I saw a turtle
on a side of Uluru
caught in sands of time
red, hot and frozen
under a strong southern sun
surveying the land
a fractured earth wishing rain
would replenish its thirst
Turtle nods ‘palya’ to new friends
that gulp down water
finding solace in rare shade
but showing respect
to him and his ancient rock.
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.
7 o clock shadows
thawing from the icy wind
winter is coming.
Thoughts fall to my bashful Blue
as the world spins without you.
Daydreams of Cabrera woods
where long ago we once stood.
You in blue, brown, black and white
Me in navy dress and tights.
Our bench sleeps quietly
nestled within the tall trees
if those ancient oaks could talk
they would tell tales of our walks
trotting around the river
after school until I shivered
then up the hill to our home
where I would read a heavy tome
and you would curl at my feet
enjoying the roaring fires heat.
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.
Tomorrow is the not yet travelled road
an invisible step on the cliff edge
reaching with outstretched arms and a blind fold
hanging tight onto today’s window ledge.
Drowning in the fear of not knowing
but knowing the next step could mean drowning
either way it’s almost suffocating
knowing today could be the ending.
But tomorrow holds possibility
a place where dreams and desires could come true
a blank page of an unwritten story
an adventure awaits for me and you.
So take each moment as time keeps moving
the lesson of life to just keep writing.
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 .
Nestled in between some ageing letters
the bright young face of a family tree
captured time is a historic treasure
another life for my great Welsh granny.
Why did you girls cross the River Severn
and pitch your tents on England’s mighty shore
starting a trend of nomadic children
far from the valleys we found our heaven
London, Surrey, and the Devonshire moor
exchanging tales on the pavilion.
You left the world before I could breathe
before you eldest son had a daughter
You are a fairytale I want to believe
studying every corner of your picture.
I have the copper hair that curls and twirls
I have the deep hazel eyes of wonder
I have the Welsh blood running through my veins
and with every dream of this little girl
your memory echoes like a roar of thunder
in your granddaughters hearts you shall remain.
Written for Writing 201
Drawer (things you find inside) > Ode > Apostrophe (talking to someone or an object)
The person I am talking to in this poem is my grandmother, Iris. She married my grandfather shortly after the war leaving Wales behind and travelling the world while my grandfather continued to serve in the army. She passed away a year before I was born leaving behind six granddaughters and two grandsons. Four of whom she never met or knew existed. I have an old photograph of her for as long as I can remember and have always admired it quiet curiosity.
Fingers like tippy toes take the dancers pose. Moving majestically across the ‘Qwerty’ circuit my musical musings they interpret. Click-Clacking of cranial cogs my incessant thoughts start flowing. Materialising and showing, the inner voice line by line. The stems of this mortal tree tap the keys excessively to the musical beat inside of me. No question of refrain, as they dance and dance again and again.
You’ve heard the words remember me
echoes splinter through time
quiet whispers in reality
somewhere the bells have chimed.
He met her inside a Dalek
she was full of sass and style
studying every move and trick
parting ways for a while.
He found her at the Rose & Crown
serving the London streets
chasing him through the ancient town
the second time they’d meet.
And then somewhere in the future
a place you and I know
he would find her as a teacher
and travelling they would go.
She went spinning with him in space
a button nose of curiosity
questioning every time and place
but he was the mystery.
Deciphering the enigmatic
whimsies of a mad man
she saw how his life was tragic
but danger had a plan.
They fought the Great Intelligence
and ran from time zombies
he brought her aboard with pretence
keen to know her story.
Leaping into the gold vortex
she saved him from himself
shattering across his cortex
echoing through his self.
She was the voice inside his head
that pulled him from the dark
a shining light in times of dread
a tiny little spark.
Remember me you clever boy
Remember me in dreams
Remember me you clever boy
Nothing is as it seems.
Written for Writing 201 > Hero(ine) > Ballad > Anaphora and Epistrophe
Charlie Ann Alford 
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