An Untitled Life

 

 I like to live the way I want to live

in my own company, completely free.

My choices. I don’t ask you to forgive

coz I only answer to one person. Me. 

I’ve been cleaning out yesterdays wardrobe,

my boots and pack are asleep on the shelf

neighbours to treasures from across the globe

above the costumes, that make me myself.

I bought sunflowers because they make me smile.

I have Frankie for when I want to escape.

My Sharpies are defenders of my creative trials

as I colour the pieces of my landscape.

My Chinese lanterns hang over Big Ben,

reflecting my memories of magical Earth,

collection of moments; who, what and when,

my friends as I descend, from birth to hearse.

 

Advertisements

NaPoWriMo – 11/30

Night has fallen,
the hum of electronics
hover in my eyes
the vroom of weary cars
sigh in urban driveways
the crickets begin
a creekside melody
amidst the whooshing
of a passing 747
as I lie here
my heart thumping
my stomach gurgling
my throat scratching
my eyes tearing
my insides screaming.
I'll wake up properly tomorrow.

winter

Winter is her weakness

a body trapped in bleakness

shaking and aching

the darkness enchanting

her hopes bequeathed

as she falls like leaves

windows fill with teariness

as she is locked inside by weariness

waiting to see again

waiting to hear again

waiting to sing again

Tomorrow starts with latte

the fuel of fearful Friday

and the fire inside her ignites

as Winter continues to bite.

Putting a finger on prose poetry

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.

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

Ox

IMG_8417

it was party
in the park
Bob Geldof. South Africa.
thrust into the world
found sun shining in
winter in the wintery dew that fell over
my snowy paddock, the morning
glory glistened and sparkled
I spent my childhood
riding the horns of ambition
wisdom weaving my destiny like
I had control over what happens
when I stood alone in my pad
fenced in yellow tulips, shelter my
friends slither between
but they know, if they
cross the fence – my
wrath is all
they will
see.

Another Acrostic: Why did you steal our bin?

why did you act unfavourably

have you the swagger to confess?

your duplicity baffles me

despicable street light antics

illicit ninja left us frantic

demons in urban corporate dress.

you cursed us; judging and doubting

oozing thoughts of unpleasantness

usurped after work, we searched, scouting

sucky little ugly goblins

talk about a suburban problem

exterminate from our address.

apprehensive anonymity

lingers like shadows of stress

out of the cracks of the city

unearth a convoluted game

really though, what you did was lame

back, put it back, this isn’t chess.

in the book, look for trustworthy

note, it’s called being neighbourly.