Date: 18th of November, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Guest: Ben Clement
Find him at: Good Sport Studio & Good Sport Magazine
Ben Run's at: AM.PM.RC
Ben's Poem:
Please bring strange things.
Please come bringing new things.
Let very old things come into your hands.
Let what you do not know come into your eyes.
Let desert sand harden your feet.
Let the arch of your feet be the mountains.
Let the paths of your fingertips be your maps
And the ways you go be the lines of your palms.
Let there be deep snow in your inbreathing
And your outbreath be the shining of ice.
May your mouth contain the shapes of strange words.
May you smell food cooking you have not eaten.
May the spring of a foreign river be your navel.
May your soul be at home where there are no houses.
Walk carefully, well-loved one,
Walk mindfully, well-loved one,
Walk fearlessly, well-loved one.
Return with us, return to us,
Be always coming home.”
― Ursula K. Le Guin
Josh's Poem:
If we were to run like flowers,
Perhaps we'd bloom like flowers,
We'd work with the wind,
Embrace the rain,
Move slowly in the sun,
And tread lightly as we run.
Recording date: 12th of November, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
Guest: Charlie Pauly
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Notes Running, drop your email.
Poem:
I couldn't hear my thoughts,
my heart beat drowned in the crowd,
breathe in, breathe out
come back to your arms,
eyes on the road,
What do you remember running to be?
The crowd lifted me,
guided me, and carried me,
But when it all fell quiet,
I returned to myself,
A practice, and a love.
There is no noises sweeter
than my own footsteps.
Date: 11th of November, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Poem:
Running is a compass
You will be lost on a GPS
but only ever guided
truly, by your own heart
the magnets of alignment
are burried within
You mustn't let them gather dust,
That will be your greatest sin.
Recorded live in NY, November 1st,2025.
From Radio Bakery, NYC.
Guest: Tom Reynolds.
Date: 24th of October, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Poem:
I look at the egg shells in my sink,
thinking about the mundanity of life,
It rains the next day,
and it makes me feel alive.Too many sunny days,
they all start feeling the same.A switch up,
dirt in my eyes,
everyone’s tensing their shoulders
relax,
it’s just rain.It’s just rain.I ride home,smiling.I’m alive.I’m alive.Happy for the egg shells in my sink.
Date: 21st of October, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Poem:
They gave me shivers when I was ten,Muhammad Ali from an inkjet, stapled for my friends
They were homework when I was 12,
holidays in Indonesia, and air-conditioned hotel roomsThey were letters on a plane at fifteen,interstate trips following an early dreamThey were handmade paper journals at 18,
under tables and banana trees in Vietnam.They were songs and camera settings at 19,sliding door moments, and entry passes to new worlds.They were test results and doctor’s certificates at 21,university wasn’t for me, try again.They were scribbles in Russian, Norwegian, and Swedishby travellers and lovers from worlds away.They were race times and mountain ridgelines at 23,I found a world that I wanted to be a part of.They were global certificates at 25,I could leave the countr,y but I couldn’t return.They were books and poems at 27,you’re not coming, this is all I have.They were advertisements and commercials at 28,my career changed again, I’m getting better.They were “I love yous” and “I miss yous” at 29,something I waited patiently for.They might be plans and dreams when I turn 30,I hope they’re clear and sharp and full of life.
Words have always been there,
at every point of my life
Date: 14th of October, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Poem:
A year ago:
You wouldn’t believe me,but the skies did.You wouldn’t listen to me,
but the trees did.You wouldn’t wait for me,
but the breeze did.You wouldn’t ask for me,
but the birds did.
You wouldn’t cherish me,
but the rivers did.You wouldn’t lay with me,
but the sunrise did.You wouldn’t ask for me,
but the rain did.You wouldn’t make space for me,
but the mountains did.You wouldn’t write to me,
but the flowers did.
when I wished to the sky.
when I ran through the trees.
when I ran wild in the breezewhen I whistled to the birds.
when I laid my soul out on the river beds.When I was up early before sunrise.
