White eagle 

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NaPoWriMo – 24/30

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.

Poem for Mental Health Week

Inspired by Mental Health Week that is sweeping across Australia.

Empty

like a glass of wine

on a Friday night

spinning happily

wonderland

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

devilishly clever

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.

St. Kilda Pier

IMG_7177

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.

Almost Twenty Little Poetry Projects

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.

 

#NaPoWriMo Day TwentySix – SummerTime

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…”