This week’s watercolour and ink painting is inspired by the autumnal colours of nature in the garden.
The following poem recounts the words that flooded my mind this morning as I made coffee; before starting to paint.
Flow freely
Refreshingly delicious fragrance
of freshly cut green blades springing back
after an autumnal shower
flow freely upon the softly caressing eastern breeze
wafting from bay to shore
drenched with less intense intermittent rays
between fast floating fluffy whites
illuminating tropical greens pinks purples reds oranges
and curling fronds swish as they wave
turning towards swaying saplings
with tantalising glimpses of ancient gargantuan branches
frantically rustling in their dance further inland
This year my sister would have been sixty. As Mardi Gras is in the air, I authored the following poem in their memory, Gossamer consonance.
There is a photo of me from the same event at the end of this post.
Well my friends the time has come
All night long fond memories
Of us boogieing on down
In Blackpool of ‘84
My wistful sister dreams as
Lionel Ritchie serenades
Confident dragon hearted
A helping hand and support
With impish sense of humour
The eighties is our time to
Raise the roof and have some fun
Throw away the work to be done
Curious invert spirits joined
Relishing life’s offerings
And let the music play on
Play on play on
Everybody sing everybody dance
Lose yourself in wild romance
Australia with my soul mate
French lorry driver for Sis
Our gossamer consonance stretched
Ten thousand miles forty years
I imagine them beyond the veil
Forever young partying under
Perpetual mirrorballs
Yeah once you get started
You can’t sit down
Come join the fun
It’s a merry-go-round
Everyone’s dancing
Their troubles away
Come join our party
See how we play
A wet day in South East Queensland, prefer for a whimsical verse and watercolour.
One of seven, my purpose is clear
Learn from each other, trust them my dear
Hunt, discover clues, stop for a beer
Fog may descend, path no longer clear
Senses enough to look, smell, touch, hear
If we get stuck, can visit a seer
Time to get moving, pack up the gear
Happy 2024 to all of my readers!
This is the last watercolour picture painted today and the following poem from the storm the day before.
Summer storm
Outside, deep air filled rumbles
Echoed by pre-breakfast stomach gurgles
Rapidly fading morning light rays’
Impeded by gloom grey clouds
Tinkle ping crash flash overhead
Panes rattle in frames
Storm’s expected to last for an hour
Stan pants, shaking on my lap
I type this on my phone with an index finger
Internet’s gone off, using mobile data
Light rain increasing to very heavy in thirty three minutes
The worst is yet to come
Drops pelt
Hammering heavily on the tin roof
High pitched whooshing increases ear pressure
Tinnitus swells
Stan lies rigidly vibrating
Momentarily stops awaiting the next sound
On it goes seldom slows
Then silence
Now distant grumbles
That’s it work is all done
Neither you nor I did freak
Soon will be Christmas Day hon’
Seems like the longest week
Shots side effects fasting
No need to count to ten
Rain BOM forecasting
Okay stay inside then
Commutes done ‘til new year
Blah impending rail works
Stay home plenty of cheer
Share love and food what perks
Relish every second
Supplies enough to last
Of a cool Yule air conned
‘Twill be over too fast
To dear readers I call
Wishes of joy to all
*Quinkan, First Nations Peoples spirit figure
Buoyantly supine quiescent
Indolently inhaling
Exhaling
Heartbeats slowly strum eardrums
Muffled glugs and gurgles murmur
Sun’s sparkles glimmer
Traced out onto umbrella’s canopy
Stasis
Water and air embraces
Nine years awaiting this moment
Complete serenity at almost sixty
It appears the poetry muse is back
Oh woe is me, obese me!
I know, it’s just a wobble.
This grizzling grown woe he,
I groan, I moan, I hobble.
Stiff soreness, new aches, new pains,
Too overweight; I gobble.
Energy waxes and wanes,
‘Not enough’ brain’s at the core;
All good intent to nobble.
I groan and drone on some more.
Drag my ragbag ailments out.
Spring air’s chilly for my toes
Is this a symptom of gout?
