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.

Dusty Memories

Memories float like whispers,
tattered dreams of distant times.
An echo of childish laughter
trips down towards the creek.

The thump of the pump in the old tin shed
laid to rest in a rusty bed.
The gurgle of the creek calls me on,
tempting me,
the forgotten allure of Marmite and watercress sandwiches.

The hay barn where dust motes
danced in shafts of light
and the old abandoned cowshed –
gone.
Destroyed on a path to progress.

But in my dreams, a little girl
who looks a lot like me
still searches for goose eggs to take home for Mother
and sits in the feijoa tree
and dares the world to steal her dreams.

Knowing Her

She shows a thousand faces to the world,
tempting and tormenting,
seductive and surreal.

She is the richly scented roses
with their cliched velvety rouge,
provocative with promises of pleasure.

She is hiding beneath the damp ink
gleaming from tender prose and poetry
scrawled in cursive curlicues.

She lingers in whispered conversations,
warm snuggles and
stolen magic moments.

She rests in the wrinkled clasp
of two tired hands that have held the world
and wait to see one more dawn together.

She bears a hundred names,
in a thousand or more tongues.
She is versatile, whimsical and passionate.

She is fleeting and enduring,
paradoxical and timeless.
She is romance.

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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.