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The Gardening Competition

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The table is neat,
the teapot is in place,
and the teacups look cute.

An assortment of biscuits
wait for the guests to arrive;
the cake rises on its own.

The tea cosy remains quiet
waiting for the jug to boil,
tea leaves, milk, sugar,
and the sweet teapot.

Another tablecloth will
not do, as this one is from
Hungary, blue and white.

The clash of decor is
bohemian, yet the scene
is set for afternoon tea.

Like silk on their lips, the
Japanese Butter Cake
turns minds to putty.

That afternoon, she found
out all the gossip, then set
the pieces into place
for the garden competition.

Joyful Song

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Another candle burns down and spills; the electric lights would spoil the mood.

Another flapper dress bounces and someone else does the dancing.

I’m sitting at home, cool as a cat, relaxing in fine haberdashery; I wait only for the cat.

Another cloud bursts like his heart burst when someone shot him a year ago.

Another dead soldier for the cause, though I wonder if it is all worth it.

Another set of thoughts race by as the emotions of widowed bliss set in, consume the atmosphere and keep the cat from venturing over.

Another record set up to spin as I dance with his pillow in our joyful song.

Standing on the Shore

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A wave breaks the sadness
you feel looking at the sea.

Young hearts shouldn’t hurt like
yours hurts under a perfect sky.

Another wave crashes into
many pieces of aquamarine;
water gems breaking and
moving back into the sea.

You take a false step forward,
not grasping the consequences.

A wave misses the target,
failing to deliver the blow.

Your heart moves you to stay,
so you remain standing
on the shore, heart-pounding;
shivering at the thought of
what could have been:
you, the aquamarines,
the sea none the wiser.

Deceptive Lover

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A deceptive lover,
Debonair, rich;
all the qualities
so many want.

An afternoon rendezvous.
Stars in your eyes;
no need to feel the
alarm bells ringing.

At your home,
in the garden;
watching the
twilight becomes night.

As the sun fades,
you notice changes;
no longer the person
you expected, wanted.

As the knife falls,
shock fills you;
so much blood
on your precious flowers.

Forest Spirit

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https://www.deviantart.com/miriteval

A smile from ear to ear,
as the young one ships through
the forest searching for playtime.

Monstrous trees do tower,
and the feeling of them bending
inwards is a very odd feeling.

Odd feelings pass, as her
favourite tree approaches, or
she approaches her favourite tree.

Strange, as always, she asks for
permission before climbing
this familiar one, her safe one.

A flicker of movement out of
the corner of her eye
piques her innocent curiosity.

Feeling as though she now has
permission to climb, she climbs
the tree steadily, full of life.

Sitting in her spot, she looks
down and sees a boy, yet not a
boy; maybe an elf, forest spirit.

Calm, she watches as he walks
away; she calls to him, yet he
never turns towards her, gone.

She comes to visit this spot hoping
to catch a glimpse of him again,
and to see her friend the tree.

She hasn’t seen him for years,
yet her daughter just pointed and
said, “A boy Mumma! A boy!”

The Tea Cosy & The Poet

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A teapot, cup, saucer, and a tea cosy;
a proper brew alone, with my thoughts,
pen, paper, the noise from construction.

The warmth of the cup in my hands,
then the utter contempt from the cat;
I am so blessed to be alive today.

I consider writing a poem about an
egg beater having a philosophical
conversation with a Tupperware bowl.

Having written about flying moustaches,
and the contents of the kitchen cupboards,
I wonder if I should do it all again.

Something moves, as I look up wondering;
the cat is sprawled legs to the sky,
there’s no one about and no movement.

Suddenly, the tea cosy begins to move;
the cat does not stir, and there are no signs
my cup will collide with the saucer, table.

Calm as a Wombat, I sit staring at Mum’s
tea cosy as it moves off the teapot, into
the air then begins to dance mockingly.

Full of feelings, the fly swat is handy,
so I take it and swat the tea cosy about;
there’s no end in sight. It won’t stop.

Crushing my feelings, I sit down, pour
another cup of tea, pick up my pen
and begin to write about the tea cosy.

I look up. The tea cosy hugs
the teapot lovingly, and I have inspiration;
I must find more of those tea leaves.

Garden Settlement

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Remembering those days when we
went to the Garden Settlement and
sang for the golden oldies.

Red and white checked uniforms for
the girls, blue and maroon for the boys;
no in-between in those days,
no difference at the Catholic School.

Smiling faces attached to
weather-beaten, toil-soaked bodies;
some were almost ready for whatever
comes next; others were bored and lonely.

Presents arrived for the residents,
or the older people who seemed to
be forgotten; they beam with joy.

We were too young to appreciate
what we saw until one day like today,
sitting at the window waiting for
the storm, I remember that day.

I remember their faces, now all dead,
no doubt. I feel sadness for their
loneliness and wonder if I want to
grow older in this country, the world.

Dystopian Fading

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We felt terror and adrenaline running
through those disintegrated streets.

You were so different from the others;
a person with a set purpose, moving.

I felt the weight of endings lingering,
as the bombs started falling heavy.

Running, hiding, killing, surviving;
that’s what we became for so long.

When it’s all over, you said we’d find
a place to call our own once again.
A place far away from the concrete
and chemicals; from the horrors
of what we and the world had become.

I said, “That would be wonderful”,
as the sound of your voice faded.

Red Cedars

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Sitting at the window watching
the way snow falls on red cedars.

Night crept up too quickly
as the days shorten to hours.

You are never far from my mind
as your tree grows taller and redder.

Snow covers our world of love,
and the red cedars stand tall.

The red cedars stand tall;

they are a reminder of the blood
and the way you passed from light,

sitting at the window, watching the
way snow falls on what was our love.