Shoes

We are not well travelled
We have personality issues
So it seems

We pinch and cramp on hot days
And long walks
But soften the step on cold ones
But not long walks

We like to be admired for being different
Our pale green 
Like drought-ridden grasses
Our crinkle fabric
Like old parchment
Our stitched features
Our wood toned buckle badge
Like semi stylish accessories 

We proudly believe that we are creative art
Even avant garde
Unique
But no one has actually called us
Beautiful
Yet

SHE
Photographed us on her verandah
Where sun and shadow blotched the grey diagonals

I wonder why we did not have our moment
On her walkway
Winding under the arch of Spring roses
As if
We are going
Somewhere



Linking to:
Two Shoes Tuesday ~ Shoes

A Carriage Tale

At first the carriage sighed with
Grudging
Monday morning
Potential
Like simmering
Rebellion
Without the gumption to strike

Half-empty
Prison
And a little time to divert into
Alternative pleasantries

All too soon
The seats and aisles
Crammed with
Silent
Still life

(Actually
Pseudo "busyness" 
Indulging in
Electronic
Escapes)

But a seat
Unexpectedly
Vacated
Between the distillers of pleasantries and
Filled with
A studded revolution black vest
Armed with tattoos and
Helmeted with
Silky
Neonic
Green
Hair

Uncomfortable discord
Sizzled

The tattoos
Stroked the neonic greens
Constantly
As if being different was
A shifty business
While the pleasantries fried into
Medusa-like
Stony glares
Fixed
Straight ahead
Peripheral vision was
Negligible

Finally
The staged skit was
Broken

The neonics shuffled out at Parliament
Chewing gum
Fast

For the first time I saw her eyes
As she passed my window
They were large
And dark
And beautiful

But still life
Trained on

NOTE: Parliament is the name of an undergound train station in inner Melbourne


Linking to:
dVerse ~ The Art of Rebellion
Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry
Real Toads ~ Open Link Monday

New Journey

Geothermal pools
Boiling mud
Volcanic mountains

Soaring geysers

Waves of aurora lights in the night sky

And ice
Lots and
Lots of
Ice

Old voices serenade 
The old spirits
From medieval worlds
The families
The conflicts
The loves
Sagas of treasured yesterdays

But I have no place in these worlds

High winds
Frost
Everlasting rains
Keep me locked in
More southerly warms

Yet I long for 
New vistas
New horizons

I hear some of my friends
Have travelled to some rocky hillside
Gift of an old glacier

They're on trial

They have survived
And their numbers grow

But still
They're on trial

Soon
They may be welcome in a city park
But soon may mean years

Some visionaries say that
In coming decades
Iceland may be milder

Perhaps 
My child flowers may be there

I smile when I think of
White petals
Unfolding in
A white world

I live in hope
Always hope for
The strength
And beauty of

A future

Iceland  rose


NOTE: The Rose Club of Iceland was founded in April 2002.
Details of its activities are HERE!

The arctic tundra comprises the majority of the tundra landscape in the world, with 2 million square miles in North America and 1.3 million square miles in Eurasia. The North American tundra begins with coastal Greenland, goes west through northern Canada and extends all the way through northern Alaska. Tundra in Eurasia covers Siberia, parts of Russia, northern Scandinavia and Iceland. A second type of tundra, called alpine tundra, exists on high-altitude mountaintops throughout the world. Mt. Rainier National Park in Washington is one example of alpine tundra.
Read more: What Is the Landscape of the Tundra?

Linking to:
Real Toads - Transforming Fridays Take Two - Tundra

Two Faces of Summer

I was let out for a couple of hours today to enjoy a grey beach, grey waters and a grey sky in Dromana.
Even a lone seagull couldn't muster much height, fearing another icy deluge was imminent.


