Sorry I was high


The tram

A man with praying hands,
a rosary of heart beats,
sees the sun rise,
like a lion's eyes.
There's confetti kisses
on the floor of the tram.

The falling stars of a child's tears.
The people hang on
like coats on a hanger.
Along Elizabeth Street
the tram stops to eat.



'I was sitting across from the doctor,
like a possum on a fence,
He fed me apples,
Medication in a blister pack,
An apple a day.
I grabbed it and ran away.'

'I'm sorry for my indecision,
as I gave the guitar back to her,
and went out and scored
Down by the river was all I heard.
The thunder and lightning
of a storm in the sky
of an angry old man
and I was sorry I was high.'


Dusk peppermint skies

The young ones next door play fiddle and guitar
The apple stars fall.
And by the music of the dark
Cider voices call out.
Spider man on the couch
Dreams of oil by the gallon,
Gold by the ounce.
This is the house that will turn to rust
With rusty neighbours
Who smile like sugar.
Night falls,
A rich jar of pasta sauce.
Then moon appears,
A tossed coin.
Spun into dust



A man carries a newborn,
A lady carries flowers.
Each carries responsibilities.
The world is round,
but I talked about thinking outside the square —
of St Vincent's square,
where God points his finger,
where you step on the ants,
and stare at the stars.


Dope stars

They'll help you out if they can,
with a bud or a star,
they'll even pawn their guitar.
On the corner,
like an unloved spider.
If you've got a cigarette,
they've got the lighter.
They're in love with all the Gods.
They get along with their bong.
For them the smoke is the Holy Ghost.
But the Father and Son are like two fish in a pond.
They're not scared of cancer,
because cancer is an old piano in the corner that never gets played.
They've wasted their lives being wasted.
They're shifty when they score a three for fifty.
It helps them sleep,
it helps them relax,
just don't get on their backs

Peta Edmonds headshotPeta Edmonds is studying a diploma in professional writing and editing. She came first in her novel writing class with a novel she is working on called Tramspotting

Topic tags: Peta Edmonds, new Australian poems



submit a comment

Existing comments

Terrific!! Shades of Francis Thompson?
john frawley | 19 March 2013

What charming, Earthy poetry! Thanks Peta.
Cameron Gaffney | 22 March 2013

Similar Articles

Child soldier learns murder and motherhood

  • Tim Kroenert
  • 14 March 2013

Komona is just 12 when she is brutally conscripted by rebel soldiers. Before long she falls pregnant under horrific circumstances. The best that can be said about her situation is that it offers fragile hope that life may be made to flourish even in a landscape of violence and death.


Dawn of the Assange cult

  • Tim Kroenert
  • 15 March 2013

The roots of Assange's civil disobedience are linked to his derision of his mother's penchant for ineffective peaceful protest. His family's run-ins with the mountain cult of which they were one-time members hints at lasting psychological trauma in Asssange that may contribute to his later persona as a lone avenger.


We've updated our privacy policy.

Click to review