Your Sun

Standing at the door
to your room, you
are oblivious, her gaze.

Standing, looking at you,
thinking of your hair,
feet, the way you love.

Standing still hoping you
won’t notice the way
she lingers, doubts much.

Standing by the door,
you feel the presence
of your beautiful star.

Standing behind you,
you know she looks at
you with so much love.

Standing there, you pretend
not to notice, to feel
the warmth from your sun.

Like the Sun

Version 1

Like the sun,
you bloom spring colours.

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.

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.


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.

The Moody Sun

The sky holds the bad-tempered sun,
in one of those moods;
the dry land is burning.

Humans walk along in a forced daze.
Animals take shelter.
Birds steal old chips.

The fiery winds blow through the cities,
new hairdos flee freely,
cracked lips are now “in”.

Winter white skin turns bright lobster pink.
Different pigments burn;
natural tanners strip off.

Burning hell is the new spring, so it seems.
Bushfires strip old towns,
heartache echoes loss.

From out of nowhere, he moves so freely.
Sunnies for Mr Cool;
Donning linen luxury.

Moving in a saunter to defy the sun.
The sky looks down,
wishing for rain.

An odd weather day

Pockets of sunlight spring forth between shy clouds, which sit highly in the afternoon sky; the clouds lament that shyness is often mistaken for weakness by the mob.

Most think clouds lack the will to spill heavy rain and sweep quickly across the calm sky. The sun knows the mob are full of bullshit, stinky cow dung, and sloshy old turnips.

The clouds laugh wildly at the sun’s phrasing, which gives them renewed resolve; a philosophical debate is going down on high between the sun and the clouds.

Below, an angel stands obscured by an odd mix of sunlight and shadow, experiencing strange tingling sensations; sweet sensations overtake this heavingly light warrior as the armour feels a bit too tight.

“The mob dare not believe me”, the angel whispers to the clouds as they appear closer.; the sun retreats and the clouds darken as the rain bursts forth onto the dry old Earth.

The sun retreats for a nap, and the angel
laughs loudly as droplets touch worn skin.