When we touched,
you were the one.
Longing for fingers,
dancing southward.
Together too long,
fighting over nothing.
When we fought,
I was in lonely exile.
Longing for you,
wishing it better.
Together too long,
too long together
to let this love go.
Category: Poetry
Hidden Kettle
An aversion to
the kettle in the kitchen.
Hidden from my sight,
a cup of tea calls to me;
the kettle sits in the bin.
Emotional Totalitarianism
A world devoid of emotion,
the only colour to wear is grey.
They stand in a single file,
waiting for their daily rations.
Just one look he stole for love,
a look she returned for life.
Locked in a totalitarian world,
walking to their execution.
Phosphorescent Prints
steps are taken by
leaving phosphorescent prints
on the forest floor.
soft whispers stir
taking the noise of the night
into still music.
the forest holds
her breath waiting for the shift
from the moon.
she steps towards
the path of starlight as the snow
begins to fall.
Storyteller
“The stories she told! I don’t see ‘er so well now, yet she’s in my heart still telling stories.”
“She must have been an interesting woman.”
“My Lasse, she was no woman unless women are made of water and shells. No, she’s the sea! The sea is the best storyteller.”
Island Home
A wild wind howls,
cold and free
from your aching.
The sea is freezing,
ice boulders
sit lining the shore.
A green windswept
set of ancient
mountains far away.
The sea is so loud,
calling you
to stay the course.
You fall to the sand,
free again
on your island home.
Velvet Shadows
A dark room,
the smell of roses and
breathing from the bed.
Alone and waiting,
wanting to touch;
quickening from the bed.
A touch in the dark,
the room melts away and
so do the sheets, clothes.
A play of shadows;
moonlight from the skylight,
ecstasy in the dark.
Magnolia Melody
Soft pink petals
budding ready to bloom
against the soft grey sky.
Droplets, dance, splash
and cling to the petals
of a new budding bloom.
Soft sounds whisper
a song of endings and
beginnings, as buds bloom.
To the Forest
The door opens,
she steps outside.
The night is warm,
gardenia nearby.
The moonlight full,
a forest all around.
The sound of a friend,
a call from the forest.
The door closes,
she runs for the forest.
Ochre Afternoon
The blind moves as the breeze flow through the window; I can see the change sun rays make on my skin, as my arms colour and look like desert sand.
The sun casts strong rays across the backyard, as the cobwebs move and drift between grass, weeds, the fence, and the bees dance on the weed flowers.
A song from the crickets, birds, a few flies, and the next-door neighbour’s air-conditioner puts my mind to sleep, as I soak up the last sunlight of the day.
A change in tempo is on the breeze, as the afternoon drifts into twilight, and the time for sweet soft days of washing going stiff on the line comes to an end.
The heat of the day is turning into the warmth of another ending, another night; I won’t miss what I no longer have on this sunlit day, for the night is bright.
One song is coming to an end and another song is ready to begin, so I fight with the pegs and the stiff washing: waiting for the first fresh Autumn day.
