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.

Just Daisy

Lily, so elegant,
so sleek and serene.
Every petal in place,
always picture perfect.

Rose, the very symbol of love,
tastefully dressed for passion
and romance,
one glamorous package,
awaiting only a ring,
a symbol of forever.

Holier than thou Daffodil,
bringing joy and hope
to the sick,
like some Florence Nightingale.

Orchid’s exotic beauty,
how can anyone compete with that?
Enticing people
to hunger for new experiences
and novel delights.

Poppy, oh, poor dear Poppy,
drawing people in
with her sad vulnerability
and serious devotion.

All so exquisite,
so splendid,
and I’m…
I’m just a weed.
Just Daisy.
No elegance,
no passion,
no love,
no remembrance…
Just Daisy.
Just me.
Careening out of control,
sick with jealousy.
They don’t even notice.
Because I’m just Daisy.

The Scene Is Set

Bathed in tranquil moonlight,
a stage adorned with silken strands.
A tale to tell of hunger,
of passion,
of dark desire.

No whispers,
no wrenching pleas,
no tormented soliloquies.
Not yet.

A sticky plot awaiting luckless lovers,
the scene set for an unwelcome rendezvous.
Last curtain call.

Patience.

Fate’s dance will bring chaos
and glory;
triumph.
And each fragile filament will have served its final purpose.

Contradictions

It is rage,
fists clenched so tight
your fingers ache,
teeth grinding.

Love,
a blushing heat
stealing into your cheeks,
making you dream of
sweet, innocent,
close-mouthed kisses.

Passion,
clouding your mind,
a desperate need for
release.

The tight, painful prickle of
sunburn and
regret.

The warm comfort of
a hot water bottle on
a crisp night.

It is the sear
of ice against
naked flesh.

The wail of a siren
that only ever heralds
pain and tragedy.

The obnoxious screech
of a fire alarm
jolting you from a sound sleep and
flooding you with adrenaline.

The crackle of a fire as
you snuggle with your lover
on a soft rug and
whisper promises and
fantasies.

It is the tart punch
of a pomegranate
as the seeds slide
down your throat.

The mellow heat
of mulled wine
seasoned with cinnamon
and star anise.

The plastic flavour
of lipstick,
leaving you wishing for
honesty.

Red is a contradiction.