Dance

Dance the dance that gives a chance

To come again before the end

Build the build that holds a choice

To feel, to fawn, via the voice

That speaks to you and speaks to me

As I look through glazed window to the sea

That trickles in reflected moon

A place I’ll tend to very soon

Before the store can empty, new

Be one of them, the very few

That sort out disorganised array

And drift so far, a world away

Before they stop and turn and come again

To touch, to tremble, now and then

‘Cos every heart beats faster still

When faced with someone that until

Just recently they never thought

The one true thing that they had sought

Would hold their hand in life’s romance

And walk the walk

And dance the dance.

The Cotton Dress

He slunked down to the ground

He saw a shadow, not his own

“Where have you been?”

She asked him with surprise.

 

“I’ve been here getting shade

From the baking morning sun.”

The park was empty

But for their huon cries.

 

“You left me,” she said, scolding him.

“You wanted time alone. Besides,

I wasn’t meant to be there

But by chance.”

 

“I’m not allowed up to your bedroom –

Remember what happened once before.

It was half past midday,

When she ended our romance…”

 

“But you left me,” she said a second time,

Forgetting what she really meant to say

Her sleeveless cotton dress

Was on her mind.

 

She flicked her brown hair past her shoulder

And tilting her head to one side

Her strap fell to her upper arm,

Beside.

 

He moved ever closer

Sitting on the grass under the tree

His eyes no longer shaded

In the sun

 

Had he ever stopped believing?

Was his mind attuned to hers?

Did he think she was, of all the girls,

The one?

 

The noonday sun was getting stronger

Than the morning ever had

They came to share the romance of a kiss

 

Not since first date memories

Parking by the lakeside in the night

Had he felt something, anything, like this.

 

May the cotton-dressed brunette

With hair waving in the breeze

Desirous, yearning, wanting him some more

 

Walk with him from the park

Their eyes set on the light, left on inside

Her apartment, near the pillow

By the window, past the door

 

He put his finger to his mouth

And told her so quietly to ‘shush’

They spoke a language known only

Ever, unto them.

 

They spoke a language, reminiscent

Of the first date they’d ever had

They were a blooming flower

Lightly watered, from the stem.

‘Prison’

Just started working 9-5 for the first time in a year. Hard to get back to the daily grind after book-writing and poetry. Here’s my take on Week 1, with a bit of satirical humour thrown in for good measure

 

‘Prison’

 

It feels just like a prison with no bars

Not being used to regimented ways

It appears like a facility for those

Who need some help re-positioning their days

 

With no card I’m unable to get in

I ring the bell and someone comes to help

It feels like something’s missing from the tree

The bird used whisper happy tunes each morn’

Now no-one whispers anything to me

 

Is it lunch-time yet? I try hard not to look

At the clock – the more I look the less it turns

Confusion has its place in that first week

How the hell, ever, will I learn?

 

I sit and think but sometimes I just sit

Do this, do that, in sequence every time

I sit and think but most times I’m amiss

A sour grape dying on the vine

 

Across the way the grapes are reaping wealth

Their beauty is the essence of the dream

I wish I could attend work by stealth

Nothing’s ever quite the way it seems.

Eumundi

I felt relieved I was no longer

On the freeway. Happy, too, that I’d left

Traffic lights behind.

In two hours I’d gone from a gold coast

To adventure. The sunshine was my GPS –

I’d peeled away life’s rind.

 

‘We love our kids, we love our town, please slow down’

Read the sign. And why not? Why would one

Speed or race?

 

“Merry Christmas,” June said to Diane, walking by –

No ‘happy holidays’ in this small but vibrant town.

“To you and yours,” Diane replied, her smile growing

With good cheer.

“See you at the Markets,” as she shared

Her happy face.

 

The children played in the park – their parents

Watching on. Oh, the joy that supervision gave

When not designed for safety’s sake alone.

 

As children slipped down the slope, swung on the swing

And enjoyed the honest fun of everything,

Not one could be seen texting, talking,

On the phone.

 

And as the clock hit ten am, the doors of the local

Were heard to be unlocked, and patrons wished the best of times

To those they’d come to know so well –

For whom they’re better half had given

Christmas prawns without the shell

 

And for whom they’d shout across the bar;

“Hey, Paul, can you shout out a cheer

For a thirsty traveller off the road

Who needs a full-strength beer.”

 

The sky cried everywhere but here –

The sun rose and shone and rose again

A smile returned by those who knew tomorrow’s sky was blue.

A home away from home – I did much more than travel through.

White – the ‘blush’ of new beginnings

Some say we must experience loss before we can truly love another. If that’s true then the two go hand in glove, like a picture in a puzzle, like the final piece of that uncompleted jigsaw. Like the face without a frown, like the red nose on the clown.

The two sit there, ever so quiet, one chair for each as the moon shines and the stars are seen in the brightest night.

“I love you,” he says to his sweetest, holding her soft hand.

“Me too,” she replies, blushing, rushing to maintain a semblance of what is real.

But this is real – now – the only real thing to her is him: a life lived with him beside her, and within.

She lived a life of solitude until then – a life never to be in solitude again. For tomorrow is the beginning of a life ‘conjoined’: brought together, forever and until…

Grey – the colour of compromise

Compromise lives in uncertainty’s world: a sense of not knowing what path one should take: to look forward with a smile or back with a solemn frown.

Who’ll guide me, who will listen? Does anybody care? I look left, I look right: is anybody there?

Trudging through the mud each day, after rain: its heaviest of all. I shout out to a shadow – hear my call! I just want that shadow to hear my voice, to listen and accept. The first to accept my point of view is my best chance yet…

Of finding my way to the whiter side of grey. I face many bends in the road that lies ahead. Yet find my way I will and I’ll live to love again. The road ahead’s the ‘whitest’ road I’ve seen.

Black -the symbol of grief

A sense of losing what, once, was held so dear: what, once, was held so close to the heart. Oh, how to live, to begin again: to start to feel life hasn’t ended yet?

But how to leave this path of loneliness? How to see a bright light shining through? How can one love again after such a loss: how can one put aside the memory of you?

Yet memories need not be e’er forgotten: they are as much a part of our soul as of our heart. Without cherished memories, what is life to us but an empty, shallow chasm filled with dust?

I built a home

in honour of those who have…

I achieved where many others failed –
I’m satisfied though many others aren’t.

My path told me to walk the path I could
And led me away from the path I can’t.

And sacrifice instructed me to stay
As loss, oh loss, would lead me to succeed.

Certainty would meet me along the way –
My flower’s blooming from my garden’s seed.

From the camping ground to caravan,
From the beach-head to the sea, I’ve been
Taken on a path; my very own.

From the safety of a nucleus
To a nucleus of mine – come walk
With me on my path – I’ve built a home.

(a snippet from an as yet unpublished poem, ‘I built a home’.

Passion breeds poetry – what follows is a section of a piece written recently about an experience of mine a few years back and the people that gave me my second chance…

 

Hospitals have lost their welcome mat, and

Are quick to change the patient in their bed.

When I have stayed I’ve tried so hard to walk

Back out the door. But they’ve told me; “wait, you’ll

Be needing surgery, instead.”

 

But what must it have been like for those I left at home?

Parental sacrifice means you put your loved ones first.

A sense of loving others before you love yourself

Is the essence of belief in what I call

‘The family stone’.

 

My scar is a reminder of my second chance to thrive.

Thank goodness it’s been given by those who

Love me as I am. They’re the ones that hold me,

That mould me into me. They’re the ones

That got me home, alive.

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