I sit without you
in the quiet nighttime hours
writing poetry
Tag: writing
Waiting
I arrive early,
come back later.
When I arrive later,
a certain look.
Sitting and waiting
on the wooden seat.
Shaded by the Plain tree,
leg hair moves in the wind.
People watching;
odds and ends on election day.
A crow talks shit.
Maybe it’s a pissed off Cockatoo;
no, it’s a crow
perched on the sign Drinking Water.
Waiting and watching,
everything hurts from the hard seat.
Learning about people
and listening to random conversations.
The crow is a squeaky wheel;
the cloud cover dims the soft light.
The odd looks continue,
and my finger keeps touching the keys.
Saturday morning, in the madness
bursting with cars, and
a shit Council incapable of foresight.
On election day,
a day we should be grateful for,
I wonder about this two-faced place.
Prompts
When all the prompts fail me,
when there is no inspiration,
I turn to you: music.
When I feel the words fading,
when the poetry sounds odd,
I turn to play a song.
When I turn, something comes.
Art & Words
Thank you to everyone who reads my words. I write every day, yet I do not get to post everything I write.
I stumbled upon #TastyPoems on Twitter. Darla Vaughan has provided so much inspiration for my words through the lovely art that I must share both.
The poems are from 2018 until the present; some themes may be from the past.
I hope you get inspired too.
Very Short Story: Serenade
Lonely, a solitary figure steps through the park full of songs and poetry.
There’s no money made from being soft and creative, yet he hopes for love.
Penniless, he walks from window to window, attempting to serenade someone.
He walks home, wondering why he was made this way.
Nothing
I could write nothing,
Leave the page blank, say nothing.
I could be nothing,
Live alone and love nothing.
I will never be nothing.
Forest of Forgetting
A bird chirps unknown thoughts from a branch in a tree that I have not seen before today. The air feels thick, with the taste of a storm or rain; I cannot tell for sure how the weather will play out, for I do not live in the clouds.
I stand in a potato sack dress, oblivious to my situation; I do not know how I came to be here, nor do I know the name of this country.
I know nothing, yet I feel the very fabric of my surroundings. The connection with nature, as if words are spoken directly to me and only for me to hear, guides me forward.
Trees remind me of the Tree-Folk and their many stories; the wisdom they share with only a selected few. I feel closer to something as I step across an invisible threshold into the forest.
The weight of some emotional distress lingers on my skin and in my mind; I hold back the welling of my heart and those tears wanting to spill and run free towards the forest floor.
Something is missing from my many layers. It is as though my past, personality, and me, the person standing in a forest, ceases to be what she once was.
I walk to remember. I walk to forget. I walk through the ever-increasing darkening of the forest as rain does not come. Instead, snow begins to fall.
The snow should be cold. The snow should make me feel cold, yet it makes me feel calm.
I stand still, waiting for something to come.
In the forest of forgetting, I walk, and I walk until I remember what it is that I must finish.
Mr No Name
Mr No Name sits in his usual spot beside Adelaide Rose Davies. Tonight is quiet, dark, and it smells of half-dead roses from so many fresh graves.
A man who used to have a name is now known as Mr No Name. A man not even worthy of having a first name.
This evening he thinks about the smell of the half-dead roses on the breeze and what he lost. Tired, he lays his head down to sleep with his only friends, the dead in the cemetery.
Homeless and alone, this is the only place he finds peace and quiet to sleep and dream of his painful memories. His memories of a loving wife, two loving daughters, a house full of light, and the day she walked away because he lost his business to a cruel recession.
He dreams about his daughters in colour. Any money he has he spends on his mobile phone to see their faces from time to time.
Sometimes, when he is lucky, he sees his wife holding the arm of that famous person. He sees her, and he falls in love every time.
Laying there, he writes a message to both of his daughters on Messenger. Perhaps they will see it, or they won’t. He writes a forgiveness message of kindness and love to the mother of his children.
There are no pillows anymore, no kisses from his girls, and no feelings of warmth and happiness to mend his broken heart.
He rests his head on Adelaide’s grave, then asks a question he never thought he would ask, “Adelaide, can I please come down there with you? I always feel calm beside you.”
The cemetery remains serene as the night moves along; there is no snoring anymore, for the broken heart stopped beating at 3:15 am. Ten minutes after his girls and the love of his life deleted his messages.
Grass Dream
Too tired for daydreams, yet they come and plague your mind.
You stare out the window at the man with his mower, wondering what it would be like to ride on top as he pushes it along.
Images of you vibrating furiously, him pushing you along, and all the grass covering you.
Tendon
The tendon snaps;
you cry for anyone to come,
yet no one can hear you in dark.
Limping loudly along;
you wish for the comforts of home,
to take back those words you said before.
The trap you found;
you scream knowing no one can hear,
as the light of the moon dims, disappears.
C & K 