Poetry | Stories | Photography
In the Winter dark of night
Standing alone under the starless sky
Insignificant in other’s minds
A sense of longing taunts my thoughts
hoping it will crush me and mine
I let the taunts try as the stars appear
Significant to the spirit within my shell
embracing the way the leaves fall
Winds blow around me, for I am home
Dirty cobblestone streets
dimly lit by Marxism-Leninism.
Blood runs through the cobblestones
pooling and lost between the cracks.
Dilapidated buildings of splendour,
a history long forgotten in obedience.
Books burnt long ago now never exist;
music played long ago now never heard.
Dancing and laughter cause suspicion,
breading horrific intelligentsia paranoia.
Broken instruments pile up on street corners,
and bright clothing is now just a false memory.
Dirty streets washed in creative blood,
staining the cobblestones with our love.
Too much sun,
not enough shade.
Flowers in bloom,
too many colours.
Too much light,
not enough darkness.
Birds sing and dance,
too many songs.
Too much Summer,
not enough Winter
to take my heart,
make it cold,
feel the chill,
the Autumn feel.
My kitchen
Stepping on a ship setting sail for Scotland
My kettle dreams
Sailing into a port of perils with tea
My Biscuits
Scottish tartan shortbread from Mum
My porcelain cup
Showing me blessings in her love
Winter tells the Woods, “The time has come for you to leave Autumn behind.”
The Woods hear Winter, yet Autumn still calls from far away.
The trees understand Autumn’s end and shed their sorry leaves.
Copper leaves;
Only a few left now.
Autumn lost;
Winter found the Woods.
Deciduous trees stand;
Silent fog breathes still.
Copper leaves fall;
Trees now stand bare.
Dancing fingers move above the places
where
energy meets the many sounds of the sea.
Touching the places that make the sea
come alive through vibrations and sounds.
Dancing fingers make the sea rush
into the piano as the shore shifts.
Slowly, the sounds of the winter sea shift
the room and the forest begins to sound.
Dancing fingers move the sea to the shore,
to show us the forest, the snow, the silence.
Compose the colours
of a winter symphony
to end a grey day
a winter grey day
knit the season into a
cloud-covered jumper
delicate petals
a vase of dying roses and peonies
falling towards a barren, dark place
faint grey light
the flowers start their transformation
they lose their form, fresh scent, dew
empty stems
drying and fading in the dark place
transferred to a bowl with a gold lid
those dry, dead petals remain alive
if only in their dream of eternal love
first flowers
C & K 