Waking winds – a Sun’s desires

Crawl between some mountains
Climb high above their tree-lines
To sit upon a long lonely rock shelf
Waiting for morning winds to arrive.

No sun, no daylight, just darkness
Weighs each moments’ worth to time
A share in story weights, stories told
While companions stare out to sip upon.

A single bottle, wild raspberry wine
Taking easy at rest leaning back
Against smooth vertical surfaces
Swapping tales from nights before.

These two wanders, wayfarers
Converse in future divergent
Travels, yet to be written in ways
As they wait now silent to dawn.

A world tilting, spinning through
Shades to darkness’ blue tones
Where a molten gold splits across
Far deep on an endless horizon curve.

For the once night air now picks up, it stirs
Rolling in waves, crashing loud as thunder
Across these two figures high in the moment
Awake, bare to the molten honey Sun’s desires.

High above a river basinSeven pieces of writing today, have been a little busy of late, and still on other things, but a weeks worth in one day is okay, right?

Broken windows

Climbing out through broken windows
as on twisted glass it cuts and bites
four painted walls collapsing inwards

On loose air between dust inflight
rife these quaking worlds in litter
debris it falls apart, turning sometimes

A once daylight into darkness, a hell
filling fast with gas and water, in flood
drowning life deep beneath slow instant

Rubble pits, as hope fades to now
a dwindling light, escapes clutched
to moments, instances, friends, family,

Strangers claw to find, follow sounds,
voices in a fight to crawl, climb
from underneath a rendered collective

Chaos within each their shape shifting worlds.

 

Back street carnivals

Escaping down through the alleyways
Worlds abuzz with rambling wanderers
Street musicians ply their trades and wares
As acrobats climb to tumble, through

A swirl in dancing painted silks in lofty pairs
While stilt walkers bend, flip, turn, and dance
Laughter amongst the children, their happy
feet at play as they run, gather, or pause in awe.

Escapes down twisted laneways, painted faces
Dance to young revellers tunes, for there’s no
escape a back street carnival, worlds in colour
painting in song, in laughter, life’s fun all set to a spin.

In the day, vintage car and family

No silence – a universe of sounds

Outside last night beneath a frangipani
a night’s stars swept, brushed our worlds
in passing rivers on their ways in darkness,
but silence is always awake for them
never sleeping, just faded within each hours
bent to blue tempered air caught by day.

Kind of something akin to strangers
in the back room, listening to every
word uttered between tongues, transmitted
voices unaware how every whisper is heard
echoing through the vast empty noise
tapping threads woven, intertwined, silent.

End of day

A photograph’s inverted well

Beauty shares as brief moments
In each conversations’ ends,

While what passes between escapes
In paint and ink on seasons raised,

Travels court changes in the weather
we find to hours as they sip time in,

A photograph’s inverted well
Le jour and Le nuit, and the songs they sing,

It releases, realises possibilities rather than
Holding, just walking in the arms of hope.

Enough good on the horizon

What’s in a label

What’s in a label, provincial
We become thought of as less

To worlds metropolitan, cosmopolitan
National in their blatant regard to exploitation

To suppress we unsophisticated, our lack
In having a broad-mind to progresses’ party

But all they leave us with is holes, mass
Subsidence’s and man made lakes they

Suck dry to the bone as they complain
Provincials’, they’re the problem.

Trees black and white

Youths’ mettle – no rush

Temper ones own nature,
temper ones mettle,
but some will seek to thrust
their unprepared,
untempered mettle,
directly at and in to furnaces,
only to return brittle, molten and
broken, while others believe they
can bear the burdens of men, women
but as it weighs upon them
they then soon buckle, break and
shatter beneath such weight.

the bridge