When tied and gagged in Winter's freezer for
Endless, bleak, misty days
We hope for some wayward sylph from Mother Nature to
Saunter by and
Move the door
Ajar

We hope for more than
Spring
(The pretty time)

We want Summer

SUMMER
WE WANT SUMMER

Aaah...
According to SOS
(Stereotypes of Summer - published by the Utopian Dictionary Press)
Summer spells:
Swimmming refreshing blue seas ~ real or metaphorical
Unifying body and spirit with the balm of holiday happiness
Mellowing ~ the mind
Massaging ~ the body into
Eternal 
Reverie

The other dystopian dictionary would have us believe
(If I can vaguely remember):
Sizzling sunburn ~ of earth and flesh
Unsightly plague of pesky flies
Manipulating ~ the patience
Masticating ~ the temper into
Everlasting 
Regret that we ever chose Summer as our dream season

But I lost that dictionary
Somewhere in the pile of melancholic leaves
I raked up
Last Autumn


Linking to:
dVerse Poetics ~ Summer-y; Dog Days/Zucchini

Yesterday Was Wrong

Yesterday's Dreams ~ Jack Vettriano


Waiting for
A funeral to unfold is
Hardly the time to feel
Romantic


But then
There are times when
Reason
Rocks
Protocol


Consciously
She gowned a black version of
Her dancing dress


The one she wore when
They shared 
One 
Split
Shaft of
Eye 
Fire
Across a room


The one she wore
Before
His marriage to
Her friend




Linking to:
Magpie Tales #126

She was Ophelia...

Ophelia by Odilon Redon



Mirage
Sleeping young face melting in 
Some oasis rain puddle
Alongside
Some random fallen leaves
And flowers


Soon
The relentless sun
Snuffs
The last light
Burns the cursed moment
Gone


 Linking to:
Magpie Tales #124
Poetry Pantry #105

NOTE: For those who think I have re-invented the Ophelia story, I have not.
Instead, I looked at Redon's image and thought he seemed to capture the shape of a rain puddle.
And that's where my idea began.
As if, like a mirage, (my opening word) the innocent face of Ophelia appears in the rain puddle.
Like a brief, legendary moment has surfaced, re-incarnating her final moments, until the sun dries up the puddle, and she is gone once again.
Ophelia's story remains intact.

The Wind Singer

Aramanth
Sounds like some legendary jewel
But the gem 
The walled city 
Has lost the sparkle of the wind singer
The strangers' tall tower of
Wooden beams and metal pipes
Has lost the voice of
The soul


Young twins
Bowman and Kestrel
With a little whimsical help from Mumpo and
The bonding of a wish huddle
Search for the lost song 


From the stench of the Underlake
And the enigmatic delicacy of mudnuts 
To the windy plains of sand
To a crumbling parapet high above a gorge


From the cursed touch of the old children to
A lonely emperor's passion for chocolate buttons


Riding wolves or
Sailing in the claws of eagles


Space, time and beings are not always what they should be
Or could be


Not till the old queen's silver hair clasp
Unlocks the voice


Not till the killing golden Zars 
Age
Rot
Not till the winds that bring the wind singer to life
Blow the dust
From their bones


And Grey District
Orange District
Maroon District
Dare to mingle
Their colours


The Wind Singer by William Nicholson
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

An extraordinary fantasy that hints of breaths from old legends and becomes a chameleon of reality and dream! And if you feel the spirit deep down, you will feel the smudges of our society lurking.
View all my reviews

 Linking to:
Real Toads - Open Link Monday

To one man who may be concerned...

Collage by Gemma Wiseman
~
Carry on Tuesday #18 ~ This week the prompt is the opening
sentence from Ehud Havazelet’s 2007 novel Bearing the Body:
The letter sat before him, unopened, propped against a coffee mug
~
Monday Poetry Train Revisited #45
~

Curly dark secrets
Propped against a coffee mug
Fathomless caverns
~
He had moved to a new place
No one should find him
~
He had closed the door
The windows wore blinds
~
He chose to carve a new life
Without prison bars
~
He had lost a love
Or did love lose him
~
But shadows wander
Shadows haunt the subconscious
Letters are shadows
~
Unopened war wounds
The letter sat before him
His mother reaching
~

Gilded Conclusion ~ Response to Option 3 ~ Cafe Writing

PROMPT FOR #OPTION 3Dreaming time has reversed,
I watch drowned snow
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Astonished that you have returned to go
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
A frame of glided twilight—I
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Your gloved hands covering your lips’ good-bye
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
- Robert Pack ~ "Snow Rise"Pick at least three of the following eight words, and write a paragraph, scene, flash-fic, essay, blog entry or poem using them. It’s fine to change tenses, or pluralize if you want to, but please bold the words you choose.astonished, conclusion, drown, gilded, hands, magnify, snow, time
~
GILDED CONCLUSION
Hands wave
Astonished in silent protest
This is not how it should be at all
This is not how it should be
~
Hands magnify
The yawning abyss of neglect
Shaping the awe of horror
With simple white smoky etchings
In the sky
~
Hands close in prayer
Hoping for some snow whiteness
Nature's whiteness
Nature's forgiveness
Blanketing the crimes of a wayward child
~
Time has become a gilded conclusion
Gilded with fool's gold
~
Hands drown helpless
In the memory of the celestine signs
The eyes were too blind to see

