The feathered bird flips lightly on the low bough and peers
Suspiciously at fronds of smoke waving past his ears
Roundly Red and pale Peach bellies, proudly hide and seek
Circling hoard of humans who visit once a week
Curiously they walk below, felling trunks, digging peat
Bouncing round the fire waving sticks with things to eat
Harmlessly they shape our wood into a tiny home
A private nest, motionless, watching while Red roams.
Lying motionless for weeks
Eyes tracing fleur de lis
The peeling paper of grief
Lit by dappled window
We hauled ourselves o’er river
Up valley, down street
A fortress of relief
Where the sun streams in
Letterbox dropped all over
Exhaustive help depletes
Children playing down the creek
Treated from top to feet
The wardrobe grew expansive
The widening face to greet
In the mirror of my memory
My morning stranger meet
A thickening of walls and doors
A latch that won’t fool many
The welcome mat rolled up and out
For neighbours warm and friendly
The distance and the silence grew
A universe between them
Majestic prose still flows in space
Though gracious few receive it
The stranger in the mirror
Grows accustomed to the stare
Our eyes meet and smile
A sweet surrendered air
Hiding in plain sight
My former figure forgets
Politely nod and carry along
The new friend in our midst
New and aged silver and brave
Though some might say contrary
The glimmer in her eye reveals
The joy in giving Glory
Featured Image: Photo by Hello I’m Nik on Unsplash
We may lay and rise to meet
Expel desire to compete
Friends and strangers’ hearth for feet
Tread the path discreet
Fruit borne plentiful and sweet
Eyes of silence wide asleep
Pierce the mocking vine deceit
Thistle blister seat
Longing not for pride or place
Passion forbade saving face
Hope in holy open space
Gentle saving grace
Poem and Featured Image of Ellendale, Tasmania by Lisa J. Haynes (C) 2018
Image of ruins near Ross, Tasmania – Mercury Newspaper.
Even deep disappointments cannot be drowned;
They will rise and inflate and infect and abound.
Happy are those who suffer no ill;
For all the rest, choose – sweet or bitter pill?
Photo credit: Chip Phillips image from an article: ‘The Explosive potential of methane frozen beneath Abraham Lake’ (Canada)
Horizons open out behind and before my eyes
Where once closed lids were anointed by the sky
A feast of coloured feathered wings adorn the quiet street
Where once a common sparrow was admired
Sprigs of white blossoms litter the greenway edges
Where once the swarm of pests had devoured
A window bush explodes in yellow flowers and vivid green
Where once the worm had eaten all bud and leaf
The Springing Sun adorns my bedroom mirror and wall
Where once the light was blinding and the shades my coverall
Pale green new leaves float dreamily on the warm soft breeze
Where once apologies for the diseased tree next door
A drone of bees parade along the front blooming tower
Where once a drone of ghostly voices furled my brow
Little boy lambs bleat delight in hands and friends
Where once they fended alone as eagle descends
The tower clock is bypassed for the bustling doctor’s street
Where once the sanctity of pillowed pews was sweet
Hopeful conversations in the sun and houses meet
Where once mere imaginings of popular masses to greet
How ready as we’d ever been to step into Unknown
Where once control had reigned and error was shown
Faces, I daily pray and long to see an Image old
Where once their living wisdom was untold
Street Art, Konstance, Germany. By ‘Nilko and Rusl’
I gave away my feathers to a wounded bird, mid-flight
She fondled in her fingers and gazed at colours bright.
Both of us now cold, I wandered down the pale pink hall
Warmed by hands and hearts – reciting heaven, gold, gems and all.
With bravery I wore a cross-shaped medal I didn’t earn
A signed and sealed commission of men has joined the funeral burn.
Though many think the flow of blood is death, despair and strife
I know for sure it’s freedom from guilt and our eternal life.
The darkness that I wear will not do for wedding ball
Patiently, I changed the feathers for a pure white shawl.
“I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.”
― Beryl Markham, West with the Night
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“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”
― Kahlil Gibran
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“We’re going all the way ’til the wheels fall off and burn.”
― Bob Dylan
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“You made me happy and you made me laugh, and if I could do it all over again, I would not hesitate. Look at our life, at the trips we took, the adventures we had. As your father used to say, we shared the longest ride together, this thing called life, and mine has been filled with joy because of you.”
― Nicholas Sparks, The Longest Ride
Reflecting heaven’s light
captured by stillness in breath
obscuring the shallow beneath
stones settle buried at rest
A quote from Dubliners by James Joyce in “A Little Cloud”
“A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind…
He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet’s soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy.”
Count the stars of heaven 