn’t feel like his partner
his mate or his wife,
all she feels is as hard
and as sharp as a knife.

She reels her mind back
but can’t seem to recall,
what she ever saw in him,
why she married at all.

It’s a dead man’s float,
face down on the bed,
they sleep separate, unsound
in their queen sized dread.

So she’ll tread bitter water
as she has done for years,
not so much married to him
as she is to her fears.

*****

Lindsay McLeod writes: “‘She’ was written in my head, wearing ear protection in a factory. It was about my (then) partner who had recently escaped a toxic relationship.” The poem was originally published in Fine Flu.

Lindsay McLeod is an Australian writer who lives quietly on the coast of the great southern penal colony with (yet another ferocious Aussie animal) his cattle dog,  Mary. Lindsay still drives a forklift to support his poetry habit.

Photo: “fulla-ocell / leave-bird ( Every little thing she does is magic )” by Jordi@photos is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Lindsay McLeod, ‘Harvest’

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There’s just so many nows in forever
if we’re apart or together as one,
we’d better cherish them all if we’re clever
make the most of our time in the sun,

‘coz it’s where we are led whether up or in bed
there’s one funeral we all must attend,
because somewhere ahead the sea kisses the sky
and the name of that place is the end.

*****

Lindsay McLeod writes: “‘Harvest’ was made as an end piece for the second book I wrote for my daughter.” It was originally published in Grand Little Things.

Lindsay McLeod currently lives by the sea on the Southern edge of the world, where he trips over the offing every morning. He has been published here and there in the past and won a few awards. He has started messing about with words again lately after a few necessary years away. You might expect him to know better by now, but oh no.

Photo: “Another Timor Sea sunset from Casuarina Beach, Darwin, NT, Australia” by Geoff Whalan is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Lindsay McLeod, ‘Last Call’

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If this isn’t what you’ve yearned for
or indeed what you are craving
then cup your hands, drink deeply
of a sweeter misbehaving.

If you cannot find your wine inside
the glass that you were given,
taste the new with eyes and thighs
and dye your lips a deep vermillion

with a juice that has been pressed
from vines let grow out of control
that taste of summertime and
sex and drugs and rock and roll

because if you…

find distaste in your final breath
dressed in another’s ill fit clothes
remember, this did not just happen
sweetheart, this is what you chose.

*****

Lindsay McLeod is an Australian poet that has won a few things and is widely published. He just had to start messing about with words again lately. You’d think he’d know better by now, but oh no. Some of his most recent work can be found in DILLYDOUN REVIEW, GRAND LIL THINGS, DRAWN TO THE LIGHT, POETiCA and MORTAL MAGAZINE.

RHL: In addition to Mr McLeod’s self-description, let me add that I have been trying and failing to contact him. I don’t even have permission to post this poem. If anyone can put me in touch with him, I would be grateful.

Photo: “98/365: ♫ Red, Red Wine…” by rogersmj is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.