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

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.

 

#NaPoWriMo Day Nineteen – “a weeping angels woe”

 

Alone in the churchyard I watch

mortals mourning in tears and flowers.

Leaning against a rowan tree

abandoned by my family.

Beneath my feet a girl is weeping

I open my arms and kneel down

In surprise, she looks up at me

screaming like a startled crow.

She runs back through the stone and grass

reaching out to her, I follow

She turns to me – her eyes are cold

and zap – she’s now in the past.

Falling through time – I am weeping;

my eyes hidden behind grey fingers.

Left within eternal sleeping

this is where my Winter lingers.

#NaPoWriMo Day Fourteen – “Song of Sorrow”

Whilst upon my weekend web travels I came across this artist: Victoria Frances – and was so taken with this piece I couldn’t help but write about it. If you want to see more of Victoria’s work please see here: http://www.victoriafrances.es/en/ 

Painted smiles and comical tears

lie beneath a gold plated mask

so many faces; so many years

Who I am? It’s only natural to ask.

I am the forgotten extra

a dark, morose, Venetian clown

just waiting for my exit, so

Death can rescue me from this crown.

For my master sits on the bloody throne

a cheater of time and of death.

I am a mere mortal instrument

to entertain until my last breath.

He found me by the Grand Canal

a weary flower weeping

took me for his possession

another toy for his keeping.

Winter breathes inside these walls

compelled to the dreary and dark

bound by magic into the night

cursed by an invisible mark.

At sunset, the music will start

and echo through the dusky halls

I am captive in his shadows

imprisoned inside the dark stone walls.

Forgotten

 

One grey day on the Metro line

I looked upon an old past time.

Sitting in the middle of yesterday

a carousel that cannot play.

Bracing itself through the pouring rain

the tired horses show their pain.

Eroded down to their very core

their porcelain skins are no more.

Coarse are their once pristine petals

destined for a sea of metal.