Tag: poetry

Ibrat

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Different opinions,
ways of living life;
too much water
under the bridge.

Unable to visit, not
wanting to see him;
he’s not the Father
you idealised, loved.

Years passed, water
passed, life passed;
no time felt right to
go and visit, talk.

You felt it before it
came; a knowing;
a death too quick
for you to digest.

He danced with
death deliberately
on his own; no time
to give anyone time.

You made your peace
with him on the telephone;
he said he has beautiful
children, then the guilt.

Another Ibrat for you to
understand, to learn from;
sitting here looking at
his box filled with ashes.

Incense

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Hidden underneath,
yet glimpses of those
eyes, lips, hair, beauty.

Before me, she stands,
a marble statue forever
etched into my memories.

Thoughts of Catholicism
from childhood days
burn through my heart.

Burning candles, flowers,
the smoke of incense,
her ecstasy on my skin.

A wanting, like a Giovanni
Strazza, as the pew bends,
candles flicker and vision fades.

Australian Landscapes

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Big stars burn down from the sky,
the moon lights part of the way.

Bronzed grass lines the streetscape,
this land is crisping under the sun.

Blossoms on the breeze do smell,
as a lost memory emerges, & forms.

Big stars burn down from the sky,
the moon lights part of the way,
so I walk to the end of the street.

Black sky, big stars, a bright moon;
the hills sit in luminous shadows,
no cows moo at this time of night.

Bronzed grass lines the darkened
hills flowing beyond the shadows,
to remind me of other landscapes.

Blossoms on the breeze do smell,
reminding me of the landscapes
of my life and how the landscapes
of this land changed me over time;
how this land’s landscapes change.

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.

Still Life

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Sitting and standing,
painting a still life of fruit.

The right light today. Fruits, once alive, become immortal on the canvas, as part of their being is forever alive in the paint and the brush.

A calm move through the studio as this place feels right today.

The last stroke moves along, and the canvas becomes something new; pieces of fruit are falling from an unknown place in the sea.