Poetry | Stories | Photography
Walking through the office door
Me, out there in the swirling autumn leaves
Inside, a new mask for today
Trading nature and her beauty
for the chance to find meaning in a title
I feel the wind in my hair
Nature followed me
wind and leaves moving
Bewildered colleagues
We begin to slow in Autumn as the days shorten and the nights lengthen.
Salads turn to casseroles, and coffee turns to rum.
We find our cosy corner, a stack of books, and turn day after day into night.
When the rains come, we wear our favourite socks; we slow down.
A mighty warrior
traveller of many lands
A lover of noodles
Ramen and sake
cantankerous words and dancing
A Geisha’s fan cuts
Angered at the offence
drawing his sword
The laughter of Geishas
A 30-centimeter sword
hardly Arthurian
Perfect for cutting noodles
Too much red and yellow
blazing sun on the canvas
chunks of paint melting
The spectre of burning canvas
paint strokes are inevitable
Embers fall from the old easel
Time for the sun to appear
smouldering fire of paint and canvas
The painting comes to life
The fever intensified.
Staring into space, images of ghosts, demons, and magical creatures appear in the lounge room.
Unruffled by the images, she dances into what appears to be the corpse_fjord.
She woke up on a pile of clothes with empty bottles everywhere.
Watching the way colleagues climb the corporate ladder.
Whispers behind closed doors, muffled voices gossiping about such and such, and toxicity oozing from the walls.
Anger turned to disappointment. Disappointment turned to creativity.
The draught_of_giants hit me. With a pen on paper, I jot all the words down.
A sight to take my breath away,
from the tall trees,
a forest spirit or an ancient god
walks toward me.
There is no malice in her walk,
the trees bow low,
a firefly becomes many to light
her ethereal path.
Aglow in the amber firelight,
I cannot stop smiling
as the moss begins to grow
between my toes.
from the tropical north
snow and ice greet a stranger
no racism to be known
a calm freedom
watching the sea_thatch with new eyes
noises so foreign
to appreciate the difference
coming to love the ways of ice and snow
no longer foreign, my home
a difference in the weather
unforeseen changes
the moss carpets our land
the wound-starling visits
talkative, we feed our friend
a spectre may haunt us
the sound of horses’ hooves
soldiers on the horizon
we follow our friend to watch
a soldier lights a torch
fire licks and devours our home
our friend remains still
A quiet gallery
No need for words in this space
the photographs fill the silence
Taken away
Feeling the anemoia pulling me
watching a scene from the past
Loud thoughts
My thoughts are louder than bombs
thundering through my experience
entering as one person,
exiting as another
evolution in the gallery
C & K 