Gently sleep tugs me
Into a late morning nap
Winter sun subdues
Two lives shared
One lifetime celebrated –
A time that created life
A time that respected life, and
A time that continues its life.
For 60 years you’ve held hands
And held ours too –
In times of happiness
In times of struggle, and
In times of light.
We thank you both,
For our lives,
For sixty years of guidance, and
For the chance to congratulate you.
We love you both,
And we respect and admire you both,
With all our hearts.
Happy Anniversary, Mum and Dad.
XXX
Make eye contact and say the words,
Let me see them fall from your lips.
Don’t send them along the copper cords
Or wirelessly send your sweetest quips –
Yours eyes say more than simple speech
Distance and time make the feeling leech.
Hold my hand and say you care.
Tell me again that I’m all you need.
I love the warmth you often share
And know this time my heart won’t bleed.
It’s when we touch, our spirits soar –
I feel it at my deepest core.
To keep our love that’s set in stone –
Let’s hold hands, not use the phone.
Beige
Lights flash by the window
I know them, and they barely register.
A familiar hacking cough disturbs.
Tinny announcements are ignored
By my numb mind.
My beige life,
Clatters in time with the carriage –
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack,
Day after day.
I need colour…
At the next station, she steps into my life.
.
.
Watermelon
There is something satisfying,
When the seed you spit, lands perfectly
On the shoulder of your detractor –
Unbeknownst to them.
Is not the day a little brighter?
The juice a little sweeter?
The colour more than watermelon?
The future seems promising,
The past… Further past…
The joy of simple revenges.
.
.
Red
As long as she can remember
Her view from the hillside cottage
Had been Argassi’s terracotta rooftops –
Down to the turquoise Mediterranean.
This has been her anchor.
She was born here,
She grew here,
She learned here,
She loved here,
She taught here,
And she gave here.
Now she is returned to the soil…
to become part of here.
#1 Blue Broken glass litters the floor. As I hug my daughter against my shattered heart. I feel her warm tears. We sit huddled against the refrigerator door. All this breakage... She’ll want to come back to us again… . . . …I’ll probably say yes... #2 Green The sun is a pale disc. The fog bank moves in from the South. Everywhere is grey and shrouded, Except the grass beneath my feet. It remains green for me - even when she’s not here. #3 Orange Marigolds Strung in long chains Drape from balconies and across pergolas A hubbub of voices A riot of colour An extravaganza of flavours A painted elephant A sacred fire Two souls are joined
His knees ached
As he knelt upon
The blackbean rail.
His hands clasped in prayer
In the Yakandandah Baptist Church
.
She smelt the soil
As she bowed before
The moss-covered Buddha.
Her forehead cool against the soil
In the forest outside of Da Nang
.
Sweat stung his eyes
As he prostrated himself
On the east facing mat.
Beneath the blue mosaic tiles
Of the mosque at the heart of Bahrain
.
Incense swirled seductively
As she raised her steepled hands
And lowered her eyes.
In the colourful forecourt
Of a temple in downtown Singapore
.
Colour dazzled his vision
As he knelt before the offerings
Bowls of fruit, sweets and spices.
On the steps of the dais
Amongst the bustle of spiritual Varanasi
.
Her heart sang
As she draped the chain of flowers
Around the neck of the elephant God.
On the cold scree slopes
Of the sacred Mount Kailash
.
All souls gather
Before their chosen faith
As they tread a mindful path.
Across the face of one planet
Our mother – Gaia, Earth
.
.
.
Inspired by a photograph on MrsMilnr blog her excellent post titled “Believe”. Cheers Mrs M – your photography always inspires me 🙂
Does the sun rise for me,
Or am I rushing to greet it?
Does the moon forget to touch me
As she slips below the horizon,
Or have I simply failed to watch anymore?
Does a friend slight me,
Or do I fail to understand his pain?
Does a relationship turn sour,
Or was there nothing there to begin with?
Does the old soldier sip quietly on a rum
Because he needs the drink,
Or does he salute dead mates?
Is life a construction site,
or a constant reconstruction site?
.
.
.
I’m not sure…
