Poetry | Stories | Photography
The wild winds from across the hills whip up
a number of feelings in this winter of ours.
We feel the ice from across the southern sea
flow up through us and change us again.
Still, the wild winds won’t change the hearts
of the many who will never understand.
They remain still and translucent to our eyes,
as they never realise their full potential.
We buy violets
to place on the window sill,
to be just like Mum.
a little bud set to bloom,
hidden away from the sunny day.
a stem reaching for the sky,
to be seen and to see the sunny day.
a little bud begins to bloom,
to be touched by the warm sunny day.
a stem holding a rose to the sky,
no longer hidden from the sunny day.
The music of the sea,
I hear you play for me.
The music of the sea,
You help me to be me.
The music of the sea,
I become so very free.
The music of the sea,
You helped me to see.
There once was an old pencil made of lead
It could draw everything he never said
When it drew a green fart
He thought it was fine art
Now he wonders if the pencil is dead
Your grace, your charm, your wit;
I don’t like you, yet we fit, we knit.
Life’s so good, so gold, so golden;
I don’t see the glimmer: I’m olden.
I’m rough, I’m buff, I’m so tough;
You seem to like me: am I enough?
A cliff by the sea,
where we once used to be,
there I dream of you once more.
A cliff by the sea,
where we were never to be,
here I dream of you no more.
Words were spoken, they never existed before.
We talked about change, difference, radical noises.
Our speech was louder, clear convictions, true directions.
Words are spoken in guarded tones, censured.
We talk about survival, sleeping in, making sad noises.
Our speech is quieter, muffled opinions, limited directions.
Whispers from you haunt the
places and spaces we shared.
Winter winds whisper words
once spoken from your lips.
Wishing you to stand beside
me and say my name kindly.
Winter winds whisper a name
once yours; then, then Kadota.
Whispers of you linger as the
snow falls from my heart.
Slumped over the desk,
creeping fatigue lingers,
and haunts poetry days.
