Date: 18th of February

Location: Pukehina, New Zealand

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Poem: It all goes so fast when it's over,

trails feel softer when you're on concrete,

a tree's lullaby nestles a home in a city scape,

it all moves so fast when it's quiet.

It hurts to break rules – only when you know them

I never made the rules

so how can I follow them

could my heart beat faster, if I let it.

could my legs ache less, if I asked

could my eyes blink slower, if I tried

could my mind please wander, if I showed it how. It's rained for days,

and will rain many more

harry and the storm,

swinging tires

and beach cliffs

you and me

all there is to keep warm.

I'll be on the plane soon,

jammed in the can.

two sardines

two mackerel

two tuna

two legs.

It all goes so fast, now that it's over.

Recorded on:10th of February, 2025

Location:Melbourne, Victoria.

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I'd like to acknowledge the Wurundjeri-Willam people of the Kulin Nation as the Traditional Owners of the land on which this podcast is recorded, where I live, run and create from.
Poem:

A Note to the Runners - (Fun first)

This isn't the numbers, because I can't read them

this isn't about the numbers, because I can't feel them.

This isn't about the distance, because it still comes back to numbers.

so it must be something else,

it must be something you can't tell me objectively

it must be something you know,

that I know,

that we can share

without words

something you can see in my eye

something that i'll notice on your arms

and the back of your neck

when your hair stands on end

something that i'll see when you can't go any further

something that I'll know because your my friend

I don't care to tell you the distance I've covered

I want to tell you if I had fun

if i felt alive

that's the only metric I'll ever care about

because that's all I ever remember.

Recorded: 4th of February, 2025

Location: Blairgowrie, Victoria

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Poem: JEFF.

Would you talk to me for the sandals on my feet,

or the two-paper cup, long black in hand?

Some time ago, we shared the same stories

ran the same trails,

for the same reasons.

Filling our shoes with sand, collecting heartbeats

noticing the birdcalls, and rolling legs – down dirt hills.

Did you talk to me because of the way I was sitting

Or was it a look in my eye, one that you know

long before, did you look at the world

the same was you saw me do

did you look at the world

the same way she looked at me across the table.

I'm learning the lessons

you learned so long ago,

and you'd do anything to

be learning them again or would you?

we talk about this at our dinner table.

I hope you continue to talk to me,

and the people at the wooden table

long black in hand, crossiants in three paper bags.

It's the very thing that makes me love the world

these interactions

do more work than gravity

they hold us together,

when everything wants to pull us apart. I'll tell those behind the counter

about my time on the trails.

Recorded: Tuesday 28th of January 2025.

Location: Melbourne, Victoria - JL HQ

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Poem:

What do you do when your inspiration becomes boring?

when bright lights go grey,

and big hitters, miss the ball? it all looks the same, green gone blue and back to green

confusing me and you

to be called cool, and then to cool down

no longer hot, red or white,

but blue, ready for the next shoe

to roll in, roll around, and roll out.

style comes and goes,

but isn't that the ideal

that style should stay

and never go out of fashion

but fashion moves in, and out

faster than a removalist team

and it's so far removed now

that I no longer know what style is

because it doesn't stay to drink tea with me

instead it rings the door bell,

peers through the intercom

and gone, like the ghost I never held a look at so i'm bored because inspiration tried to mimic motivation

instead it should have taken a, vacation

read more books, fished with more hooks,

but now we're all hungry

and bored

and tired.

we're all tired.

Recorded: January 21st, 2025

Location: Naarm/ Melbourne.

I could write you the most beautiful poem in the world,

talking to you about the love I have for light blue skies lightly dusted in peach hues,

or what it feels like to fall asleep smiling next to a love I adore,

perhaps, I could use elegant words like halcyon and oeuvre,

but I know this not to be beauty,

not in the way the world wants me to talk about it.

