Camp chairs resting quietly
Photographers line the landscape
Waiting and anticipating
The gradual descending
Of the yellow ball in the sky
The crickets begin their soundtrack
As the hot sunburnt rock glows
Over the grassy horizon
Tag: writing
NaPoWriMo – Day 4 – Desert @ Dusk
a couple heads in the outback
front row to the Milky Way
navy ceiling sprinkled with stars
oh, the immensity of space
oh, the vastness of this place
a couple of heads in the desert
surrounded by red rocks and sand
sleeping dingos, snakes and flies
oh, the immensity of this space
oh, the vastness of this place
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Bluey Thoughts
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.
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a sad thought
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.
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A Sonnet’s Future
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.
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A Political Landscape
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 .
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Ode to an old photograph
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.
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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.
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Clara’s Ballad
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
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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
Charlie Ann Alford 
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