My Tree

You may never see

A poem lovely as my tree

It’s shape

It’s shade

It’s beauty

For me alone.

No picture captured by my phone.

For only In my memory

Can this vision be preserved.

My Tree

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Murmur #5

I wonder…

Will we see past the colour

Will we perceive the beauty

Held within these simple strokes

Or will our hearts refuse

To see the reality beneath

The murmur of life

That hums equally

Within all living things

Regardless of how we paint them

Decisions

Some choices are black and white

And yet I always add the grey.

Before I know it –

All the colours bloom.

Reds, greens and sometimes blue,

And I’ve put it off –

Until another sunrise.

Maybe then, in black and white.

Senryu (Process)

type your first word here

then keep typing 'til the end -

how to write a book
:)

The River (2)

The mouth of the river opens wide
Capturing the cool ocean wind
And funnelling it to a gasping city,
Carrying the flavour of salt
And fresh open spaces.
The wind also collects –
Leaves from the cities gardens
Dust from the business of life
Refuse from the excesses of life.
All of this it delivers –
Regardless.

(Nature continues to do her work even as we seem to be trying to destroy her.  I found this piece of inspirational art work, made from river refuse, on a walk along the banks of the Brisbane river).

The Potters Gift

 

Spheres to hold water
Straight lines to divide
Curves to seduce
Oblongs to decant
Rectangles to bake
Half circles to serve
Triangles to drink from
And squares from which to eat.
Colours to beguile;
And for further purposes –
Gold to capture the eye
Blue to cool the mild
Green to refresh
Brown to give thanks
To the earth
From whence they came,
To scream of the talent
Of the ancient potter.
To enchant us today
In this world of plastic
And disposable products.

And then…

(Pic by Amanda – accidental photographer, scientist, friend)

.

.

Without warning –

Freedom.

It comes upon me now and then

And once again I am inspired.

Can it be true that this is mine…

… All of this, to do with,

As I please?

Without warning –

I realise.

That my actions are not just my own

And someone else feels the ripple,

Of my discarded truth, or

Half hearted attempt –

To make it right.

Without warning –

Life.

I want it like my morning coffee –

With sugar.

I want it with a crust –

Like humble pie.

I want it with the occasional static.

Without warning –

It’s gone.

And I never said I’m sorry –

To that guy at the grocery store,

Or that woman in the picture theatre.

To that dog I didn’t pat.

To those friends that never gave up –

On me.

Senryu (Broken)

some things get broken

in caring hands they are fixed –

or they mend crooked

.

.

.

.

I photographed this stencil in Dunedin, New Zealand – it was pasted to the back of a bus stop.

One Quiet Night

On a night when even trees don’t whisper

I held your hand and felt her presence rise.

Yon horizons light began to shimmer

Lunar beauty filled our unblinking eyes

With Moreton Island dark beneath her light

She reached across the bay a golden thread

Seldom we see a more inspiring sight

As lunar’s golden beam shone where we tread.

I kissed your lips beneath heavens glory

And promised that we’ll stand together so

As super-moons light our path and story

And even in the dark we don’t yet know

Let’s write our names upon this golden sand

And watch them fall into her golden hand.