Bluey Thoughts

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Thoughts fall to my bashful Blue
as the world spins without you.
Daydreams of Cabrera woods
where long ago we once stood.
You in blue, brown, black and white
Me in navy dress and tights.
Our bench sleeps quietly
nestled within the tall trees
if those ancient oaks could talk
they would tell tales of our walks
trotting around the river
after school until I shivered
then up the hill to our home
where I would read a heavy tome
and you would curl at my feet
enjoying the roaring fires heat.

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a sad thought

Brunching in the city park
shopping from dawn until dark
inhaling strong chai lattes
in the labyrinth of laneways.

I’m staggering to recall
memories of us, is this all
random moments here and there
tucked away beneath the stairs.
Pictures of you are calling
through the hallway echoing
I remember, you were there
popping in to show you care.

The seasons have clouded my
memories of you. I want to cry
yearning for the could have been
dwelling on the should have been.

With the storm came the changing
your life was rearranging
contemplating what was next
every conversation hexed
a tired withering flower
yielding to a Spring shower
drowning in abundance of time
poisoned by the cheese and wine.

An Elegy to inner darkness

Haunting melancholy avenue
a silhouette in foggy hue
weeps for what could have been
while she waited for the great ‘begin’.

Her can of love remained unopened
the voice inside remained unspoken
she never knew how to be
all she knew was how to breathe.

There was method in her madness
There was style in her apparatus
She could see what needs to be seen
She could see inside the in between.

Our very own Joey Potter
but smarter and oh so hotter
She was the brains behind the beak
a genius that didn’t speak.

Clearing the fog of self doubt
and sweeping the shadows out
are done with friends, hand in hand
for only they can understand.

That with every drop of laughter
and every silent whisper
will roll away the darkened clouds
and a life is left, standing proud.

Written for Writing 201

Fog — Elegy — Metaphor

Put Out Your Bats

Things happen.

You just don’t think they are going to happen

but they do.

A fallen hero

things happen

but then they get better

but sometimes they don’t.

I saw red bold letters

I saw yesterday on replay

I felt the sun shining

I heard clouds on the bay

Flags fell

Wishes made

Prayers barely answered

hope fell into shade

Darkness cast shadows,

against the light of humanity

but breathes of love

in the veins of a global community

roared across oceans

to the place I call home.

Streets lined with cricket bats

wherever I roam.

I didn’t know you

I only knew of you

I feel the pain of losing you

because I feel the grief left by you

Things happen

Nonsensical things happen

and we all keep asking

why did it happen to you?

Written for Phil Hughes & Cricketing Community. I can’t say I ever followed cricket or know much of the team but what happened last week I felt in my heart just like the rest of the world. It’s just so shocking and I still can’t believe it.  I had to write something.

#putoutyourbats

The day the laughter died

Written in honour of Robin Williams – a true entertainer that had a huge impact on this girls childhood. I can’t think of a favourite childhood movie that didn’t have him in it. From Aladdin, Flubber, Hook to Dead Poets Society, Good Will Hunting and even more recently Happy Feet.

 

The day the laughter died…

shock waves and sadness

a piece of my youth – gone

I always thought Peter Pan lived forever.

Sparkling blue eyes

decades of smiles

like ripples across an ocean

throngs of characters

transcending time

always and forever

caught inside life’s hour glass

trying to break free

a special kind of magic

never before and never again

will our hearts warm

like you warmed them

our genie

our doctor

our captain

remember

turn at the second star

nanu nanu.

 

Foggy Days Ahead

This fog is symbolic of discontent
Hurt and pain burns inside this weary world
each of us clouded by our judgements
it happened in a moment; emotions twirled.
Walking through shadows of a misty place
searching; scrolling for pieces of answers
disappearing without a scrap or trace
echoes of voices of social dancers
Soon the fog will lift from this tired city
And her flags will be raised back to full mast
Even in this moment the world seems shitty
tomorrow will pull it into the past.
We’ve been here before; Winter comes and goes
We’ll be here again – that everyone knows.

Farewell, Postman Pat

It’s time to hang your hat, sir.
Your work has come to an end.

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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