To ponder the wind moving the grass. A sense of grace moves through the quiet places of our home.
Not one for religion, yet there is a sense of peace in a church where everyone is welcome.
My thoughts feed the Sunday night existential dread.
I sit and ponder.
A broken canvas
piercing the painting
wildly moving inspiration
the wall and canvas collide
A dull one dimensional easel
the inspiration river flows outside
A broken canvas and broken gems
The artwork reveals itself.
“I haven’t seen you before. How did you get here so quickly?”
“Me? Yeah, well, I decided to grow overnight. I’m expecting my friends soon”.
“Aren’t you a weed?”
“Aren’t you a rose?”
“I think so. Passers-by say there are mirrors for that sort of thing.”
So, what’s the difference?
“You look like a tart; I look like a lady”.
“You are a bit thorny today”.
Dead eyes see nothing,
for life has gone from their bodies.
Their blood mixes with the dust
as the Earth tries to cover our shame.
The broken bodies of unjust wars,
their silence goes unnoticed by many.
You fear the ghosts of the dead,
yet you turn away as bombs kill the living.
A selective concern for war,
there is always a right side and a wrong side.
Funnelled news distorts your mind,
thinking too deeply cuts into internet shopping.
You curse Russia for the war in Ukraine,
yet you don’t know where Yemen is on a map.
I hover between sleep and awake, feeling the effects of waking dreams and a death-like calm.
The music presses me on through feelings of exhaustion and stressed-out commitments.
When the song stops, I find myself falling towards the keyboard.
I hover, then give in to my dreams.
You walk away from humans when emotions get tough, interactions get too real, and the hurts too rough.
You keep making excuses for your life choices, being broke, and having no friends.
A bottle a day keeps everyone away, is what you love to say.
It becomes too much on Christmas Day as you feel your soul fading away.
We both grasp the things we once thought we had, those things that made our love a fire.
Since David died, you said I changed. I did. I started to write again after many years.
With each word, we move further apart until the last word we say is goodbye.
How will he be mine?
Cat-like in her scheming, a devious plan develops.
A frog lover, she thinks ‘danger’ and dresses as an Ophidian.
Slinking along in the grass, she never saw the snake.
He saw a flurry of grass, a flying snake, and the cute neighbour running towards him.
An urbanised prodigy.
While playing the violin, his teacher said, “You need to understand nature for this piece”.
Baffled, he said, “I don’t understand”.
The teacher said, “You hold wood and shellac; you touch horse hair and resin. Is this not part of nature?
The warmth of the night, the insect sounds, and the thought of getting nibbled to death by mozzies causes tumultuous thoughts to stir as the stroll becomes a serious walking affair.
Sick of the still and quiet home, a walk seemed like a good idea. Now it’s time to go home.