late night shopper

supermarket window shows the ghost

of the someone she’d once been

not dumpy and dull with swollen legs

but a girl with sights unseen

 

such a pretty girl and a bright girl

with a sparkle in her eyes

life with meaning to be seen in

how she’s reaching for the prize

 

eyes growing teary, she’s so weary

as she leans against the glass

and slides slowly to the pavement

as the late night shoppers pass

Painter As Poet

I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said
Why have I waited all these years to try my hand at rhyme?
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

Teasing syllables and sounds out from all the things I’ve read
To paint the kind of image that depicts things from my time
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said

Of happy thoughts, or sad ones where my soul was filled with dread,
Selecting adjectives and mixing, with no canvases to prime,
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

To create a kind of tapestry with words instead of thread
Coloured crimson, pink and purple, cerulean blue and lime
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said

Shall I start just anywhere? Things living or things dead?
Original or act a part? To mimic or to mime?
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

A poet uses language for rich tints and hues instead
– no need for paint where words are art, to forget this is a crime
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

 

old love

Yesterday I met someone
Reminded me of you
I saw your face, I heard your voice
Not knowing what to do
I smiled and laughed
Pretending joy
And wondered is it true

Memories came flooding back
Of romance young and new
Back then I was a fool at love
Believing you’d be true
So there I was
Dilemma bound
Not knowing what to do

It seemed that you remembered me
We spoke and time just flew
But then I saw that interest
Came just from me not you
Your eyes were cold
And so I turned
And bade old love adieu

the way things are

There comes a time
this much I know
when a mind feels like resting
and I ain’t suggesting
that this is wrong
– just my way of protesting
the way things are

Things don’t last long
this much I know
and my mind keeps on saying
stop your crying and praying
don’t make no sound
– just my way of delaying
the way things are

There is a way
this much I know
be it standing and staring
be it doing and daring
you’ll take my hand
– you’ll be smiling and sharing
the way things are

from my window

And from my window I can see
So many things that call to me
Trees and shrubs, spring flowers are there
Birds are darting everywhere
Busy nesting come what may
From dawn until the end of day

And from my window I can see
The ocean and it calls to me
Waves breaking gently on the shores
Their whispers turning into roars
On windy nights when gales blow
Their billows shining white like snow

And from my window I can see
A grassy bank and in its lee
Sea-lions lounging out of reach
And rolling on the sandy beach
One or two, with bodies great
Just lonely males without a mate  

And from my window I can see
the river flows beyond the trees
I follow as it starts to wind
From distant hills that lie behind
And just before a rocky ridge
Trains clatter noisy on a bridge

The low hills rolling high and wide
Far mountains standing side by side
Backdrop to vistas that I know
Sky above with clouds below
And from my window I can see
So many things that call to me

Mt Watkins

Title:   ‘From my window’  (unfinished)
Medium:  Acrylic on canvas

 

the world of poetry

I love it here
it is the place
to try my hand
and show my face
but I’m afraid

there are many who
have much to say
write lovely lines
I read and pray
that I may too

and know my words
might touch a heart
or prompt a laugh
or tear apart
some thought that’s blind

to take this road
a daunting way
to meet and greet
but come what may
I’ll play my part
make bid to stay