Changing Landscapes

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The vision is not that of the city;
Those lights do not shine here.

Instead, there are hills of green;
A cow moose in the distance.

At night the darkness is quiet
as the rain touches the structure.

I thought I’d miss your charms,
thinking of all the things I could do.

Yet, when I lived as one of you,
I never did most of the things I could do.

Tempted to become a hermit,
I resist with both hands stretched out.

Yet, in my heart, there is turmoil,
for I didn’t come from the concreted hustle.

I’ve felt the land for most of my life,
yet I’ve resisted the call every single time.

Looking towards the rain covered green;
it might be time to embrace my truth;
I’m not so in love with the city as I once thought I was.

The Moody Sun

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The sky holds the bad-tempered sun,
in one of those moods;
the dry land is burning.

Humans walk along in a forced daze.
Animals take shelter.
Birds steal old chips.

The fiery winds blow through the cities,
new hairdos flee freely,
cracked lips are now “in”.

Winter white skin turns bright lobster pink.
Different pigments burn;
natural tanners strip off.

Burning hell is the new spring, so it seems.
Bushfires strip old towns,
heartache echoes loss.

From out of nowhere, he moves so freely.
Sunnies for Mr Cool;
Donning linen luxury.

Moving in a saunter to defy the sun.
The sky looks down,
wishing for rain.

The Artisan

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Mystical signs beckon the patrons to enter.

New age bling moves all around town
like a carnival goer craving something.

Entering an opium scented open space;
woods, metals and stones sit still, moving.

Defined and undefined shapes seduce.

The Takumi sits, creating magical jewellery.

Standing as if a slow spell is being cast
he looks up from the unique creation,
and I am forever changed by those eyes.

An odd weather day

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Pockets of sunlight spring forth between shy clouds, which sit highly in the afternoon sky; the clouds lament that shyness is often mistaken for weakness by the mob.

Most think clouds lack the will to spill heavy rain and sweep quickly across the calm sky. The sun knows the mob are full of bullshit, stinky cow dung, and sloshy old turnips.

The clouds laugh wildly at the sun’s phrasing, which gives them renewed resolve; a philosophical debate is going down on high between the sun and the clouds.

Below, an angel stands obscured by an odd mix of sunlight and shadow, experiencing strange tingling sensations; sweet sensations overtake this heavingly light warrior as the armour feels a bit too tight.

“The mob dare not believe me”, the angel whispers to the clouds as they appear closer.; the sun retreats and the clouds darken as the rain bursts forth onto the dry old Earth.

The sun retreats for a nap, and the angel
laughs loudly as droplets touch worn skin.