Need socks with thongs to warm those,
Believed ne’er the twain shall meet.
Once airs and graces to show
Now putting right on’s a feat.
Sat while ironing clothes today,
Stand to shower, shave’s too long
First time for all, so they say.
Spirit’s lifted. Quite enough
Of this meandering verse
Boring readers, they could puff
And drop dead, call the hearse!
In my haste to leave the house for work on Thursday, I left my phone at home. The 50 minutes commute in quiet contemplation went surprisingly quickly.
The return journey was spent squeezed between the sharpest armrest and a person who couldn’t seem to get comfortable in a seat with barely enough room for one person let alone sharing it with me and my portly stature.
Prior to sitting, they asked if I was saving the part seat next to me for someone. Could they sit down? I was flustered being in the middle of retrieving things I had spilled on the floor from my back pack. Hurriedly, I said of course, of course!
They seemed to be on a mission to call every person in their contacts with the same questions: What are you doing? What did you do last weekend? What are you doing this weekend?
Somehow, I managed to sketch ideas for variations on a self portrait I’m planning to paint in watercolour. The break from the phone provided space for inspiration to move me forward.
In keeping with last week’s water theme, the following is a poem entitled, More Precious than Diamonds. I wrote it ten years ago, against a background of drought.
Delicious drops of dew glisten in the
Cool light of dawn, slowly, slowly, dripping
From leaf from bud from twig. Clouds speed above,
Drizzle foreshadows a downpour, to drench
Landscape wide. Streams and brooks rush, swell, rise, run
Into rivers, flooding deltas, breaking
Free, flowing out to sea to oceans deep.
Dive into life giving blue, cleanse body
And spirit, swim west to sway with undines.
Grasp the chalice of aitch two oh. Deeply
Drink to link with Druids of old and new.
Oft’ used for scrying by many a seer
To reflect and look from seen to unseen.
More precious than diamonds, worth guarding well!
Below is a recording of me reciting this post including the poem.
When I write poetry, an idea seeds, lines sprout, grow forth and, bloom as if in shadow. At this point, I often haven’t decided on the form the poem will take.
During the 50 minutes’ commute to and from work, two to three days per week, I tap away with two thumbs on my iPhone 6 keyboard, typing into the Simplenote app.
Frenetically, refining, rewriting, and rearranging. Persistence and revisiting are key in wrangling with each word. The fingers of my right hand tap out the rhythm and count of each line on my right leg.
Reflecting on my writing is a strange experience as I’m no longer in the author head space. As a spectator, I often wonder how I managed to get the creation into the form it’s in.
Currently, I’m wrestling with unexpectedly challenging, auto biographical poems from before and after Fort Royal Fakery. In the mean time, this poem is one of my favourites. I like the way the words describe speed, force, and momentum of water.
Being born in the year of the Chinese water rabbit, with a Myers Briggs’ introverted feeling personality type, bodies of water calm, enliven, and sustain me.
When I saw the 1995 movie, Waterworld, it struck me that this dystopian future was a little too close to reality for comfort. It portrays the impact on humanity after the Earth’s polar ice has melted.
Whilst I have an affinity with water, I prefer to observe or swim in it rather than sail upon it.
You can read more about my creative journey on my blog theINFP.com.
The following poem, composed in 2019 is entitled
Pouring down, hitting ground; transmutating.
Seeps slowly underground, no abating.
Gradually following gravity’s pull,
Channelled torrents churn to violently mull.
Cascading courses entwine, clashing. This
Roaring deluge crashes with a hiss.
Omnidirectional mist, high and low.
Fleetingly dancing, riding to and fro,
On gentle cavern’s zephyr, in the dark;
No living creature to watch or to hark.
Droplets traverse the void of chasm, old.
Catching hold, dingle dangle, dripping cold.
Rivulets forming, trickling, finding pass,
Slowly towards the edge, achieving mass.
Flowing from upon high to splash below.
Tinkling then momentary ripples show,
Moving across slow ebbing surface, creep.
Joining still amorphic pool, running deep.
Below is a recording of my recitation of the poem, comments will be gratefully received.
theINFP 