Poetry | Stories | Photography
Living in the middle of nowhere can feel like a lonely place to be.
He sits at the table dreaming of the sea, as odd noises are coming from the upstairs bathroom.
Curious, he runs up to see the bathtub has overflowed seawater onto his favourite tiles.
She is a poetess:
Making moonbeams where there is no light,
Turning the ocean into the sea, the light,
Moving the forest from the day to the night,
Thinking about the wonder of the night,
Moulding words to speak for the good fight,
Trampling on convention, shining bright.
A kiss on the forehead,
I know you’ll miss me.
A hug for so long,
I know I’ll miss you.
A way of saying everything,
yet saying nothing at all.
I long for you to tell me you’ll
be home for good, always.
A wild heart who loves the sea,
probably even more than you love me.
I know your heart isn’t perfect,
yet my heart’s the same,
pumping seawater.
A call came when it was all dark;
they called to say you had gone today.
I know deep down the sea would take you,
yet I never thought I’d have to say Pahimakas
so soon.
Several city dwellers
kayak along a mysterious river
of rocks and wild things.
They spot a village, and
smell sweets on the breeze
like perfume to their city noses.
Floating on the sweet scent
of something so sensual and seductive,
one by one, they move towards the bank of the river.
Seduced by the smell, in single file,
they arrive at the entrance of the sweets shop
filled with naughty dimpled children fizzing about on high.
Frightened and perplexed,
yet seduced and hungry, they persist through
the beasts to reach the source of their longing.
Salty and sweet, sour and smooth,
this is the window to their longing:
they found the magical fudge made by Mrs B.
Silently waiting.
Contemplating the
ramifications
of celebrating too loudly.
Last year was a mess,
this year
we hope for the best.
Not game to celebrate
too loudly,
lest we jinx the coming year.
The flower asked a bee, “When will the world end?” The bee looked dumbfounded, then buzzed away.
Perplexed, the flower asked a spider: there was only silence.
Then a cat sniffed at her petals. She asked the cat the same question. It seemed to prevaricate any response, then pissed on her stem.
The possessed biscuit tin despised him, you see,
for he ate biscuits and never refilled thee.
The tin could move from room to room at will,
so he blamed me and called me names, a dill.
The possessed biscuit tin didn’t like the cold sea,
so I threw it to the sea and set it free.
A well-meaning gesture of kindness and love,
Grandma takes the jar from the top shelf and
inspects the lollies shaped like Turtle Doves.
Then, one by one, Grandma passes a lolly around,
so she may hear their delight and sweet chewing.
Once the children are sitting, the music starts,
Grandma begins the old-time dance to her song,
and the laughter begins, for all the steps are wrong.
The season is here, as we cook for 600 when only about 30 will be coming for lunch.
Dad is only ashes so he can’t have a drink, so Mum gets the box with him in it and has a drink.
The siblings are at it, as the hunger pains start roaring, and the little children have turned into terrors.
Over the pond, they’ll be as cold as a bear; yet here it is mild, and the sun shines a bit.
The BBQ is running, and the men gather around for it’s a team effort out there to ensure the meat isn’t charred.
Bossy boots orders everyone around in the kitchen, so Mum takes Dad and flops on to the couch.
Lunch will be served soon enough, yet there’s always time for a chocolate or two, a mince pie, white Christmas, a rum ball or two, strawberries with cream, a tea or two, a coffee, some punch, biscuits, and, and …
Lunch is served, and the chatter runs wild; no one says grace because this isn’t the Lord’s day, it’s only Christmas Day.
Howling from the forest,
Wintertime is on the way.
A sea breeze turns wild,
clouds move overhead.
Woods once silent, now
move in urgency to the sky.
Many crows do fly across the sky,
to show us a Portent of Death.
C & K 