The journey of questions

The journey of questions can be a lonely road…
A slow traveller by the sea…
Translucent shapes in misty rain…
Blue illusions…
Four winds…
Weeping gold…
The second breath of Spring…
White cloud on a quest for old Sorrento…

In the early tears of light…
The coastal road sighed by shimmering glassy waters…
The Painter splashed a few colours…
The buzz of ocean villages…
Awakening…
But the limpid magic of signs drifted by…

Four winds whispering in weeping gold…
White cloud yearning…
Blue illusions of old Sorrento
Waiting…

There was no fanfare of destination…
The body was there…
But watered visions of passing moments charmed the soul…
Echoes of old mansions by the sea…
Laced with new gardens…
Gentle distractions from inner questions…
Till suddenly the road arched upwards…
To a clutter of bright names…

Bright golds…
Bright silvers…

Dark doors…
Dark windows…

Empty tables…
Empty chairs…

By the sea…

Old Sorrento…
Blue illusions…
Waiting…

Few footsteps wandered Sorrento at this time of day…
The cacophony of tourist mayhem begins late…
Happiness is being a lonely traveller…
A spirit free to be moved by the delights of wonder…

The Painter offered a palette of colonial buildings
Gowned for a dance through the years…
Some mingled well in the dance…
Alight with the glow of a new partner…
A new love…
A new lifetime…
But others seemed to wait
Stark and cold…
Fragile whispers from old questions…
Love me? Can you still love me?

But this was not my question…
So carefully I moved on…

Tourist hour was drawing close…
Too soon…white clouds could slip away…

Blue illusions of the spirit guided me to a bookshop…
I had tried the Antipodean world of books…
Tiny gaunt building
White…
Dragged from some servant’s yesterday it seemed…
I thought that was the question…
Sadly…the doors were closed for now…
And the windows only offered some awkward array of vague paintings…
Books seemed to be tucked in some backdoor darkness…
Antipodean…
The name seemed right…
But the question was wrong…

Bookshop…really a newsagent with a dimension of books…
Too many white lights…
Too many choices…
Too many novelties…
I expected nothing…

Blue…a blue cover…just waiting…
“Slow Travel”…
And below the title…
“Sell the house, buy the yacht and sail away…”

Trembling…

Inside the cover…
A map…entitled…
“The Voyage of White Cloud”…

Sorrento…
Gift of the four winds…
Blue illusions…

And questions…

Free Gift

Behind the door is a smiling landscape
Outside the window is a new world
Behind the grey is a whimper of sunlight
A step is progress

Take only nibbles on your journey
A blanket, a compass and torch
But leave a little room for small cuttings
From old lifetimes
To blossom in a new place
A new season

Tomorrow is waiting
For you
To embrace living
Again

And when the rains weep on this new world
And the winds blow wild and cold
Seek the flame of candle glow
The inner flame
Burning softly

Remember me?
Remember me?

Tomorrow

 Perhaps
The window
Is all that separates me from the darkness beyond

The glass
Reflects
The fuzzy light of all that I am

 Should I fear
To step
Beyond
And wander
Blind
In some tomorrow
That is really not

 Or wait
For sleep
To shield me in timeless dreaming

The Poetry of People

A spiral, fir-green staircase…
And drifting down in a patchwork knitted poncho…
Limes
Strawberries and watermelons…
A little old guy…
Etched face of a long-term dreamer…

Prancing rhythms of the Pheasant Pluckers…
“Fire in my belly…fire in my soul…
You don’t have to worry as fire’s in control…”
But I smiled, when, for one musical moment…
They sighed in sweet frustration…
About some girl
Not yet met…

Seething fields of Sunday walkers…
Yarra dreaming…
Suited in grey…alone…
Lovers…
Bike riders…
Skateboarders…
And many walking the dog…

