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 firey 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 slow saunter to defy the sun
the sky looks down
wishing for the rain

the clouds see their chance to multiply
little wisps of white
now fat sooty beasts

the sun cracks it, but the storm will arrive
retreating in a huff,
as the clouds explode

An odd weather day

Pockets of sunlight peep from between shy clouds, which sit rather highly in the afternoon sky.

The clouds lament that shyness is often mistaken for weakness as The Most lack certain insights.

To clarify, The Most, or the mob, are known by those sweet Greek thinkers of ancient times.

The Most think clouds lack the will to spill heavy rain and sweep quickly across the calm sky.

The sun knows The Most 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.

There’s a philosophical debate going down on high between the sun and the clouds.

Below, an angel stands still in sunlight and shadow feeling strange tingly sensations.

Sweet sensations overtake this heavingly light warrior, as the armour feels a bit too tight.

“The Most dare not believe in 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.