Poetry – Page 18

The Coming of a Winter Night

The winter night comes.
Pastel persimmon and pink,
with fiery orange.
The sky turns to violet,
indigo and the darkness.

The thunderous rain
a promise made between two
The cat meows, “No!”
Heavy rain becomes a storm
a promise broken again

Sea pigeons do circle
The scent of methane, rotten and sour
dreaming of verdant green

forgotten by the world
sitting beside a broken toaster
kettle without a cup

We remember a home
to be of service, to have purpose
boiling, steaming, toasting

Idle
We sit contemplating
Waiting

Watching the sparrows
Birds become interesting
sitting by the sill
a spiritual knowing
mesmerised by the gossip

The forest is near
a deepening of onyx
The moonlit shadows
a vision of the wild sea
The house lights are my lighthouse

a purple blooming
The sky beyond the window
a cobalt blue day
The cascading chandelier
Wisteria in my view

Sunrise at seven
waking to a winter chill
feeling the cold sheets
a mellow morning coffee
Watching the colours lighten

drab brown aesthetics
puffy taffeta pink dress
a pencil and tape
loading the cassette player
dance to forget the cold war

Grandma gardening
with her curious grandchild
Into everything
They stumble upon a worm
“Do worms live in dirt wormholes?”

Grandma looks around
Her curious grandchild waits
poking at the worms
Grandma looks down sternly and
says, “They live in a Worm House.”

caught by the summer
lost in a Monet painting
a honey-laced voice
propped up on a numb elbow
a delightful happenstance