Nightwalkers

I was awake all night
comforter failing to deliver
air streams crashing 
bashing on my window
forcing theirselves upon it
as lawmakers, 
shoving on cars
petty thieves—only harsher.

Resilient stood the glass
barring entry, the faithful dog
shielding striking shards
from breaking 
entering, shattering
life, like a terrorist mob
while I crumbled
cold feet, in fear.

Unforgiving, it knocked on
knocking down swaying barks
snapping lives like beans
stranger in the night
estranged from the soul
in menacing hatred
blowing out hope
guns bellow in the street.

Advertisements

In search indeed

Scarred
by years,
once shiny face
browning, peeling away
as charred pepper.

Awaiting
while winter dews
seeping through
sweeping hope
of restoration.

Solitude
the trusted advisor
a partner in part
on date nights 
out in the open.

Breathing
coldness piercing
ornament for the porch
a hollow cage
in search of bird.


Inspired by:

“I am a cage, in search of a bird.”

Franz Kafka

Ageing ungracefully

Sitting across me
on the table
arms wreathed
perched on lap
shoulders resting
after battling
years.

Groans the chair
on her behalf
heavily fragile
with crow paws 
by the eyes
pecking age
weighing down.

Wild winds rage
beyond reach
we sight each other
in each other’s
silver hair, dotted cheeks
failing soul
cheeky smile.

Wheezing for air
in open space
as cling-packed
shrooms, dried
awaiting pop
that livens one
snuffs, other.

birds

The writers

Sylvia watched in silence as they filled into her home. Strangers, coming in twos and threes, cooing hellos, waving arms, wandering in in boots, flip flops, and sneakers. Women of all ages, of all sizes, short and long-haired, short and short-haired, tall and bushy, heavy and muscly, injected her home with giggles, palm rubs, applause, and all the liveliness she’d long yearned for.

They sat around in a circle, clutching glasses of Scotch, sipping, cubed ice flipping within. Sharing tales of yonder, eyes wide in wonder, cosying by the fire as embers leapt into flames, the friends laughed through the night. Sylvia pined throughout.

With dawn rose the women, tired to the bones, yet souls refreshed. And they took their places, wielding metal boxes, tap tapping away before daylight, in peaceful concentration, as beads of condensation left windows for the sun. 

All the while, the women wrote. For they had money and finally a room of their own, just as Sylvia intended.


Image credit: Rowan Heuvel

Sydney highway

Roadtrip

rows of hardy green 
shoving their faces on mine
driving down the aisle


Photo: Highway towards Sydney