Micro Tales (2) x 3

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.

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Micro Tales x 3

#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

Faith

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 🙂

Musings (construction, reconstruction and perception)

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…