The trees in Sydney are catching on to the fact that it is Winter.
Winter warmth of russet, orange,
Red, and some brown ‘gainst sky of blue;
Sluggish words rolling off the tongue;
Round sounds linger in the crisp air.
- dark and light,
- unkempt and pristine,
- old and new,
- cluttered and neat.
Corner of Higson Lane and Little Flinders Lane eclipsing the Chanel store, Melbourne, Australia.
Knight in white shining armour
I humbly offer thanks for
Rescuing me from storm’s grip.
Although wind did whirl and whip,
With torrential rain pouring.
Chill of sodden clothes gnawing;
Welcome sight to see your face.
Now dry in warmth of your embrace.
During periods of drought
And feelings of self doubt,
I lack inspiration, become a lout.
It helps to go out and about;
Amble, absorb and tout.
Passers by glimpse the pout.
Just want to scream, to shout,
To wake myself up with a clout;
Still fruitless at every bout.
Can’t call myself poet devout.
At times there are ideas I should flout.
Use notebooks to record, later rout them out.
Now noises drown thoughts out
Needing and urging result in nowt.
It’s enough to bring on one’s gout!
Past coolest shadows of darkest black
A hallway beckons
Green hues resplendent in morning light
There is something
Just beyond my vision;
Déjà vu perhaps.
Unattached to place or person.
I sense there is something beyond,
But beyond where?
It’s just out of reach.
Should I avoid the barely sensed void?
Or ought I explore with thought?
What if it’s just imagination?
Barely seen amidst sparse leaves,
Over the road’s hum and roar,
Chirruping of lorikeets, high,
And guttural call of ibises, low.
Gymea lilies growing
Atmosphere bubble encasing
Through time and space revolving
Infinitesimal in gargantuan galaxies glittering
Beneath a hedge
Beyond leaf litter and bark
Draped over twigs
The blue tinsel-tousle dwells