When I walked slowly through the rainWhen I hummed in the mountains
When I held wild flowers loosely.
I didn’t believe me.
Nature never declined me.
Date: 7th of October, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Date: 30th of September, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Poem:
Down the path, a little to the left,
our feet trod, sodden in the morning dew.
A glimpse into the wild,
amognst streets of red brick,
and bitumen painted with chewing gum and hald-eaten banana peels.
To feel wild,
is to allow the magnet to pull you.,
through steel and stone,
until you are returned
to the ground
where the trees tell you,
you're never alone.
Date: Recorded on the 16th of September, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia // Boston, USA.
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My Guest:
Lee Glandorf.
Lee's Substack: https://thesweatlookbook.substack.com/
Lee's Poem: "I Thank You God For This Most Amazing" by E.E Cummings.
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
Date: 16th of September, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Poem:
I am a beat
in the veins
of an ache.
I will never
be softer
than I am now.
I ask for solitude
and light
In the absence of permission.
Without, I will
no longer
be an ache,
only a stabbing pain, screaming
to be released.
I can no longer live here.
Date: 8th of September, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Poem:
I am not searching for a timeI am not striving to attain finer detailsbeyond these kilometreson the edges of where you and I existbetween the sunrise and the sunsetI want to find the places where the world disappearsThere must be a place that is messywhere nothing makes sense
I need to keep runningtill I find what’s on the other side
Of perfection
Date: 2nd of September, 2025
Location: Melbourne, Australia
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Poem:
There is art in your heart.It lives quietly.It lives in places far away from screens.It lives at the corner of the table you eat breakfast, with no phones around.It lives on ridgelines above the clouds.It lives on the highways at 130km/hr.It lives at the bottom of a cup of coffee, in the soaked grinds of coffee residue.It lives in the conversations with friends, 3 hours 49 minutes into a phone call.It lives in the corner of the shower, tired and delirious.It lives on the butchers paper sprawled across your kitchen table.It lives at the 44th minute of your favourite playlist.It lives in the way you waltz across the floor when friends are over for dinner.It lives because you gave it life.There is art in your heart.
You have a lot to share.I have a lot to share.We have a lot to share.
We must share our art,not our worries or our comparisons.We must share our abundance,not our lack.
Date: 25th of August, 2025
Location: Sydney, Australia
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Find Paul here: @thebalancedrunner
Poem:
I can’t remember the day I started
or the first time my lungs started screaming
I don’t remember my first blister
or the pressure my palms placed on my knees,
hunched over, demanding more air.
I bounded, shuffled,
sprinted, jogged,
chased, fled, hammered,
and even wept, when the string down the side of my leg
stopped cooperating.
My body became a negotiator,
making deals with the concrete,
and asking for loans,
a debt of heartbeats.I paid tax on carbon,
and became friends with sugar,
all with a blind faith,
because I don’t remember how I started,
I don’t know where I’m going,
and i don’t even fucking know,
who taught me how to run?Anybody?
Date: 17th of August, 2025
Location: Lucerne, Switzerland!
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Poem: "Hardergrat"
On the edge, where I could die, but won’t.
Not today, for I started singing.
My mind knows tricks,
But it isn’t the controller,
Not today,
A - B.
Date: 12th of August, 2025
Location: Madeira, Portugal
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Poem #1:
All morning I thought of figs.
Quietly, they sit,
beside my makeshift dining table.
The tree talks louder the further August goes on.
I run into the highest point of blue I can reach,
till the mountain says no more.
My legs bear the dust, I’m grateful I bought water.
Would I just be a rock without this life that bleeds through me?
Off the mountain,
In thick accent, I’m handed ameixas
In small plastic, a dozen or so?
Are these from your home?
My Father’s.
Plums. They’ll do.
Days before it was beetroot and corn.
Returning to my stone walls,
I think of the fig tree.
Waiting to nourish me.
I take just one.
One fig for now.
Poem #2:
Every epoch is paired with a flavour.
