Untrammelled

“Once, twice, three times”
palpable glee in the auctioneer’s voice,
“are we done?”
a pause, even a beat,
you can hear people breathing, shuffling
“going, going …
SOLD to the lady in blue!”

And so a home stripped of intimacy,
styled into an invitation to dream
changes hands …

Your heart is racing,
tears of relief spring into your eyes,
a champagne cork pops,
the intoxicating scent of bubbles
tickle your nose,
a sip of frothy blue
and yellow visions
of playful waves and sand.

Now the house in P_____ St is no more,
the site’s completely cleared,
you wonder why you worked so hard
just before the keys were handed over
to leave no trace behind.

Horizons beckon untrammelled
from a new place
where it’s easy to breath.

 

 

 

Smoke Rings

the singer’s voice
smoke and whiskey rich
sings about oppression

the guitarist’s fingers strum
salutations to the condors
tatooed on his chest

a chorus of three voices joins
dead friends immortalised
the singer lights a cigarette

inside his smoke rings
cochineal red betrayals
a requiem inside each circle

Catness X 3

stillness sighs
why why why
leaves start to gossip

____________________

water drips
from the inky sky
street lights leak onto the road
her tail a question
she meows at the door

_____________________

restless
a bell jingles
behind the curtains
I stare intently
into a cup of tea

 

Peloton

a cosy peloton –
one cyclist breaks,
spectators
on the verges cheer,

a zoom,
the peloton
s-t-r-e-t-ch-es;
now a sausage
inching up
a mountain,

the leaders
can be caught,
those on the verges
cheer like geese,
and clap clap clap,
hoping for
an unexpected
win while commentator
experts express doubt.

Harbour

The street runs like a dark mist,
rain swiftly catches cold,
streetlights grab the sidewalk,
an embrace of stone necessity.

A hooded faceless figure
throws a still glowing cigarette
into the flowing gutter – phssst
– extinguished now
they ride the pipes together
to the underworld.

A lonely rat sniffs a roller-door,
whiskers slick against his cheeks,
I step aside and find the moon
on the other side of my umbrella.

Strains of cheerful chatter
beckon from just around the corner,
with purpose now, I stride afresh
towards the harbour of my love’s face.

Cutout Whispers

whitesmoke vapours
slither from a silver exhaust

drifting crystals churn
to a distant wind chime tune

secret fireflies dance
in a maelstrom of moonrain

gardens sparkle in champagne
while rent ghosts roam
dazzled by periwinkles
fractured on bisque pots

cutout whisper motes
float in between
mint and lady bugs

 

 

 

A Red Kerchief

a red kerchief
waves from a tired
anchor chain

sunlight paints
weary warehouse walls
cameos of leaves and butterflies

jagged glass
glints in a puddle
edged with green

on silvered wood
he sits dangling
a slender line

iridescent dragonflies
dart apaches above
a senna river

the line dips low
the red kerchief
applauds

another supper caught

For

Open Link Night ~ Week 79

Sails

Filaments stretch invisibly
holding clouds high above the sea
an albatross weaves between

Ferry lights pulse dit-dit dit-dit
earth’s shadow’s reflected
in the gradient sky

On the promenade
strollers pull coats closer
sails catch the wind defiantly

The albatross lands
on a mooring rope
as people go ashore.

 

 

Late Spring Evening

Moonlight catches a cobweb
in the orbs of your eyes.

Wistful memories lurk
on intersections.

Someone else’s thoughts
waft between the clouds.

Cats sigh as delicious dark
oozes through screen doors.

The sound of counterfeit rain,
the hose makes streetlight rainbows.

Grass blades tickle toe whorls
as they spring up after each step.

The concrete footpath is cool
and smooth beneath the soles.

A tree rustles, a paw, a nose,
a possum munches guava flowers.

A young woman gets in her car
complaining on her mobile phone.

A moment later, she squeals the tires,
on the wires above, a possum crosses.

The moon has risen high
above the roofs, glinting on the tiles.

OpenLinkNight — Week 72

Glass Houses

Glass Houses by Mobius Faith

It remains with dreams
of luscious greens
in a far off place,
not in this space or time;
open the door,
listen to the squeak
of metal sticking
a slight adjustment
and its old bones
slide – cr cr cr cr creak.

Warm moist air
billows through your body,
the scent of a laundry
slides up nostrils
bringing a pigeon coo
of a memory,
gone before it’s caught…

Slide the door
shut behind you,
keep the warmth
contained within
against the bleak
no man’s land outside.

Spanish moss
eases your creased forehead,
orchids dance like
butterflies,
in a corner
fragrant pods
ooze the scent of vanilla,
snap one off,
sneak it in your pocket;
remember when
you stood upon chair
to reach the kitchen table
scrapping precious
fragrant black paste
with a blunted knife
and then the churning of
the cream, breaking eggs
to collect the suns inside,
and the black paste
made speckles
in golden ice-cream
one endless summer’s day.

Two tears form
in the corners of each eye
and race to drip
off your chin,
you blow your nose and shrug,
you turn to leave,
the door’s creaks
recite an ode
to the vanilla pod
nestled safe
inside a roomy pocket.

A desolate glare outside,
you quint as the cold air
shakes your scalp;
again you blow your nose,
a defiant trumpet call,
you walk past broken bottles,
grey clay sticking to your shoes,
the ridges of the pod
feel warm as your finger tips
recollect tracing grandma’s wrinkles.

 

Poetics– photography by Terry S. Amstutz