Sunsets reflect
the passage of the day
squeaks of light
strikes of gold
rolls of grey
blurred puffs of energy
cry – intensity
In a moment
the sky breaks
the trees fold
the house shakes
the girl’s cold
Set into darkness
Blown into nothing
all that’s left
pitta patta
of something
Alone upon the mountainside
Our hero hid and cowered
Born of Dickensian yuletide
He persona was rather dour.
His sandy hair was stiff as straw
His hat feeble and frail
His feet cemented to the floor
cold on his mountainside jail.
Glaring down into the valley
He chided his creators
Captivated infinitely
Upon a sea of haters.
Alone upon the mountainside
Our hero watched and wondered
Weathered, beaten, and cockeyed
What life had he plundered?
Floating stories like balloons in the sky
Revelling in their strong silver linings.
Imagining the shoes of someone else,
Entwining and binding the quirks of us.
Never be the one that I used to know
Don’t leave me. I can’t let you go.
Drifting to the line beyond the water
Impossible, screams “I am possible”
Surfing and surviving the crushing waves
Never letting go, it’s incredible
Eternal souls uplift my ageing heart
Years of friendship, we will never be apart.
There’s a teacup under my bed.
I bought it on a damp high street,
when the days smiled
and our light repelled
oncoming clouds.
You said I was weird.
So when summer ribbons
were moth-eaten
and flowers faded away,
that little teacup stayed.
It watched from the basket,
when lovely red sandles
were discarded,
onto your thick head.
And the purple pen you gave me,
the ink had run
dead.
I love that little teacup,
that sleeps under my bed.
Thirteen Reasons why Today didn’t suck.
One
Autumn night, well played
A fresh to start the day.
Two
Waking up to the big blue,
is an Aussie’s Paradise.
Three
Ding Ding, the café bell
Madam Rosa knows me well.
Four
Coffee beans and toasted bacon,
Taste buds have awoken.
Five
City heels find their strut
music on, iPhone plugged.
Six
Happy chaos on the street,
nods to those we meet.
Seven
Chocolate Orange Mocha
meant good vibrations at the lockers.
Eight
Smiles and conversations,
we found our destination.
Nine
“Here’s your boost juice, babe”
My favourite mint and kale.
Ten
A Southern Cross hottie,
smiles and winks at me.
Eleven
My phone constantly glows,
with plans for April tomorrows.
Twelve
Office sing a long,
we know our working song.
Thirteen
Home to a branded Charlie
inspiring another story.
He comes to the world on an English stage,
His words branded into all the children.
His thoughts flicker through every writes page,
a wise master to all men and women.
He travelled from Europe to the Middle East,
from London to the streets of Verona.
He twisted truth like a romantic beast,
and even got laughed out of Vienna.
But his life was the truest tragedy,
falling to death after a merry drink.
To this day, we can’t spell his name properly
because he would scribble whatever he thinks.
Do you know the man who I speak of?
Have a moment, this was a labour of love.
Branded in my memory – those headlines.
“Everybody’s going to war”, she said
in big bold irrefutable lines
caterwauling across the world: “you’re dead”.
I remember summer, so exciting
hanging together in our township, there
used to be laughter at sudden lightening
we were innocence at the village faire.
But despite the darkness that lingers here
you’re flickering in the deepest shadow
and where there is light, there is hope my dear
inspiring a better tomorrow.
Here enters this world, a parable;
a soul whisked from Anglo and Asian
beaten to the creamiest caramel
cast into a classic Australian.
Creator mixed me with wit and wonder,
folded in compassion and empathy,
she filled my guts with bolts of thunder
and hammered in the nails of humanity.
She cooked me until I was honey golden
measuring each and every state of play.
She watched me carefully, my path chosen
She knew I would be delicious some day.
A little girl waits in an oak tree
like a pearl from the deepest sea.
She hears her call,
a bold buzzing,
drumming thoughts
a white noise humming.
The little deer through the years
riding through her fiery fears
she fought and sought
with all her might
dodging judgy worldly lights.
Battles won – she can count a few,
the mountain peak, it’s not far from view.
Yesterday’s fountain has run dry
the truth, bellows a Banshee cry
they cannot run. they cannot hide,
for all unjust will certainly die.
The little girl laughs from her tree,
the ones before whisper in the breeze.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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