24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
HOME.
One day I will come home to you.
Where my first father’s lived
Between the two ridges wide apart
Separated by the great historic valley
I will walk in your dew filled grazing fields
Where cattle feed all day
And go back to rest in the dusk
With my face against the wind I will ran across to where the sky meets the tree tops Joyfully for you are full of fresh fragrance
I will come home to embrace you
Dreaming of you,
in technicolor hue –
Beaming with the peace
of today’s Freedom.Reborn once again,
out from Ashes,
of Hellfire’s spread.Australia –
You’ve lead,
Me toward the end,
of my strain.Your accessible shores,
Beckon with a Siren’s call that warns,
of wonton survival.Leaving is vital –
In you I see;
My pain was not in vain,
That there’s more to life for me.When I close my eyes,
It’s Australia I see.©️ 2020: Prompted.
I do have a book title that supports relief efforts 🇦🇺 View link , if interested. (#authorHJ).
Those who know, know.
A place like a mystery,
Where everything has a history,
Here time spins like a wheel,
It never ends,
It doesn’t heal.
Everything is connected they say,
But how?
Is it possible to travel in time?
Possible to make it all right?
To not make mistakes at all?
or maybe not making severe ones at least.
I am yet to find,
Till then, the story continues…
I used to pride myself
in the bold statement
that I had no interest
in Cat Stevens
To me
he was in the oeuvre
of middle-aged white men
toting acoustic guitars
and singing droopy songs
One day
annoyed by my hollow decrees
my partner sat me down
and made me listen
to “Father & Son”
Rather than whining
there was an inverted echo
between the old and the young:
the old have gone and now must stay
the young have staid and now must go
I thought I’d heard Cat Stevens
But I was listening to Yusef Islam
Before he left
and turned into himself
Into the misty woods, I followed him.
His dark black wings beat and rustled up the night air.
Drawn by passion, encouraged by curiosity, deeper and deeper we went until I questioned my sanity.
Who would follow a winged stranger by moonlight?
Silence.
An arm outstretched, reached back for me. Skin touching skin, electric currents reminded me why I followed.
The mist parted to reveal the grotto we hoped to find — a place where lovers could me and find reprieve.
He lay me on a bed of moss, his wings covering over my moonlight skin.
I surrender to the moment
to the guardian
to the forest of lovers.
A place where all the colours run.
A place where every thought is joy
an Albion.
A place where love is free
from all the maddening games
you and I played, for kicks
I’d dream a land of plenty
but there are plenty of other places
you’d much rather be
and I’m tired of trying
to raise a glass and a smile
to the love we scrimp over.
I’d love to see a place
where all the colours run together
you’d rather scratch away
in the darkened alleys
the lower the place you keep yourself
the less height there is to fall
In Crete I walked along the shoreline
Contemplating the fate of it’s people
Bull gods and dancing
A stronghold against sensibility
I too could paint my breasts
Beauty displayed to the world
Focus my attention on the delicate
Folds of fabric in my skirt
In Crete I walked along the shoreline
Only–I was never really there.
Cool, damp, and muddy
Not one but two larger ears
A horde of green friends
Mushrum lurking tall
Goblin beneath oh so short
Eating bugs for fun
Big tall humanoid
Stompy Stompy go his boots
Spores are on the loose
Threatening Bad Time
Goblins run and hide, slip, fall
splash! the grotto’s wet
Mushrooms sway, spores float
Goblins are safe but not dry
The caves are now home
At the bottom of the bottle,
He took off the mask and began to cry.
He couldn’t drink enough these days to end the suffering.
His heart felt a strange heat, dragging up out of him a hidden longing
He let his eyes rest on the treeline and set his mind free
He could smell porridge cooking in the cottage,
see the firefly the children caught in a jar
He was a young man then laughing and hoping and dreaming with his pretty wife
Where did the years go.
He threw the bottle to the ground.
The wife was gone, the fever took her. It took him too.
The children… family took them.
They would have children now.
lethargy drained out of him and oozed into the ground
Something akin to hope took its place.
He staggered toward the shelter.
He had steered clear of there for months
Since that preacher had spoken over him that he would live and not die.
He had cursed the words.
Death was all he had wanted. A final relief. And even that would be denied him?
The preacher had only smiled,
some kind of knowing was in his eyes. A peaceful knowing.
It took the power out of his alcohol and the rest out of his soul.
Maybe just maybe that preacher would be there
and maybe he knew something else
How a man that couldn’t die might find a way to live.
If I ever had the chance
To sit upon a throne
I would be ever grateful
To have a kingdom of my own
I don’t want a massive empire
I’m not too OTT
But I myself would like a small
Island kingdom just for me
By an Island, I mean tropical
Not the bloody Isle of Wight
Somewhere like Bermuda
Or the Bahamas would be alright
Of course there would be people
In whose lives I can assist
As I would need somebody
To rule with an iron fist
I would give them education
The best attempt I can
And it would be comprehensive
About how great I am
I’d want a little army
I think that would be fine
It would be a peaceful island
Cos all the weapons would be mine!
Is it wrong to have a statue?
As a cliché it’s rather old
But I’ve worked hard, a modest likeness?
10 feet high and solid gold!
I don’t mind a bit of criticism
I don’t resent critique
But if you really push it
Your outlook will be bleak
I mean I have to have a prison
It’s a requirement to govern
It would have to be humane of course
The guards won’t whip, they’ll bludgeon
I’m not a total tyrant
I don’t want to take the mic
But I’ve been told I can be a dictator
Though my friends just call me dick.