caught a whiff of my
childhood home this afternoon –
cattle truck drove by
Tag: form poetry
As the days grow short
As the days grow short, the colours turn bold,
deciduous trees discard green for gold,
russet and amber, an autumn array.
Seasonal palette of hues on display,
a feast for artistic eyes to behold.
The clear skies of day have been placed on hold,
evening’s glamour begins to unfold,
a last hurrah as the sun slips away,
as the days grow short.
The temperature plummets, the air grows cold,
but nature still paints, she is uncontrolled.
Repetition might seem a bit cliche,
but we see her glory day after day.
And beauty like this can never grow old,
as the days grow short.
Perspective
I saw two chairs, a matching set,
a pair, just like we used to be.
They sat alone, apart, offset,
a dark and stark analogy.
They called to me, those empty seats,
that spoke of loss and past defeats,
and even as light left the day,
I found I could not walk away.
Aotearoa
At the edge of the world, a glimpse
of heaven. Nestled in the bush,
tuatara tunnel beneath toppled totara,
eagerly awaiting nightfall.
A melodic warble winds through the bush,
ricocheting and rustling leaves.
Overhead, a long white cloud shelters
and protects a hidden treasure.
Caitlin
Captured sunlight ripples through her hair,
adding hues of caramel, honey and gold.
Innocence, accented by dimples.
Twitching with barely contained enthusiasm,
liable to explode in a torrent of chatter.
Intelligent, sweet and creative,
nothing will hold her back.
Impressions of Scotland
Promises of midsummer snowballs lie high on heathered hills
while castles and Culloden echo with the roar of clan battle cries.
An aromatic breeze carries a hint of malted whisky from the stills
and a rolling brogue to rumble from the lowlands to the hills.
Highland coos graze peacefully, ‘neath the blades of scattered windmills,
mists swirl in from somber seas to sweep a shroud – the shore’s disguise.
Crows disturb the farmers’ fields while buzzards guard the hills,
and Scotland’s heart beats fiercely to the bagpipe’s droning cries.
Winter in Auckland
Landmarks slide in and out of the fog.
Dancing behind a vaporous veil,
landmarks slide in and out of the fog.
The sea spits mouthfuls of frothy ale,
like an oil painting I once saw,
dancing behind a vaporous veil.
Gulls tumbling above the waves screech and caw
as the wet wind tosses them to and fro
like an oil painting I once saw.
The sodden remnants of autumn’s glow
cling desperately to clammy concrete
as the wet wind tosses them to and fro.
The whistle past my ears, on repeat,
as fat droplets of water bunch and
cling desperately to clammy concrete.
A soft focus scene, dreary and bland,
landmarks slide in and out of the fog
as fat droplets of water bunch and
landmarks slide in and out of the fog.