But one couple drifted in a world of their own…
A river cruise…
A tiny boat…
He stood behind her…
Arms wrapped close around her…
And together…
As one…
They sailed by…

And then there were those who offered a dreaming
To any who chose to stop…
And wonder…
Awhiles…

Gold…rustic gold…
A breathing statue of old gold…
A tiny lady…slim…
Gowned…drifting…
Long, long curls framing a delicate face…
Trapped…
In gold…

And a painted koori...
Alone...
Dark light
On paved steps...
Playing the rhythms of ley lines...
Old Dreamings
On a didgeridoo

NOTE: This was written after some beautiful time spent wandering by the Yarra River in Melbourne!

Linking to:
Real Toads Open Link Monday
+

One Stop Poetry – For Poets, Writers & Artists

It’s Marmalade at Midday…

It's Marmalade at Midday...~
The Friday Forgotten #005~

When the planets were slightly askew
And the air
Electronic...

It's Marmalade at Midday!
Secret light lingering
In the silk road
Stillness
Of an infinite moment.
Silent words wandering
Breathless sands
Of a seashore sunrise...

It's Marmalade at Midday!
Distant music of clash and chagrin
Guitared rhythms of pulse and pain
Sonnet couplet of muse and mayhem
Ave atque vale debutante and anthem...

To be or not to be
That is the dream.
Whether 'tis wiser to suffer
The twists and torments
Of smiling Fortune
Or to take a stand
Against the current of ebb tides
And be
Or not be...

Imagine the taste of Marmalade at Midday!
Sweet spice
Twelfth Night at noon
Viola and violin
Orchestrate Misrule...
If Music be the Staff of Love
Play Marmalade at Midday!

Silken light lingering
In the secret
Stillness
Sweet pain wandering
Breathless sands
Dreaming
Warming
Basking
In a seashore sunrise...

Immortal Moment
Hunter to Prey
Chance to Circumstance
Marmalade at Midday...

Langurs in the Guava Tree

LANGURS IN THE GUAVA TREE~
The Friday Forgotten #4~

Sampath paled in the tightening silence...
Many dreams
From the sermon in the guava tree...
Many lights
From the games of silver langurs in the guava tree...

It seems the orchard is empty...
It seems limpid laws of midsummer madness
Shiver...
Straighten...
Leafless...
Naked...

The question of darkness descends...

Sampath tastes freedom...
Unbeautiful brown fruits...
Even the guava...ripened, graced, with a tiny brown birth mark...
Lingering in moonlit leaves...
Mount Olympian chambers of secret stars...

But for those who whirled in the heady sense of dance...
Awakening becomes a dimming...
Moonless...
A falling from a far height...
The lashing crack of splintered timber...

And tremulous eyes in charcoal faces
Wend softly, slowly...
Magnetised...
To the waiting, bubbling cauldron...

Queensland~ 29.12.03.......Tangled webs after reading Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchardby Kiran Desai. 1998.

Café L’Incontro…

Friday Forgotten #2
+
Poetry Pantry #53
Café L’Incontro…
Surfing the colours of Swanston Street
With the eyes…
Civilized delights…
Brewed in heaven…
A sensual Mardi Gras…
Tantalising
The froth of a lonely cappuccino…

The walkers were mainly in black and white…
But I wore deep sapphire blue…

Café L’Incontro is pleased to present…
Sirocco…
Quiksilver…
Paul Bram Diamonds…
Ice…

But the eyes dwelled on a thought…
Passing…
“Laverton or London” is the question…
Passing on a clanking tram roof…
The answer murmured close by…
“I must see Last Samurai again…
Sheer bravery…almost overwhelming…”


I gathered he was a struggling musician…
Struggling to survive his vision…

So I thought I was watching reality…
But reality was watching me…

Tiny dull tinctured linnets…
Nervously scanned the space between the cup
And croissant crumbs…
There were just three…
Till one intrepid soul dared to meet my world…
I smiled as he feasted…
Briefly he eyed the manna...
But his gaze lingered with me…

Very still…I stayed very still…
Only the eyes noticed…
More reality was watching me…

The walkers were mainly in black and white…
But I’m glad I wore deep sapphire blue…
~

NOTE: Swanston Street is in the heart of the city of Melbourne, Victoria, Australia~




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