Lands that felt like the last frontier were salty.
Late summers in France, peaches under castle shade.
Some years, I made myself sick, overdosing on Camembert.
Saved my bread, and Swiss Chocolate.
Taste is amplified by the seasons,
And multiplied by the company.
Yet, it becomes cemented to my core
In the days I feel most alive.
The European Summer of 25’
Will be remembered by the subtle sweetness,
Of the fig tree in the North of Portugal.
Plastic buckets full,
Must be eaten,
In two days.
These days will be remembered by the honeying of figs,
And the forging
Of the man
I am becoming.
Date: 5th of August, 2025
Location: Madeira, Portugal
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Poem:
I desperately tried to write poetically,
Something, anything.
Observing my words,
It was apparent poetry had left me
With ease,
And no need for it to be extracted achingly.
I listened to the echoes of the ocean in rockwalls,
Mumbling two words of Portuguese to
A leathered man on cobbled stone
Surrounded by zucchini flowers
And fresh figs, whitened with stretch marks.
All day I wished for the sun to stay longer
And in those wishes
I found poetry.
It didn’t need to be written,
Simply it was lived.
Date: 28th of July, 2025
Location: Madeira, Portugal
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Poem:
A bucket of beans picked by leathered hands,
left in the sun, awaiting validation from the rain.
Rugged concrete walls, acting as living rooms
For washing lines, lizards of the north, and summer flowers.
An old buoy, I walk into it three times a day,
Rusted pegs, and a knife turning battered, blackened, peppered, and salted.
Windows facing seacliffs, million dollar views, no-ones cares.
Fruit, yet to ripen, one day to be savoured, maybe wasted.
Every Sunday, a meeting spot for the family,
A few kids not knowing their fortune,
Wishing away the riches of boredom.
Brick behind my front right tyre,
And my stick left in third, ignition off.
Stalling on start, a clunky first gear,
A little humid without the windows down
I keep forgetting to get cash, Cash for flowers.
Lady on the corner. A few bunches left. Can I send them home?
I've been waiting round fora note from home,
Forgetting, home is always in the details you choose to notice.
So, I go on, 40km over the speed limit.
Running into the wind and the blackberries.
Date: 21st of July, 2025
Location: Madeira, Portugal
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Poem: "Words"
You had a funny way of saying things,
placing commas, where I didn’t think to pause,
saying ‘period’ instead of ‘full stop.’
Except, the words you used, made me stop,
giving me reasons to think about the world
in ways I didn’t care to before.My words were crunchy, and scratchy,
like a vinyl turned dusty,
left out for too long.
Yet yours were smooth,
just as the honey was in your summer cabin.
I could never talk with syrupy words like you,
they’d leave my mouth like boulders hitting an xylophone,
bumping four notes at once,
when I only needed one tap to make a point.
I started to celebrate my scratches, and my umms, and my ahhs.
I became smarter when I used my words,
my own words,
mixing them like a wooden spoon in life’s batter.
Stirring them slowly, making sure
they eventually find their place
but of course,
with no rush.
Words don’t need to be beaten into existence
just stirred, and melted,
shaped, and moulded,
but not taken away because they clumped together on a humid day.
I wish for words like yours
but I have my own,
and they’re sweet on Tuesday’s
sickly on Saturday’s
and just fine on Monday’s.
I am a nest of words, with hummingbirds visiting,
to take twigs, and feathers,
in the shapes of ideas and letters,
to places of the world I will never see.
My words must look like me,
or you’ll never know,
why I chose red ink or blue,
in the portuguese summer,
at 4.57pm by the sea.
Date: 14th of July, 2025
Location: Madeira Portugal
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Weekly poem:
There’s a similarity to the tensions of my mind
with the environment I’m in right now.
To my left_noise.A party, movement, excitement, bouncing versions of the images one can be.To my right, a castle, fundamentally strong.Calm, quiet, peaceful.A centre to remain and hold both balance and meaning.One will fade, one will stand the tests of time.I hope to find home in the castle.