I like to think I'm a story teller. I love stories. I believe the world is filled with stories just waiting to be told and learned. I enjoy travelling down the road less travelled, with my iPhone and journal in each hand. Here you'll find all my poetic musings... Enjoy!
Inspired by Pooky’s Poetry Prompt 15 – The Meaning of Life
Sitting on the stone steps of Parliament House
in my warm grey coat and snuggly scarf
clutching to my hot vanilla chai latte
as I watch brown leaves floating in the wind.
What a marvellous moment to be here!
To see, the world tick-tocking like clockwork.
Chatter echoes from the crowded cafes
as the trams jingle their morning songs.
Sometimes I stop – listen – and wonder
it’s a funny thing we do everyday
existing and living; playing the game
Is there meaning? And it’s not forty-two.
It feels like a never-ending story
where we’re born in the middle – missing
pieces of the beginning – a puzzle
that we spend our lives trying to work out.
Some say there are three things; life, death, taxes
but I think it’s human architecture
life for me, is Mufasa and Simba
it’s the story of how we all connect.
In a giant globe of activity
this world is an enigmatic story
that happens to feature humanity
and stepping on a butterfly changes history.
It’s time to hang your hat, sir.
Your work has come to an end.
Harry S Alford My Grandfather the Postman
I’ll miss the hand waves and the bells
of a much beloved friend.
Seeing you early each morning
counting out the coloured cards
placing them through each letterbox
with a smile, wink and kind regards.
Rain or shine, you were always there
the glue that held the villages
together with paper and ink
and postcards of flowery bridges.
But, the wheels of time push progress
and you have been found wanting.
Time, she has made you redundant
and so Death has begun knocking.
It’s time to hang up your hat, sir.
Your work has come to an end.
We’ll remember you in our scrapbooks
and label you, a long lost friend.
Poem was inspired by an article in The Age:Are you ready to abandon snail mail?
Back in the days of jeans and bandana’s
I would tip toe along the old stone brick walls
taking a swing on the old iron gate
into the old tennis-racket shaped road.
We were the children of the River Bourne
playing happily above our ancient wood
cycling in circles around our bubble
waiting to venture down the unknown path.
We created chalk worlds on the grey pavement
where our art reflected our village life
of summer carnivals and bonfire nights
bringing this circle into another vibe.
I remember standing outside my home
eighteen years of me imprinted in those bricks
echoes of laughter bound through the parish
as I waltzed into the woods, goodbye.
The 90s children have all grown and gone
new pedals and canine friends take their place
but the brown robins are still all twittering
like the old ladies down by station house.
The road I grew up on belongs elsewhere
in a time of jeans and bad bandana’s
when dancing to ‘Under the Sea’ was cool
and dinner was hot curry sauce on chips.
Sitting on the stone steps of Parliament House
in my warm grey coat and snuggly scarf
clutching to my hot vanilla chai latte
as I watch brown leaves floating in the wind.
What a marvellous moment to be here!
To see, the world tick-tocking like clockwork.
Chatter echoes from the crowded cafes
as the trams jingle their morning songs.
Sometimes I stop – listen – and wonder
it’s a funny thing we do everyday
existing and living; playing the game
Is there meaning? And it’s not forty-two.
It feels like a never-ending story
where we’re born in the middle – missing
pieces of the beginning – a puzzle
that we spend our lives trying to work out.
Some say there are three things; life, death, taxes
but I think it’s human architecture
life for me, is Mufasa and Simba
it’s the story of how we all connect.
In a giant globe of activity
this world is an enigmatic story
that happens to feature humanity
and stepping on a butterfly changes history.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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