Oceanic eyes
pushes up the hills
that sprout from life’s road
determined to be
the better version of me.
Fake smiles and gestures
can’t hide
the strangling fear and insecurity
all I want is to be me.
This road can feel lonely
my words are my friends
dreaming of what I could be
trying to find this mysterious place
happy.
Inspired by the show Nashville and the character Juliette. I have a new addiction.
Memories are like openings
the rain slamming against them
as you stare absently at the visions
following the trails
you turn from them
casting shadows over your mind
trying to back away from them
after more than twenty years
of extensive flashbacks
to nothing, no where and no one.
A replacement poem
Pick a common noun for a physical thing, for example, “desk” or “hat” or “bear,” and then pick one for something intangible, like “love” or “memories” or “aspiration.” Then Google your tangible noun, and find some sentences using it. Now, replace that tangible noun in those sentences with your intangible noun, and use those sentences to create (or inspire) a poem.
I used ‘window’ and ‘memory’.
In the hours before the dawn
above the rented unkept lawn
rests a weary tired fox
in her creamy coloured box.
Beyond her door is a show
where others presume to know
who she is and where she’s been
but there are sides they have not seen.
She escapes the game through her books
happy in her little nook
surrounded by pictures of friends,
tattered postcards, and mail to send.
Flowery perfume fills the space
souvenirs of another place
cork boards filled with rainbow post-its
clothes bursting from the closet.
She crawls up here once a day
finds her doona and there she lays
time out from the world outside
the only place she can hide.
Asking me again, like a
broken record
circling conversations, like
Death lingering
entombed in our talks.
Free me from this expectation
Grant me the salvation
Halt your narration
I am sighing at your
jousting affirmations.
Kindred spirits
living and loving
meandering down the rivers
neverending, but
open the possibilities.
Please,
question them
refuse to answer them
soundtracks are your making
they are only them.
Unicorns and rainbows
vexed by conformity
we are who we are
existentially,
you are.
zig-zags are more fun than straight lines.
There, hangs a bat on
the telephone line
listening to the world
pretending he feels fine
how did he get here
he couldn’t tell you
resting from the night
he can hear your shoe
tapping on the ground
keeping him from sleep
here it is Monday
the start of the week
Is it worth it?
To do, for the sake of doing
to follow the motions of growing
following what is expected
oh, this society is infected.
They say follow the yellow brick road
as long as you also do as your told
The land of Oz is for dreaming,
just fairytales and meme-ing.
Reality is conformity
follow the rules – happily
be judged if you take a detour
They ask, Is it really worth fighting for?
I like the unknowing of tomorrow
choosing which line I’ll borrow
making the day as I go
just another face in this show.
Why should I follow the motions?
When life is as immense as the ocean.
Why should I do what ‘they’ say?
Who are ‘they’ anyway?
Is it worth it?
Curled in the tootsies this morn
winter, about to be born
frosty views of the window
deceiving me with blue sky
mother nature should not lie
but here I am freezing cold
blanket hostage I will hold.
I’ve finally arrived back in Melbourne city after spending the last five days in the red centre of Australia. The following is inspired by my final moments there… and I am happy to have finally caught up with napowrimo.
the endless grassy landscape
to much for one heart to take
little geckos try to blend
young dingos want a friend
looking beyond what i see
the laughter of family
penetrates the silent dreams
as thirsty eyes search for streams
I love this sunburnt country
like a kestral floating free
I love this sunburnt country
roaming wild and free.
An aqua family
lives below copper rocks
that enclose and impose
over a desert valley.
The rainbow dragons fly
twinkling above the still
dancing the whistling breeze
listening to the birds squee and cry,
Rustles in nearby grass
warrants suspicious looks
studying every blade
a city girls anxious task.
But deep in this spiritual home
all can come and all can roam.
Camp chairs resting quietly
Photographers line the landscape
Waiting and anticipating
The gradual descending
Of the yellow ball in the sky
The crickets begin their soundtrack
As the hot sunburnt rock glows
Over the grassy horizon
Charlie Ann Alford 
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