Poetry 09 - The Sun Sets

The sun is still setting
whilst you walk on the shore asleep.
The breeze is blowing
and we talk of this and that
as the ships sail by.
I walk with my feet in the water, ankle-deep in.
Cool and refreshing,
without any sin.
The evening is early,
a line of cars go by -
hooting incessantly as
yet another is wed.
The water laps.
It is the end of the day, perhaps.

Frozen

The big freeze came. Like an oversized tsunami wave that came from way back there, and lurched towards the shore. Running away from it, leaving the shoes behind... I kept going. Not knowing how or why or quite where to. The size and the capacity of the wave was too much, or the contradictory silence in the largeness of this wave. The wave would always come to visit the shore like an old nightie. Through the thickets, the bush, the trees and the shrubbery I ran until a hideout appeared and I knew this to be home. Here, everyone that was meant to speak and love, would do so. Here, everyone that was not meant to speak or love, would not. Here, they would not refrain, they would not play that game, they would not ignore my name in the public places and frequent it in the shadows. Here, nature would be fair and nature would be real and nature would embrace and nature would sound out my name loudly and clearly from the treetops. There would be nothing other than the straight way.

Poetry Dec. 09 - The Grass Thickens

There it is, the grass thickens -

The flowers bloom and then the...

rains set in. the window creaks

for an inch and settles in to sheer stillness.

The cobweb over the left hand corner sparkles and shakes.

The small spider looks out through the web and thinks

about his place.

Dangling on delicate ropes wrapped around him.

He is 'free', but he is also well-entangled.

The web is so small and the outlook wide.

The meadows beyond are brown.

The spider loves brown.

This is what he knows.

Kaleidoscope of colours

On went the song and the tune, the rhythm and all the lyrics that were right...

There it was - in all its glory. The new was sewn in with the old like the threading on a sock.

And behind it all was a silence that she knew to be him.

The face of it - for it was a definite face - lingered like perfume.

It was like looking at a star which could barely be seen if looked at directly and yet from the corner of the eye it became increasingly luminous.

For now, a great gust of wind blew outside through the tree tops and the snow was holding itself back. It lay on the peripheral of the weather conditions and threatened to snow again.

However, the roots of the music and that Song again, would spread, untangle themselves and emerge.

The roots lay exposed and revelled in the heat of the sunshine.

About the Song

Monday, and miniscule flakes of snow started to fall to the ground...

The wooden clock ticked, and ticked and struck 10am.

The computer hummed with the monotonous voice of machinery.

It had been a diverse week and the song still filled the air and repeated itself in Ava's head.

What was it about The Song.

Was it about The Song?

It had been a potent cocktail concoction of so many elements. It was the strings, the chords, the sound, the tune, the waves, the voice in all of it...

The consideration and the knowing.

It was a new song and when the other musician heard of it, well, he swore his affections for it too.

'As soon as I saw the song, I knew I'd love it,' was the remark.

There were new rhythms in the air which longed to be filled but would they?

Sometimes, even those that played their hearts on strings, had entered into agreements to never indulge in the music again. To hear it, yes, to play it, yes, but not to enter into the music again. To never embrace the root of the music... if this were to be the case... Ava would know to tie her laces fast and run.

Smoke

The chill in the air was dissipating and a spiral of smoke rose from the chimney in the old house. It was a thinning, grey spiral of smoke that took on the body of a snake as it coiled its way high up into the sky. At some point, it blew out into nothing.

Ava recalled the conversation from the day before and knew, as she learnt day by day, that each character would betray the other and no-one could truly judge the history of another. It was Sarai, her confidant, that had fallen ill and it was during this hour of crisis that so many things revealed themselves. The 'special groups' of life, that people swore you belonged to, the invitations to join the inner circle and get real close... and BANG within split seconds, loyalties exchanged, affections elapsed and promises bent way out of shape. The blame lay on both sides, as they gave and took away, promised and turned around as if it had no value. Any old shirt would do, anything that stepped across the foothold and most importantly, worked as the work-horse should work. Then they smiled and nodded and accepted and smirked. And who was Sarai? Not the only one that could do the job! Certainly not, as she lay in the hospital bed in a tragic state, 'the any old shirt would do' took over her children and her work projects.