Some people romanticise poets
We just need to clear
the congestion of thoughts
with words
Rocks
My heart has gone cold
by the rain washed window
Days on end
you look grey
and unsympathetic
I long to feel
your weathered face
lines and crevasses
caress my hands
You store warmth
from the sun
and pulsate life
into my palms
to rescue my
detached heart
Photo by Cassa Bassa at
Dee Why beach, NSW, Australia
Garden of Eden
We are in bed
Naked
Eating figs
Imagine
life
At the beginning
When
We roamed free
Happily
Without
The greed of
Knowing
More than
What we were
Created
To be
Love As A Failed Art
Six Sentence Story word prompt – Canvas
I am an amateur artist finger painting on the canvas of our pure love.
Frantically smear every excitement all over a seemingly life long foundation, I am over charged with passion.
Halfway, I realise that there are patches heavily loaded with enthusiasm.
The balance is destroyed.
Giving my best effort to salvage it, I only manage to make it dark and dull.
Now the beauty is ruined, and I quit trying.
#songshare – Listen to Mum Talk About the Past
The moon walks through the white lotus-like clouds.
The evening wind blew bursts of happy singing.
We sat by the high heaps of grain,
Listening to mum talk about the past.
We sat by the high heaps of grain,
Listening to mum talk about the past.
At that time, my mother had no land.
All life is in two hands.
Sweat flows in the fiery fields of the landlord,
Mother ate wild vegetables and bran.
Howling like a winter blizzard,
My mother was wearing tattered single clothes,
She went to sew a fox fur robe for the landlord,
Cold and hungry and falling on the snow…
After so many hard years,
Mum was looking forward to today’s good life.
The moon walks through the white lotus-like clouds,
The evening wind blew bursts of happy singing.
We sat by the high heaps of grain,
Listening to mum talk about the past.
We sat by the high heaps of grain,
Listening to mum talk about the past.
The Last Control
Grief hit me
like a gust of wind
on a clear day
I couldn’t see it coming
stumbled to survive
another blow
I knew it was you
full of energy
charged with rage
Was that to laugh
at my boring
and simple life
or to stir me to anger
You don’t get to
dictate my emotions
anymore
We were done
when you sinked yourself
in the lake
just to have the last say
General Advice Sucks
I don’t know why
they tell me to aim high
and dream dreams
I am already anxious as it is
scared of heights
trapped in night terrors
Clipped Wings
When I heard you singing to me
I thought I could fly to be with you
I have done it so many times in my youth
I have done so again in all my dreams
Reality came to me when the border closed
and then I became the outcast
I realised I would never be with you
with a pair of clipped wings
Moss on a Garden Wall
Bartholomew created this piece from a photo I took when I visited Mount Wilson in Autumn some years ago. This poem tells a rich hisoty of a simple wall. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
Moss on a Garden Wall
Moss drips down
the stone wall
at tree’s pace
in slow steady shade
Storms and floods
pass unnoticed
seasons flow
like days
Life tears down walls
not human lives
whose fragile skulls
are dashed upon the rocks
But simple relentless
life eroding the minerals
so our descendants
might burrow in the rubble
War
Bricks and mortar struck into rubble
We are the doves used for sin offering
Our necks are wrung
Our blood are drained
Our bodies are burnt
If only Cain loved Able
Flicker of Thoughts 