The door opens,
she steps outside.
The night is warm,
a gardenia nearby.
The moonlight is full,
a forest all around.
The sound of a friend,
a call from the forest.
The door closes,
she runs for the forest.
Tag: poet
Ochre Afternoon
The blind moves as the breeze flows through the window.
I can see the change sun rays make on my skin, as my arms colour and look like desert sand.
The sun casts rays across the backyard as the cobwebs move and drift between grass, weeds, and the fence, and the bees dance on the weed flowers.
A song from the crickets, birds, a few flies, and the next-door neighbour’s air-conditioner puts my mind to sleep as I soak up the last light of the day.
A change in tempo is on the breeze as the afternoon drifts into twilight, and the time for sweet, soft days of washing going stiff on the line ends.
The heat turns into the warmth of another ending, another night; I won’t miss what I no longer have on this sunlit day, for the night is bright, and the stars are many.
One song ends, and another is ready to begin, so I fight with the pegs and the stiff washing, waiting for the first fresh Autumn day.
Drifting Away
A sea smell drifts across the street, into my room, and I am called towards the waves.
Drifting along with my favourite thongs and my togs, off I float away.
The sea sounds sing a song of waves, boats, humans, and the thrill of another day.
Dipping a toe, then a foot, then my whole I am lost in amongst waves.
Paw Prints
Soft still snow-covered streets
sit still waiting for paw prints.
Soft still snow-covered night
stays still and dark until light.
Soft still snow-covered trees
stand still watching paw prints.
Brokenness
Brokenness,
bleeding from files stacked battered,
bruised and
banded together with six-minute increments.
Blossoming,
beautiful flowers blooming from outside;
bright and
benign, together they beckon and call to me.
Brokenness,
bleeding scent from the battered files,
burning and
blowing away from my desk on the wind.
Strategy
Strategy on the wind
too much thinking about ideas
she imagines
the leaves on the trees
turning into chess pieces
Shapes replace the rapidly
moving leaves
falling or blowing away
So many shapes
falling and moving
Strategy on the
ground and the wind
Our Home
Flying to no man’s land,
we fly along an endless road,
flying towards another place.
Fear of the world around us,
we fear what humans don’t understand;
fear of another death too soon.
Flowing water reminds us of the sea,
we fly towards our only home;
flowing seawater, a lighthouse, quiet.
Free to feel no fear,
we fly no more as we find our home;
free to be vampires once more.
Too much Summer
Too much sun,
not enough shade.
Flowers in bloom,
too many colours.
Too much light,
not enough darkness.
Birds sing and dance,
too many songs.
Too much Summer,
not enough Winter
to take my heart,
make it cold,
feel the chill,
the Autumn feel.
Bird Song
Alone from afar
A voice like a reminder
A song from afar
Lost & Found
We are lost,
roaming in a vast sea.
We are lost,
running from our dreams.
We are lost,
regretting words never said.
Found are we,
raising a glass to fate.
Found are we,
releasing unwanted feelings.
Found are we,
realising love never fails.
C & K 