If I could write couplets full of wit
I would have a fulsome wordsmith’s kit…
_______________
New Years’s Eve
I sip a cocktail laced with cream
Through time zones celebrations stream
I lift my flute to drink with you
Tiger lilies bloom here anew
For you, a white December night
For me, it’s summer’s pure delight
Yet the moon’s sliver in the sky
Watches each and every sigh
For dVerse
Down to the bone,
the ham, a mere echo
of diamonds studded
with cloves;
christmas tree shedding
fine needles,
lights askew and bald patches
a marvellous hide
for an ambush,
a cat’s paw betrays
her exuberant presence
stalking her brother…
I am lost in a parallel world
reading in the dark,
a world where
the anointed hear voices
of little people,
I sit on my sofa
bathed in afternoon sun,
somewhere a honeyeater squawks
to sounds of a hose
making sun flowers.
Again anticipation builds
thoughts of a ball
crashing in Times Square,
fireworks lighting up bridges
and towers, chrysanthemum
flowers painting the sky,
a chase of celebrations
as the Earth rotates,
while dogs howl with sore ears
and some lose their way…
I shall be here
with my dog, I am thinking
of getting him ear muffs
for New Year.
This is for DVerse
Train track
snakes
between fences
with glimpses
into other lives
and washing
hung to dry
yards with swings,
and streets,
bridged, ditched,
bounded with
retaining walls
tagged with paint,
garlanded
with morning glory,
agapanthus blue and white,
windfall trees,
flourishing crevices
– suburban
back stages.
Dear Leader
of a people’s democracy,
you are now
on the other side
of the veil.
And you shall be remembered
Yuri Irsenovich Kim,
you sucked the teat
of the Soviet empire
blighting the land
with famine,
following
the steps
of your steel mentor…
You watched
the iron state
crumble,
rust holes
gaping
letting in light
and the freedom
to choose.
Appalled,
you carefully
contained
disagreement
with anti-corrosive
government camps
to block out the light.
No, I shall not forget you,
I pray for the redemption
of broken hearts,
food without fear,
and the right to dissent.
Footprints in moonlit snow
soft crunching with each step,
she carries packages with stealth
creeping down a side path
making for the kitchen door…
Two small faces peek out
their bedroom window
way past lights out
searching reindeers in the sky
as their father plays online
chatting with faceless friends…
The sound of whispers
rustling paper,
present wrapping mouse’s work,
bows of blue and silver
adorn mysterious shapes…
Poetry Picnic Week 18: Snow, December, Winter Vacations, and Wildness
Shall I entice you, dear reader
with a careful allegory or should I say
allegoria, a dance of veils where each
reveals a new colour…
Perhaps
a vista of a woman dressed in
a rose silk gown pouring
water into a bubbling stream,
with stars twinkling brightly
in a ring around her head,
her hair streams down her shoulders…
A white maned lion strolls smiling at the moon
and lays down at her feet…
Or shall I show you a motley fool
stepping boldly along a precipice
leading a caravan of squabbling players
wearing dollar bills and Armani suits
carrying guns and calculators
searching for a deux ex machina?
Crowns and incense dreams,
ancient incantations…
She sees herself
in a pill box hat
and creamy frock
alluding to an epoch
of Audrey Hepburn elegance,
with inequality and innocence;
a bouzouki band
communal platters
on long tables,
generations arm in arm
dancing matrimony’s blessings
for the couple…
May abundance, peace
and love embrace them
all their days.
The ghosts of monks
abroad each time
earth eclipses moon.
With book in hand
he recites a dead language,
spectres lurk close by.
An impossible howl
a silently swooping owl,
wolves long extinct
in this part of the woods.
Flash lights
bounce in night’s mist
a tree creaks balefully,
ghostly whinnies
clash of metal on the wind,
a nightjar screams…
Leaves rustle
whisper bloodshed …
Unquiet spirits roam…
Mind broken
he jibbers…
Sunlight hides reason
a prayer wheel spins…
A Portrait of an Unhappy Man
He spends his days
plastering broken wings
with transient words
and paper cups
of medications
that seem to dull the pain
of those trapped
in dreary loops
but not the cause,
their jaundiced drugged eyes
infect his gaze,
drawing him deep within
to seek solace
in their fractured worlds;
he slips between
cracks of angst.
And then he spies
a well turned butt,
unmarked thighs
that promise
pneumatic bliss…
her breasts are pert,
he imagines
rose bud nipples,
never cracked
by a squalling infant’s mouth.
He follows…
Haunted by
proper thoughts
of his wife at home,
he wryly recollects
how he told her
before friends and family
on their silver anniversary
“I love every wrinkle,
every scar I celebrate,
such wondrous depths
are etched upon your body
a cartography of our marriage
I love the silver in the gold
of your hair,”
then renewed
his marriage vows,
fingers crossed,
avoiding his own reflection
in the mirror.
He stops…
Marousia 