Gusting wind stirs
the supple muscular boughs of
willow’s giant torso
tossing flowing waves
of long lush leafy tresses
rippling silver green.
Mossy trunked willow
towers high in his garden
planted in early city
days. Urban dwellers
knew nothing of willow roots
seeking streams to slake
continual thirst lifting
backyards paths driveways
sucking up water lavished
on vegetables, flowers, lawns.
Previously posted August 2016
Heavily scented warm
summer air draws in
buzzing bees eagerly
seeking precious nectar.
Sweet peas swarm up
netting on the old shed wall
a perfumed rainbow
tapestry of many hues.
Pale pastels to bright
reds, purples, pinks,
blues and lilacs paint a
masterpiece on old timbers.
Rich pickings for the
school children’s flower show.
Previously posted August 2016
Blue and green iridescence
shimmer off the tui’s dark
feathers in the morning sun,
the little love knot of curling
white feathers at his throat
complete his sartorial elegance,
a simple fashion statement
for the autocratic parson bird.
From the kowhai tree’s summit
ablaze with golden flowers
his raucous shrieks warn
lowly blackbirds and thrushes
to vacate his territory.
His swooping attacks spur
them to flee – his sharp
nectar sucking beak pecks
vicious wounds in birds
unwise enough to stay.
One little tui he allows to
remain. Her feathers too have
the shimmering iridescence, the
little white love knot at her
throat. Now the regal tui
sings to her a love song of
purest warbling notes, clear high
trilling in a liquid flow that
fills the suburban garden. She
flits the suburban garden. She
flits through the branches of
his tree, enjoying golden kowhai
nectar under his protective eye
in the glowing morning sunlight.
Previously posted August 2016
Watching the supple bottlebrush
stems with their crimson flowers
swirl wildly outside the living
room window, swishing, flicking
swaying on a windless day, I
puzzle at the frenetic movements
of these stems clad so densely in sleeves
of single hard sharp leaves.
Two green finches, matching
the green spiky foliage flit
into view, grasp the stems
beside the crimson flowers so
loaded with the nectar they love.
They grip tightly as they feast
reaching sideways to one flower
then hanging upside down to
gorge on the flower below. They
chirp shrilly to each other in
the excitement of exploring the
bush for its food, climbing from
stem to stem, bloom to bloom,
bringing the bush alive as they
devour its tasty bounty.
Previously posted August 2016.
In the sodden mud
of no man’s land
a man is lashed to
a six foot post driven
deep into the soil.
Rope binds his knees
and ankles to the post,
manacles grip his wrists
back behind the post,
hiss head and shoulders
brace back against it.
Modern day crucifixion.
Field punishment number one.
Acrid smoke of
artillery fire drifts
beneath lowering clouds,
sniper shots ring out
a bag of flesh
and bones sags
drunkenly
sideways
downwards
lifeless.
In World War I conscientious objectors were
taken to the western front and roped to posts
for up to four hours at a time between the
battle lines.
Field punishment number one.
Previously posted August 2016.
He fulfilled himself in painting
throughout his education.
At his graduating class’ final
exhibition his tall canvases
stood out each portraying
dark eyed human shapes
before individually blended
dark background hues.
Some paintings he could not
let go. Other paintings did not
resonate with those spending
money on art works.
Mundane employment
supplied his needs but
drained his time, his energy.
Unconnected in his community
he travelled far to a distant
community where like minded
souls lived a fine tuned daily
routine within high walls.
As his money ended he returned
home to his mundane employment.
He still yearns for a world that
supports artists creating art.
Previously posted August 2016
A lowering dense dark
presence at his shoulder
the black dog billows
above him, around him.
He does not look at
kith and kin, workmates,
friends who share his joys.
fascinations, satisfactions
in life, alongside him.
His deep loneliness needs them
stable, secure around him
to give him the fortification
of their steadfastness.
Bitter anger fills him when
their decisions do not
reference his own life,
his needs and wishes.
How far will he go ?
The farmer who feared for
his children and grandchildren
shot all of them to keep
them safely with him.
The separated father shot
his wife and children
to possess them forever.
How far will this man go ?
Previously posted August 2016
How best to find our
innermost human selves?
As an independent human ?
As a partnership element ?
Is a partnership’s intimate
closeness the place to find
the self ? Or will it confine
and define the self within
its walls ? to fit the other
self beside it ? Search for
a partner Or explore the
paths opening up ahead ?
Better a large flower ?
or a cluster of blooms ?
A lone bee ? Or the
swarm inside the hive ?
A partnership in pain
damages, destroys. A
partnership in tandem
builds up each one within.
Previously posted August 2016
Wilfred Owen’s WW I poem reminds us of the realities of war, and why we should do all we can to end all wars, hard though it may be.
A Black rose. Aeonium arboretum (With thanks to Peter Hannemann)
Dulce et Decorum Est
(a reference to the Latin phrase Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, which means “It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country” )
View original post 109 more words
From softly brushed
dabs of grey and white
tinting the sky;
from soft water colours
stippling the northern
horizon in dove greys;
from darker purple grey
on the southern horizon
draping its hills with
wisps of cobweb mist;
a dull luminosity spills
over green playing fields
and car parks edged by
stark willows shedding
their last leaves on to
the puddles. Blackbirds
thrushes call out their
territorial cries in
piercing shrilling voices
over the distant thrum
of main road traffic.
Previously posted July 2016
lifecameos 