There is no such thing as an easy road,
the land twists and turns at the weathers fight,
but high above where the long river flowed
pride and peace prevail at the sight.
She scrambled over the big jagged rocks,
and channeled Puffing Billy up the hill.
She pushed herself until she saw black dots
but nothing was stronger than her will.
For, when she arrived at the highest point,
she sat and surveyed the earths majesty.
Although, she had worn out her weary joints,
the journey was threaded in her life’s tapestry.
Inspired by Mental Health Week that is sweeping across Australia.
like a glass of wine
on a Friday night
spices and chilli
stings shivering nerves
casacade of goosebumps
the real world screams
from all directions
piano keys at her temples
bass at her heart
eyes like lead
oh, a paper-weight of a head
Downton’s Daisy, is
a marionette under the wrong master
she doesn’t know what to do
society says she will not do
in her family tree of servitude.
That story stops there
hack and halve and hack again
dreams submerge reality
or is the other way around?
She is tired.
She is empty.
She breaks her down
to build her up.
She is the builder.
Pausing above the breakwater
on the edge of St. Kilda Pier
capture a father and daughter
tangled in photography gear.
Her pink scarf dances in the breeze
as her world falls behind the trees.
In the shadows with bells and chimes
she stops being guarded by time.
Enchanted by the soft whistles
emerging from the creaking boats.
Posts, etched in sailors initials
tells the stories of life afloat.
Raptures of little blue penguins
Modeling for their human friends
nestle themselves in the deep rocks
quiet and safe along the docks.
a new home for urbanites
coffee and cocoa
a feeling of royalty
the mail house reborn.
Inspired by MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Shadorma Photo Prompt.
Today was one of those days… for everyone else. It started with a Melbourne Metro Meltdown – it involved rats and fire! (I dare you not to click the link now! But come back,if you do). I wasn’t affected until I was asked to channel my inner minion and do the morning coffee run. As I was standing in the painfully long queue of damp Melbournians I avoided all eye contact and browsed the internet on my phone, as you do, and other than reading all the lovely likes and comments on my WordPress reader (go team!) I stumbled on NaPoWriMo website. I don’t know it happened it just did. Anyway I saw the Day 29 prompt – “Twenty Little Poetry Projects” and thus started a tennis game in my head. Well, not tennis, but one half of the brain was “you’ve posted your Day 30 give yourself a break” and the other half was “pfft, challenge accepted”. Well, work was quiet today and I’m posting here so I assumed you’ve all concluded which side of the brain won. So with out further ado, and apologies for the long winded introduction I give you my-almost-twenty-poetry-projects-poem.
So, Wednesday happened.
Waltzing through the epic commuter show
avoiding a woeful Richmond station.
She wrapped her hand around a ‘cuppa joe’
which stimulated this pointless narration.
She sat at her desk by a stormy scene
and waited for her universe to light up
Orange windows flash-dancing on her screen
reflection of words in her java cup.
“Good Morning Miss Charlie – Are you here yet?
Can you help me a with little something?
Trainaggedon – No, it’s not a threat
I’m late; Need mojo; but calls are waiting!”
Ah, the sweet aroma of cocoa beans
hot lattes of satisfaction
just a hasty injection of caffiene
then he can give you your explanation.
Evil calendars begin at nine
her face turns red at the sound of ‘tick tock’
Sure, Alfie will be back at her desk on time
twiddling her fingers; waiting for the clock.
C’est la vie.
Although, technically it’s Autumn here Summer did revisit us for ANZAC Day. I wrote this whilst sitting along the banks of the Yarra River. Louis Armstrong & Ella Fitzgerald do a great cover of this song – SummerTime.
“Summer time… and the livin’ is easy… fish are jumpin’… and the cotton is high…”
the saxophonists notes follow her along the river
as she looks down on the black swans floating
from the steps of a faux Parisian cafe
on a beautiful faux summer day.
“… Oh, your daddy’s rich… and your mamma’s good lookin’… so hush, little baby… don’t you cry…”
a little girl reaches and clasps her grandfather’s hand
his medals glistening in the sun; a weary veteran
nods slowly and carefully to the whispers in his ears
comfortably surrounded by his future.
“… One of these mornings… you’re going to rise up singing… then you’ll spread your wings… and take to the sky…”
the banks of the river burst with soul
a young student girl charms us with an upturned wok
a young veteran strums his aged guitar
while a young flautist hums her way into the urban orchestra.
“… But until that morning… there’s nothing can harm you… with your daddy and mummy standing by…”
on the grass a group of primary children
create chalk drawings of sunshine
and city views – they love their country
sparkling pride in their young little eyes.
“… Summertime… and the livin’ is easy…”