Sunset Storm

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

That old man

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?

NaPoWriMo 2017 8/30 – Tea Cup

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.

NaPoWriMo 2017 7/30

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.

Inside an Introvert

Everything has a story,

the who, what, why and where.

I spend my life journaling

and watching them, over there.

Our stories come through music,

through books and on the screen,

they make us laugh out loud

and sometimes even scream.

I’m trying to find my story

but I’ve been locked away by time

I never really grew up

so there’s nothing on this line.

These hazel eyes feel empty,

the tears I’v been holding back

what’s the use in crying?

I don’t know how to react.

Who is this blank person,

glaring back at me?

Is there anything inside her?

I find, I can’t breathe.

I drive the road, unchartered

my past clings to the mirror

I don’t know what is out there

I can’t see what’s in my future.

I see the tree’s sparkle,

and there I find my peace

Crackling bacon and laughter

snug in a winter fleece.

I tell myself I don’t need them

I’m happy driving alone

but all my dreams include them

I think of them as home.

How do I break down this wall?

How do I engage?

I just want to wake up.

I want to be on their page.

This soliloquy could be endless

I could write from dawn to dusk

But the world is outside waiting,

and I have to try, I must.

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.