The first jet plane
cuts the morning air
Vapour trails divide
the sky, drawing eyes
Sound waves fall
breaking my thoughts.

Sat in my oasis
far below I contemplate
the journey, the end,
the sights
those passengers
may see.
What far flung foreign
shores are they
destined for?

Sun soaked Australia
or darkest Peru maybe?
And why?
Destiny or fate,
commute or final
mission, maybe
just annual tradition?
The plane has long passed
but still it rumbles.


The Step

The smooth marble surface reflects her tears,
hot drops of molten indignation.
She does not care that her logic is flawed
only that she has a vessel in which
to pour her endless tide of sorrows.

The chosen path is not by design,
more the one of least resistance,
the easy target, the obvious option,
the problem viewed through her rose whine
simplifying the situation to a clear cut end –

the sacrifice turned deaf by love
her blood the only part not tied,
lulled into a false sense of security,
yet deep within her instincts scream
a warning of the impending danger.

She walks to the step willingly
places her cheek on the cold stone.
I close my eyes at the last moment
not wishing to see the blade
as it slices through my soul.


Linked to OpenLinkNight on 22/11/11

Velveteen – (Diana’s poem)

Her ink still warm from its last crescendo
she takes out her finest ingredients,
carefully slicing across the black dots
of her ivory sweet dominoes.
Handling the notes with a skillful stroke
she releases the music within.
The sixes are folded with the treble clef
but retaining the quavers for whipping,
with joyful and blithe abandon.
She has captured the colours already
in an image stolen from yesterday.
Out from the mind’s furnace comes the aroma
her job is almost complete.
All she needs is the songbird to read
her, tasting her soul in the velveteen words.


A ripple formed, running cloven
through my still surface.
I did not see his face,
the one who cast the stone.
A fluctuation of emotion causes
shadows behind closed eyes,
An undercurrent of dis-ease
moving surreptitiously inside.
Worry bubbles spawn,
spreading insidious effects.
Aware, logic weighs light,
haplessly trying to balance,
stepping carefully on the edge
of the vortex, not wishing to
return to the past.
Where are the angels now
as I navigate this precipice,
hanging on by my torn fingernails?

Autumn Sun

These paper thin rays
are failing to warm
your liver spotted leaves,
this jaundice vista is blemished
as bruised crab apples darken.
The bleeding acer’s ribs are
now showing, above the drenched pool.
Your cool breeze is labouring,
Not long now.
I grasp this moment of clarity
amid your clouds of grey confusion.
I sit, as you lay out before me,
watching your pale mellow close
into pink smudges of goodbye.


Entered for OpenLinkNight on on 15/11/11