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God is love, so milk that dairy cow



Selected poems


Out my plane window

Out my plane window,

The light on the wing, and the full moon follows.

It's the turbulence of prophets.

I've left my sister behind, the inner Goddess oracle.

She came all the way, short of getting on the plane with me.

The last flight was hit by lightning.

I'm more frightened of flying, on flying Virgin unicorns,

Then dying of a broken heart.



God is love, so milk that dairy cow

Anniversary of a Princess's death,

The breath between heartbeats,

The flowers we left, like straggling men and women,

With spring blossoming under silent eyelids.

As I sit in the Paris end of Collins street, I touch a poor woman's shoulder,

And she looks up, her head wrapped in a veil, and I hand her some money.

She clasps my hand, says thank you,

Fingers count the rosary of coins.

How will she know she is loved?

Aretha, the Queen of soul who died last week is on the cover of the Big Issue.

I buy it from the homeless man, and tell him to keep the change.

He says 'God Bless.'

I buy 'Sweet Dreams' on vinyl, karma will return to me.

I read a poem in the quiet place of St Michael's church, and my words echo,

And the cheque bounces.

A couple of dollars left, the soul soldiers on.

I thank God for listening to my poem,

I thank the weather beaten people.




Always looking for my mama,

How the drama unfolded.

A little lamb to the tea-light shepherd.

Now I'm all grown up and I think I've found her,

Carrying my poems in her heart,

In the lemon, lime and bitters light.


Street-corner poem,

Waiting for some-one to take him home.

A familiar space appears to write what's dear.

Street-corner poem,

The café crows don't know about the white-breasted dove,

That sings about love,

While the city grinds us into paper cups.


The ice blue eyes of a male husky.

A point blank,


Stare from a spirit animal.

People's effects on me are minimal.


There's no interest in your heart,

To pay off the debt of love.

Your horns clash with the stars.

Everyone has an agenda,

Says the gentle dreamer.


Mother of pearl rock n roll came early to me,

And smoke curls rise in the tenement hearts of the

Peppermint sucked poets.



Peta Yowie headshotPeta Yowie is a Melbourne writer.

Topic tags: Peta Yowie, poetry



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Existing comments

These are so beautiful! Thank you.

Cassandra | 28 November 2018  

Thank you for writing these poems.

Zay | 13 May 2019  

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