Poor Aussie Boy

Encapsualting.

David Redpath

Summer Venicea
a hothouse
frozen in time
then suspended
in a saltwater museum
The despised tourists
on the dock
by the boatload
disgorging
Then they queue
for religious relics
and pay 5 euros
just to see them
Once they would’ve all
been led for free
and fed into the Colosseum
Like foreigners
who walk around
saying … “Gidday!”
Barbarians well known
to pisciare in the bidet

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The Naga

pretending to live is not living at all death would do you good © elancharan

via PRETENCE — The Naga

Table for Two

A varied year so far, I am looking forward to getting back into my garden, new plants, growth and sun trying its best. Think happy thoughts and dirty nails, love it! Though this poems does lend itself to sadder times, fictitious but long.lol. Too busy to write and so….hope you like it.

As it Comes

Within the garden – satisfyingly
green and monumentally trim –
there are those places; nooks
and crannies, rough creased hideaway
crevasses for creatures – a sanctuary
for bugs and the windswept soil
now stowed and packed tightly away,

right above the empty trails left
by birds, save for the heavier crumbs
scattered at lunch time and as if to say –
we know where you live.

The crumbs left at elevenses lie beside
a time before creaking bone reminders
that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and when
an internal lunchtime clock alarm signals
a mid way point of no return.
The hot sun causes a symbiotic relationship
with the beaded pad teetering on the brink,
and inharmoniously ill at ease on aching
shoulders – aching, but freestyle dancing
to the inevitable tune and building
crescendo of pain.

Chimes from my stomach sound
before the sun’s beams would definitely scour

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Kiss

Two years old here, but the poem is probably well over ten years now.

As it Comes

A jubilant summer’s breath whispers
as it dances through my hair;
entwined and everywhere, a rush
caresses me from within.
Fields a glaze with dew and song,
apples fall and bound along
till picked up from wet grass
with a touch, a hold so whole, like
a cool, everlasting kiss.
Suspicion turns to face the breeze,
emotions bristle over skin;
a touch from everywhere, so real,
becomes a dream inside.
The orchard pales to black and white,
all I feel is the cold sunlight
till a breath of air is warm and near
and I fear, if I tremble I will fall, so
I hold onto you, a cool everlasting
Kiss.

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Farcebook

Love the satire… and relevance lol.

Poetpaspoetry

The book
The face
Disgrace

The poke
The choke
Provoke

The like
The thumb
How dumb

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Aristotle Mourns

Half of the remaining population of elephants rest in a park in Africa awaiting death presumably. The pressure is on China and the USA and the UK to ban all trade in ivory despite despotic men acting as president lifting bans on trophy hunting meanwhile.  China and half the African continent are finally doing their best to wage war to try and save this magnificent beast – doing its part in this masquerade during a massacre all because of greed and chimes of ancient times and ‘remedies’…  Luckily the youth of today are awake and will not stand for this….to the rest of us…Wake up! And that’s only elephants.  Just angry, just passing, just fundraising.  Hope you’re all well.

As it Comes

The Ancient Greek philosopher, Aristotle once said that elephants were “the animal which surpasses all others in wit and mind.”

Wandering on migration’s
paths in mud caked days and cooler night winds of the dusted parks,
in search of food and shallow pockets to bathe,
three generations of elephants; a herd in tow, they walk – wafting on rumbling
storm clouds underfoot – in the ruddy, powder trails of the lazy, thirsty,
arid soils – they are drawn, respectful.
Delicate strokes for each long lost family, each historical bone is touched –
bleached white stoicism’s stark seeds in the ghosted graveyard terrain –
relics of familiar ancestors. Even the smallest mourner is tender;
curious reverence is succour while tranquil, emptied carcasses
await closure – life hollowed and stilled –
not abandoned but grieved for, not forgotten but reunited –
by touching caresses of long reaching
history and emotions, intimate gestures

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Not So Shining Armour (part I)

Something different from a while back.

Part 1 of a short story.

As it Comes

Long, long ago in days of old
When dragons roamed and knights were bold
Damsels a plenty hung loftily from towers
As shining heroes wrestled for hours
With green scaly demons, that is, until
A knight came along to challenge their will
The kingdom cheered and they honoured him
He rode off to battle, our knight, not so dim…

 

Sydney, our shining knight of the realm, casually waved aside a nervous fellow called Gravel and the armour presented to him.

“But, Sire… you really ought to wear this.”

“Worry not Gravel.” Sydney continued to throw his spiked iron ball up in the air, catching it repeatedly only just managing to miss Gravel, his long suffering aid, by inches.

He flexed his upper body and neck, and with precision in his eyes, directed the ball at a makeshift target of stacked wine urns. He took a full length of his…

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