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Like the Sun

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Version 1

Like the sun,
you bloom spring colours.

Attentive,
you behave like the snow.

I cannot decide
if you are the
sun or the moon.

I like to think
you are both
the sun and the snow;
beautifully complete.

Version 2

Like the sun,
you bloom spring colours.

Attentive,
you behave like the snow.

Like the moon,
you mesmerise, lighten.

I cannot decide
if you are the
moon or the sun.

You are many.
Sun and snow,
moon and sun,
winter and summer,
autumn and spring.

Notes

I thought I would show you multiple versions of a similar poem, as this is often the creative process I go through to get to a final version.

I’m interested to know which one you like better.

Nineteen Years

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To sit, watching the sky change
from blue, grey, sunflower yellow,
slowly changing
to pink, indigo and darker colours.

To wonder, thinking of your love,
the tempo of your heart,
constant, changing,
from blue and green to indigo and black.

To love, without fear of tongues
moving like the wind,
lashing love,
moving until seeds grow darker.

To think, after nineteen years
your heart, my heart,
they feel the same,
they love in many colours and shades.

To feel, physical movements,
mystical movements,
as our trunks, branches,
leaves intertwine until the light fades.

You and the Moon

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Walking towards a destination,
stepping on the concrete jungle.

The last light is moving into the night
as the moon rises into the sky;
an orb so big and bright, so alive.

Silver spoons handed never to you,
yet the thought of only one would’ve helped;
a favour to help you walk the chosen path.

Noises, emotions, a convoluted mess;
you drown it all out with your world: music.

Turning the corner, it’s only you and the moon.
You share a moment before the darkness closes in,
and the dreams you cannot grasp,
seem too vivid and bright.

The Cat & Jam

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Yesterday’s hearts weigh heavy
on the years lived in the past.

Time does not wait for hearts to be ready;
hearts must be ready and waiting for all time.

Couch surfing alone. The house is cooking.
The night is cold, clear, calm, and crystallising.

A meow from the laundry tells her the cat
wants food, or else she will be the next meal.

Crashing and banging in the laundry as bowls,
teaspoons, detergent, all of it gets a workout.

The cat sits starring at the strange figure,
wondering why food is so difficult to provide.

Friends again after the feeding, yet she feels
peckish for insomnia and jam are no strangers.

She sits on the fence, mulling over a decision,
until the desire for sweetness outweighs reason.

Tea Cosy Revolution

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I own this book, which is my inspiration for this poem.

Humans.
Once creative, free dreaming,
imagining, laughing, living,
being weird, looking at sheds.

The Palette of humanity was full of colours;
some beautiful and cashed up,
others odd and different, many dark and awful.

The Palette of Colours was the make-up
of human beings and their emotions.
The who they were, not just clinical notions.

Now, humans hold an empty Palette devoid of colours.
There is only black and white;
Humans don’t even know how to find the grey.

When a number discovered a Tea Cosy,
no one knew what it was.
They didn’t understand the colours,
yet they were moved, and something changed.

The Tea Cosy was taken and studied in secret;
So began the filling of the human Palette with colours,
and the Great Tea Cosy Revolution.