Across a Surreal landscape
White defeats the green
Black naked branches
Reach towards low slung clouds
As snow flurries lash
Exposed skin on cheerful faces
We shelter in each other’s warmth
And conversations of sunshine
Promoted by
Wine, good gin and pizza.
Am I a witch?
A word witch
Capable of casting
Protective spells
To distract a troubled mind?
To make eyes smile
While faces weep.
To rip concentration
From the memory
Of a roadside accident
And highlight the colour –
The amazing colour –
Of that pedestrians hair.
Could it be that I give freely
Or am I somehow paid by the simple act
Of writing these words,
Which distract me from
Personal demons and
Discomforting thoughts?
Could it be that my words
Are like the spray paint
Of a street artist?
Loved by some
Reviled by others,
A simple distraction to most.
Inside me,
Words are pleasure and pain
Joy and fear.
And the surprise is,
Those same words to you
Can create the opposite…
Move them around.
Let them settle.
Maybe then I will be paid
With a gentle smile
At the corner of your eyes.
In a bed
patiently trees wait
to praise each glor’ous sunrise
poems on paper
It is said; if you wear an ugly face
When the wind changes –
Your face will stay that way.
If the wind changes
While my heart is broken –
Will it stay that way too?
From the west it came
Carrying dust and sandflies.
My skin dried and grit filled my eyes.
I felt I’d never be the same.
This ill wind had blown no good.
To my despair was added discomfort.
Hopes for peace had come up short –
I let myself fall.
On any still night
When the clouds are low
And the city lights,
Create an orange glow.
You may perceive it.
Maybe not in the first instant
But with time you might
Come to notice the remnant.
It’s the noise that’s left behind
As society goes about its business –
The machineries daily grind.
It’s an eerie, almost silence.
You’ll know it from the time
You’re sweetheart touched your hand
In that crowded five and dime
The murmur, the only sound that remained.
And as you stand at sea’s shore
On this calm, steamy evening
You can hear it once more,
The hum of lives out there – living.
How many waves have lapped,
upon these golden shores?
Many more than all my heartbeats,
since my first upon a foreign shore.
How many times am I thankful for
this land that’s girt by sea?
Many more times than I have said,
to one as fortunate as thee.
How many times am I reminded,
that this is not my own country?
Not quite as many, as the times,
I remember, my now lost family.
My love and gratitude for this –
the safety and the freedom.
Can never be expressed in words
by one as simple as just me.
But let my actions speak to you
and then perhaps you’ll see.
That all I want is opportunity,
to share my life with thee.
In the distance a magpie calls,
Tentatively.
I slide out of bed and slip on a tracksuit,
Sleepily.
The dog uncurls from her bed,
Expectantly.
It’s walk time –
A cup of tea for me,
Stretching and sniffing for the dog.
The darkness cloaks our departure.
Possums take to the power-lines as we pass.
The morning is ours right now.
I can hear the sea.
Gentle waves sigh against
The coarse sand beach.
Curlews cry out from the rocky point,
Heralding the arrival
Of a new born day.
Piccaninni dawn –
Nothing showy;
Pastels of orange, yellow and blue.
Soft light that glows
And lightly tints the bay –
This is why I’m here.
 | Chen Song Ping @ TPT… on Summer Squall |
 | andysmerdon on Summer Squall |
 | Mabel Kwong on Summer Squall |
| andysmerdon on Another Day |
| andysmerdon on My Bitter Mouth |
