Eucalyptus tree in my garden
I was inspired to write this poem many years ago, when we lived part time in London. It was a damp, depressing November day. I had finished shopping for groceries and was feeling homesick for sunny Perth. As I walked out through the doors, wheeling my trolley and hoping to find a co-operative taxi driver, I was overwhelmed by the scent of gum leaves. The trolley was discarded as I raced towards that smell, so evocative of Australia.
How do I capture raindrops
in early morning light
as rays of sunshine burst
through misty haze?
From solitary shafts they hang
When my late husband died I felt very alone, as we all do while dealing with grief. My home was sold shortly before he died, I couldn’t find a suitable replacement and spent several months with kind friends. This idea of searching for a new life, where I would find peace and contentment came to me then.
The Door
Its surface is rough and blistered
the handle is shaky
blackened with age.
Like Alice
I need to find the magic words
but I’m afraid
that never-ending loneliness
waits beyond this door
that drifting in a world of grey
is not the life for me.
I summon up courage
and paint on a smile
prepare to wait
it could take a while
for the door that’s right
to appear.
Coloured like jewels
from the brush of Gustav Klimt
it opens to melodies
of Mozart and Lizst.
With angelic voices
we sing Gregorian chant
while walking through forests
and resting by streams.
Clothes are floaty
no cares of fashion
even the old
wear beauty with grace.
Sex isn’t an issue
nor ego.
Faces are smiling
we fulfil our dreams.
I write my story in the air.
Words float away
like the music of birds
not recorded
cherished for the moment
in which they’re created.
Later, I’ll find them
remembered
like the sounds of a symphony
or the trace of a touch.
I’m still alone
inside this brightly coloured zone
but have no fear.
This poem was written for a friend with a lovely singing voice. She is also a good listener who has often been the one I call in times of trouble. She’s not the sort of person to want centre stage but she definitely stands out from the crowd. I hope you have at least one in your friendship garden.
Exotic is my little bird
gorgeous her plumage
of brilliant emerald
and sapphire
and the richest ruby red.
She’s something of a loner
rather shy
and quiet until she sings,
then she leads the chorus.
Her voice fills my garden
with the sound of crystal music.
I love to sit and listen
not only to her song
her words are never wrong.
We share a tranquil moment
rest for a while on a bench
chat about friends and daily affairs.
A peck on my cheek
a feathery wave
and she flies home to her nest.
Feathery fronds
of delicate design,
maiden hair fern
softens quiet spaces.
Gentle she grows
pleasing to those who wander by
bravely facing unexpected blows,
attacks from slugs and slaters
or a sizzling from the sun.
Fate seems unfair
to this fragile fern
but her endurance prevails.
A little care
a sprinkling of kindness
and she’ll persevere
lacily greening the shade in my garden.
This is another of my pieces inspired by colour.
Laughter is yellow
and birds in spring
a summer’s day
with boats and kites
and children playing in a garden;
a little girl on twirling toes
a kitten chasing a ball.
Yellow is smooth
it’s full of joy
a hymn of praise
a word of thanks
a kiss from a child
and friendship.
Purple is my favourite colour. I wrote this piece several years ago; I hope my new followers will enjoy it and those of you who have read it before, won’t mind reading it again. The flowers are from my garden.
Purple sits on mountain tops. It tugs your soul at the moment of daylight into dusk and hangs in the air when a heavenly fragrance wafts past. It lives in the taste buds of a chocolate connoisseur and of course truffles, excellent brie and fine Russian caviar have more than a touch of purple in their chemistry.
Purple is the sound of a Beethoven symphony. It is the colour of majesty, commanding homage from those who wait in awe for the moment when purple sweeps into view, adorning the triumphant.
Moods of purple are sensuous, evocative, illogical to the browns and greens of this world. A mystical aura envelops those with purple souls. Dancers, like Fonteyn and Nureyev, were swathed from head to pointed toe in every shade of purple; a soft and frothy mauve for lighter moods, the tragedies all dark and swirling into tindered sumptuousness.
Unpredictable, tantalizing, never moderate or mundane, purple is renowned for extremes. Pavarotti is purple; an excellent example of the soul, the talent and temperament of this colour. Tempered and trained, never fully controlled, it flashes brilliance or leaves one in despair. Reliable it is not. Gentle and tender are not the norm, but purple also comes in pansies, soft as wood-smoke.
To live with a purple soul is at once the epitome of heaven and hell, difficult for all when the mood is dark, but a journey through the stars when it soars.
Rose
I have a rose
a special rose
whose petals bloom
in shades of white
for her heart is pure,
to the crimson of enduring love.
Her stems have no thorns.
As near to perfect as a rose can be
with blossoms full blown
and budding heads held high
she’s a friend to treasure,
cherished and admired
by all who know her beauty.
My friend owl
is a friend of many years.
He perches on the fence
sometimes a little wary
to join in the babble of the crowd
but when he does
they respond with hilarity
to the jokes he tells
for owl is witty as well as wise.
His nest is in a neighbouring tree
close enough to hear my call.
A quiet ear
a word of sense
he brings when I’m in need.
Sometimes there’s a tasty treat
a special prize he’s caught.
Often he’ll stop for a chat
we eat and drink
and soon there’s a bit of a party
as others hear our merriment
and drop in to join the fun
for my friend owl is a clever owl
who knows how to make others happy.
I’m sure you all have at least one character like this in your friendship garden.
Such a Bizzie Lizzie
is pretty little balsam
dashing about
always wanting to please.
Wearing happy colours
she brightens dreary corners.
There are times when she’ll work too hard
then suddenly stop
fall in a heap
her petals drop
her leaves turn crinkly brown and flop.
She’ll revive
but for a while her blossoms wilt
turning white and wan.
She hates that
wants to be out in the sun
having fun
flashing her prettiest party petals
and being busy
my Bizzie Lizzie.