Courtyard Vase Piscine/pool Medlar Ashtray Chez lounge White walls Barrels Wine Dappled shade
Courtyard Vase Piscine/pool Medlar Ashtray Chez lounge White walls Barrels Wine Dappled shade
Courtyard Vase Piscine/pool Medlar Ashtray Chez lounge White walls Barrels Wine Dappled shade
I sit in the dappled shade. Half forgotten. Hover flies rest upon me as though I’m mere memories. I’ve collected seeds and debris from the vine above. Spiders have taken control. Weaving a blanket over my aging uneven edges. The sun has damaged me but people observe me as picturesque not damaged. The same 4 exposed walls are my constant and I’m thankful for the open sky, ever changing and unpredictable. My insides are soaked with red wine. Or they once were. The flavour has been drained and only the blood coloured stains remain of what once allured people to me. Arid and flakey as the medlar taunt me with their juices replenishing in seasons. My comrade, vase, too has become an antiquity. No longer refilled and reused just displayed, or left, to ponder its use. The courtyard had white walls, la piscine was blue and I was full. The structure has yellowed, the pool is black and I’m an elaborate ashtray. But still we are beautiful. Still people come to drink in our wisdom and contemplate. We have become romantic. So I sit with my rotund belly, listen to the birds and know that I am changed but inside, remain the same.
A barrels reflection.
Gilt chair musty cold spiral rattle grape chandelier drips snoop Peeling
Courtyard Vase Piscine/pool Medlar Ashtray Chez lounge White walls Barrels Wine Dappled shade
Courtyard Vase Piscine/pool Medlar Ashtray Chez lounge White walls Barrels Wine Dappled shade
Grape chandeliers hang as she peers into the clear.
‘Hol… Bom di… hello???’ Says the girl.
‘Bonjour’ a call from the spiral stair.
Chairs of many shapes and sizes decorate the tiles.
Her eyes trace the peeling paint on the walls as it drips up to the ceiling.
She wants to snoop. But her conscience slash guilt won’t let her stoop.
150 years of aristocratic gilt.
Musty smells
that can only be attributed to inherited wealth.
Born with a silver rattle
cold and impractical
but still so characterful
Torak
Torak the Wolf spoke of other worlds beyond the fence.
Endless fields filled with different species, equally unaware of the land of the 'Sanctuary'.
For a moment he felt different. His eyes had been opened. He wasn't sure what to call it. But it made him feel empty. He tried to tell the other Wolves of the possibilities beyond the fence. But the powers that be had told generation after generation to fear the beyond.
It wasn't until the moment he was recaptured and brought back to his island in a cage, and the gate was slammed closed behind him. He realised the emptiness he felt was an understanding of how small his existence was in a land of wonder.
Of course he could wonder for the rest of his years what could have been.
But fulfilling that wonder, he had truly lost forever.
Spring
A Haiku
Spring dew licks his lips.
Lime lichen cascades the bark.
Disturbing the peace.
POETRY CORNER
STU V AI... We gave the title "Wispy Skies and butterflies" to Stu and AI. Here’s the results!
Wispy skies and butterflies.
The solstice spies on butterflies over wispy skies.
Tied to the seasons like climbing vines and tides.
Working side by side
so our busy lives coincide.
Symbiosis with our closest ally.
Balance applied.
The sun stands still and sighs.
you’d think he was here for the night.
But he shy’s a little after 9.
The chimes of the church of life,
played out in chirps by every bird and his wife.
Signalling that the sun has crossed the equator,
and the farmer is soon with his scythe.
The night closes in,
only to begin again in 6 hrs with vim.
1 degree slim.
The skim won’t be noticed on the skin
of the average her or him.
But only for the circadian clocks within.
Sing a hymn and swim on a whim.
And bathe in the haze for the Helios.
Cos this time is fleeting.
The shadows are creeping so save your malaise for the moss.
Wispy skies and butterflies.
In wispy skies, where dreams take flight,
Butterflies dance, a colorful sight.
Their delicate wings, a vibrant hue,
Brushing against the morning dew.
With grace, they flutter, light as air,
Kissing petals with utmost care.
Whispering secrets to blossoms fair,
Their dance of beauty fills the air.
They soar on zephyrs, gentle breeze,
Through meadows, forests, over seas.
A symphony of fluttering wings,
Unveiling nature's precious things.
Their journey, a wondrous delight,
Guided by instincts, pure and bright.
In wispy skies, they paint the scene,
A kaleidoscope of joy, serene.
Oh, wispy skies and butterflies,
A duet of magic, to mesmerize.
Forever bound, in nature's embrace,
A timeless dance, full of grace.