I could sit with you and tell you about the intricacies of the gardens and fruit trees that line my street, taking you on a journey, door to door, petal to petal, mulberry to pommegranet

or simply, my favourite place to sit at 2pm on a sunday,

paper in hand, and paintbrushes nearby.

but I know this not to be beauty,

not in the way that society wants me to talk about it.

I've come to know that you,

and I,

are the closest thing there is.

but it is not you who is beautiful,

and it certainly not me. I am a bunch of dead skin, that rents space amongst stardust

and you are from an old galaxy, that died long ago.

but I know this not to be beauty

not in the way that literature wants to talk about it. It can't be in the way you dress,

and I wish it were so, but it is not found amongst the sky in the morning

as much as I crave, it is not the way you talk to me

oh to be true, no sweet hold of mine is synonymous with the word.

and it leaves me to be,

to wonder,

and ruminate. If it is none of these things,

nothing I can touch,

or know,

see, or be.

Where must I go,

to find something so beautiful

beautiful is a thought,

a space,

a light,

a feeling.

something you and I cannot touch,

we cannot reach for it,

ask for it,

simply,

we can only nurture it.

You will never see what I know to be beautiful,

unless you know it within.

so I will not write you a poem

or send you a photo,

or take you to my favourite place.

I want to sit with you when the light turns on,

when the feeling is present,

and the space inside you cannot be broken for a moment.

You will not know beauty,

until you sit with it,

inside.

Recorded: 12th of January, 2025

Location: The Ace Hotel, Sydney.

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Poem: "Suit up"

Structured and cut without any soul,

Hard to move, to dance, to feel

Is this when I'm meant to look my best?

Buttoned up, belted, and pushed in

Where have I gone?

the part of me that moves so easily

it's hard to see

especially when you can't remember

any part of me.

Keep looking around,

ther' must be somewhere in this town,

a place for you,

that knows you,

understands you,

talks like you,

makes you,

feel like,

you.

the material talks to you,

makes friends with your skin

and beats in time with your heart.

synchronicity is sweet

when you land on both feet.

You shouldn't be standing the way you are

locked up, swirling, leaning

half-smiling,

give me anything,

a laugh or something.

So the best suit was the one you know

it can't be bought, or taught

it can't be sold.

buy you will buy it,

maybe you'll one day make it.

what they're trying to sell you

has no soul,

and that's the worst thing in the world,

you could ever buy.

Recorded: January 7th, 2025

Location: Blairgowrie, Victoria

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The Tiny Thought Sheet.

Poem: Page 25 from my book, A Note to the Runners.

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Recorded: 31st December, 2024.

Blairgowrie.

Poem:

My shoes sit by the door

wandering when I'll wake up,

the bird songs are a gentle alarm,

my eyes puffy and swollen are not ready for the world,

to drink coffee now or later,

I can't be sure.

it'll come to me

when my run is done,

I thank my shoes for waiting.

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POEM:

Some things are sweet

like you and me,

like the last rose who sits out wide,

like the honey jar from Greece in July.

Some things are sour,

like the bones in my feet

at the tendons pulling hard

like the weather in December, not true to form.

Some things are hot,

like my heart in the calendar

so few hours for so many plans

or like my legs in the summer sand, red and tanned.

It's all sweet and it's all sour,

yet I keep burning up

from trying to cool down.

Recorded: Tuesday December 17th.

Location: Adelaide, South Australia

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Poem:

I remember you, the one with big dreams

and a bigger heart,

so wide eyed at the very start. You went to the edge,

to the well,

to the peak,

all around,

looking for some kind of spell.

You went looking for magic,

disappointed with the world,

and the stories it had to tell,

so you came back

wandering

dwelling,

digging,

hoping,

crying.

Little to find.

So you did it yourself,

you built the most beautiful thing you knew how,

a letter to the world,

full of notes,

love,

and something little you,

would smile at it,

as you take the bow.

Hello to me

to you,

all those days ago,

you went out there,

and did the very thing,

you said you were going to do.