weary eyes are burning
under a mass of blankets
frost on the window
hope is in my woolies
solace in a hot shower
Category: Writing
NaPoWriMo – 2/30 – Birds eye view
bonding with big blue
gliding over marshmallows
endless horizon
crackling red earth, solid, flat
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NaPoWriMo 2015 – 1/30 – Reflecting
Is it too late for yesterday?
A reel of memories on replay;
The Lions roar turned out the lights
Casting the day into the night
Hiding under the Chelsea Bridge
Haunted by the London Blitz
Smoke stings her weathered grey skin
A mighty war she was breathing in
Fightin’ them for bread and water
A small bereft southern daughter
Blasted out of her rub-a-dub
Just her and her little cub.
What happens when tomorrow comes
Will she be cast back into the slums
collateral damage of this time
where being poor was a crime.
The photos linger in the past
But the stigma will always last
Just a shot of another place
Another time in another space.
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A Political Landscape
Nail you political colours
a wall of activism
selling on the nations streets
plaster across the cityscape
hopeless, pretty hopeless
leaving people behind
imagined inspirations
such grand aspirations
depicts the grim situation
people tweeting red.
Written for Writing 201
Landscape > Found Poetry > Enumeratio
The above picture/text was taken from an article in today’s The Age .
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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
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Journey Limerick
these small playful characters
are veteran travellers
sounds in every shape
linguistic landscapes
my alphabetic actors
making paper every day
some will go and some will stay
delivered by Sir Snail
a mountain of mail
home after their holiday
they flew by air; sailed by boat
carried by a mountain goat
thrown from bag to bag
“snail mail is a drag”
said the effable e-note’
those small playful characters
conquer cyber barriers
uniting in words
tweeting like the birds
my alphabetic actors.
Written for Writing 201: Poetry. Day 2 – Journey, Limerick, Alliteration.
Inspired by: It was my turn to log the returned mail in the office today. I started to wonder the journey the envelopes had been on… and that’s how interesting logging returned mail is.
Hope you enjoy xxx
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What will your legacy be?
What will your legacy be?
Someone fetch me a cup of tea
Vacant eyes in a photograph
a smile with potential to laugh
the voice quiet and unheard
the writer speaks not a word
hidden behind hazel eyes
an ocean of silent cries
make your mark on the page
own your part on the stage
you’re the lead in your story
reach for your inner glory
stretch it to the sky like a tree
what will your legacy be?
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sleep
she could smell the rain
It tasted like pancakes on Wednesday
the world darkened under a silver moon
Journeying into never ever land
The curtains closing
The purple haze over the city
Outside her window
Words bid her farewell
Lying still her mind runs
Tales of tomorrow
As if it were yesterday
The cyber girl of the dark
Illuminates through twilight
It’s what day?
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32/365 The Wait
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Despicable You
Despicable You
Trolling about the place
your radar must be broken
your mind wanders
far in the wrong direction
your twisted pleasures
scratches against my life
like nails on a chalkboard
turning my sunshine to rain
your words taste like milk
that has been left out alone
the government warned us
about the Internet
now bonding with humans
face to face
sends dancing endorphins
but are frozen shocked
by disillusioned speech
the brown eyed pot belly
sprawled across the chair
sends shudders down my spine
there’s just something not right
chuntering over there
the office clock ticks away
but I’m trapped in creepy moments
of seductive despicability
but it doesn’t work on me
my disdain pauses your conversing
the innocent shrivelled shrugging
shows a lifetime of rehearsing
to me you are a real life Gru
vile and wicked; twisted you.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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