Gloaming

Gloaming – Petrachian Sonnet

Wandering in the gloaming, you and I,
clasping hands, together we are steady
as we jump across a pooling eddy
sea gulls wheel above with their mournful cry.
Violet clouds gleam in the mustard sky
to catch a fly lizard freezes ready,
tongue unfurls, the fly flees in a frenzy,
landing in a craggy tea tree bonsai.
A thin ray of light caught your titian hair,
dark burnished russet flooded through my veins,
your eyes were following the flying gull;
the sun lets out a dying golden flare,
its rosy bloom leaving exquisite stains,
we embrace nostalgia in our silk lull.

Linked to Jingle Potluck Monday and dVerse The Watering Hole

Slipping

I slip between lines
scrabbling to hold
falling motes in my eyes,
sparkling silver,
cyan, magenta and yellow
strobing whirligigs,
electrical pulses
warning that something
put aside is lurking
waiting to pounce.

I trawl a khaki swamp
looking for clues,
iridescence plumes,
indigo and emerald
tentacles of memories
rush with corpuscles,
replaying words
and different perceptions,
a sextant for my bearings.
.

Suddenly caught
in the flap of a curtain
a singular tilt
of the sunlight
draws me to watch
sparkling motes recede,
with relief, I remember
the blonde blue eyed girl
who worried that
tree pruning machines
would cut holes in the sky.

The ground restored,
I laugh with joy
stretching my toes.

Mirrors

Neophyte watcher
a mission to be there
participating
recording responses
crosses a threshold
to a looking glass world,
everything’s strange,
even the sun
feels more intense.

The neophyte steps
through spirals,
triangular conversations
with unspoken rules
easily breached;
jumps through clouds
loses sight of the shaman
in the mist alongside.

Thought tendrils snaking
towards rosy boundaries,
mirror projections
singing siren songs,
invoking a place
where all is familiar
and there are no companions
and no going back.

Sharp hiss of air,
a strong hand clasp
awakens the neophyte
immersed in deep clouds;
the mirror dissolves,
projections fall,
the others return,
in a circle they land.

OpenLinkNight ~ Week 2

Small Change

Haiku from the past little while
________

Ruby rug drapes
remembering
warmth of alpaca

_________

Demure daisies
warm peace
chamomile tea

_________

clouds dressed
dusty rose corsages
hail passing sun

_________

In twelve glasses
she collects rain
reflecting clouds

________

A golden chain
of chubby lanterns
a path to peace

________

Dreams and whispers
a park bench
faraway

________

A metronome clacks
birds squabble in gum trees
moon rises

________

Mongolia
carpet dreams
with horses

________

A tree of life
woven in lamb
rubies and sapphires

________

A Shoe Scene

He walks unbalanced,
homesick wearing
two different shoes
one brown with a crepe sole,
one black with new Topy
he had glued on himself
put on in an impatient haze
preoccupied by
thoughts of night school,
the necessity to prove
what he already knows
as a refugee migrant
in this young country,
the ground feels uneven
this morning.

Ahead, a secretary
dressed in a peacock coat
wearing a brown pill box hat,
and patent black stilettos
catches her heel in a tramtrack;
it snaps, he rushes to help her,
picks up the heel,
offers assistance
in his very best English;
she brushes him off
hissing into his face
‘bloody new Australians,
bloody refos, go back
wherever you came from’;
she hobbles onto the tram,
he shrugs and walks on
with the heel in his hand.

Note: ‘refo’ is a derogatory term that was used by Anglo and Irish Australian citizens in the 1950s to refer to the Displaced Persons and Stateless that came to Australia after WW2. ‘New Australians’ was the official government term in their Populate or Perish policy. More on this policy may be found here

For dVerse Poetics On your feet

candy striped tent

candy striped tent
fumes of fairy floss
battered sausages
fairy princess dolls on sticks
swivelling clown heads
ping pong balls
stuffed toy prizes to impress
whirligigs to catch the wind
in giggling spirals…

wide eyed children
shaking with excitement watch
double jointed clowns tumbling
slapstick rituals tempting fate
tightrope walker feigns a fall
collective sharp intake of air
expelled as balance is restored
dogs in ruffled collars
waltz on hind legs
recalling lions
balancing on chairs…

Synchronicity and the Muse

I look for fresh inspiration,
through my speckled office window
clouds glow.

Muffled sounds of tram wheels rolling,
sighing softly with the effort
they clank.

Cleaning lady enters my room
cheerily smiles and says hello
to me.

Orange plastic bracelets in box
Wait to be strung with fishing line
for art.

Across the way curtains are drawn
a chandelier glows behind them
door shuts.

I put the last of the paper
carefully in the printer tray,
then close.

I pray for a concept to jump,
to slap, to strike, to come to play
right now.

Draft photographs whisper secrets,
a thousand words, my wonderland
will be.

Ochre Envelope

Ochre envelope
stuffed
into
my post box;
I pull it
eager,
a spider runs
on my hand.
I shake the spider
onto a shrub.
The postmark
from USA
promises
a wish
fulfilled.

I carefully
slide
a paper knife
draw out
a broadsheet
lit journal
with my poems
inside
in excellent
company
(even Bukowski
once published
there).

I look
for my poems,
with hands
trembling
carefully turning
fragile
newspaper pages
too easily torn.

At last
I find my words
then read them
somehow
they seem strange,
who wrote them?

I smell
heady
newsprint ink.

For OneShotWednesday

Buttercups

Lukewarm sun rays
breaking weakly
through pale grey clouds,
I trudge
in search of spring.

Inky puddles
moiréd with engine oil,
round rain drops
plop winter nonchalance
splitting into damp,
clinging to my skin.

Clammy grass clumps,
feral islands
between tyre trod ruts,
snow drops peek through
back fence cracks,
the scent of jonquils
permeates bone damp air.

A splash 
of shiny yellow
by a sour moss licked drain,
childhood magic –
tell signs
of butter lovers
gleaming under chins,
buttercups
bring promises
of warmer days
and shorter nights.

To celebrate dVerse opening night

Canecutter’s Dream

Cloying stench of burning sugar, stinging sweat
Rivulets in every crevice, he swings his knife,
Dreaming of a castle in a forest wet
With carved stone balconies to enchant a wife.

Visions of waterwheels around tranquil lakes,
A paradise where there is room for snakes,
Hydropower for the pumps to run tall fountains,
A medieval folly in antipodean mountains.