Blackened Barn

Blackened Barn

      roasting in 
   hot sunshine, 
hundreds of years,

it can't share 
      its stories
the laughter 
   and the tears,

beautiful wood
colours, burned
      to black,

   no reason to
      stand tall,
no purpose
   any more...

      the old black
buildings lean,
   falling slowly,

      rotting 
      wooden 
foundations
   crumble 
      to dust

      any nails
   that may 
   be found
turn slowly 
      into rust.

   still something
there appeals to us.
      hope that
things went well,

sometimes, there
might be stories
   but no-one's 
      left to tell.

Immobile

Immobile

      red berries
cannot speak
   you say?

      they tell
   a story
   anyways.

   no wind whistles
through the trees.
a hot sun brought
   us to our knees.

      but that was then
   and this we know.
these bright red berries
      seem to glow.

nights are cool and 
      will be cold,
   soon snow will 
cover all the roads

      red berries 
cannot speak
      you say?

   they tell 
      a story 
anyways.

Autumn Maple

colours like these,
      i'd like to be,
if i could choose.

   colours like these
      i could not wear,
shirt or even shoes.

   cheerful like a
      little bird, 
singing in a tree.

      colours say
   or seem to say
magic words to me,

i wait for autumn
   every year to see
such coloured trees

   winter, spring and
summer too, i endure
to see trees like these

and every season,
      and each day,
   the weather

      seems to have
a say, in every
   thing we do.

House and Barn

   we were younger
then, we've always
      been before.

      lost memories,
i don't know whose,
   in failing wood,

a family here before 
   summer sunlight 
blackened wood...

years followed years,
   sun beating down.
   they raised a barn.

   so far away from
      any little town...
clocks will run on

histories now
      might be
   forgotten.

      but ruins
left behind
   tell a story.

some passed
by this place
    and built.

Red October Berries

      some fine 
   afternoon
i may confess.

uneaten berries
      do not tempt.
until i see a little

   bird eat these
       and not die
   i won't touch.


   not far away
i saw a viper
   surrounded

by chattering
      people, all
the way around!

      it had no escape.
   i crouched nearby
and made a photo.

oh, see how smart
      i am, shooting
   from feet away!


      some fine
   afternoon
i may confess.

uneaten berries
      do not tempt.
until i see a little

   bird eat these
      and not die
   i won't touch.

Maple and Gravel

witness the fallen.
      their season 
now has passed.

      disorder has
descended now,
   made a mess.

cold on wet earth,
   feeling nothing,
      gone forever...

gone and not gone
      colour lingers.
(like recent fame)

   we came and saw
shattered remnants 
      (just memories

   now and broken 
ones at that) they
      sleep forever.

   beauty remains
   somehow, such
faded memories!

   felled by failing
light, wild winds
      and icy rain,

we saw their bright
   colours, they'll
      return again.

Potted Mums

      a bold array
   of colours,
makes us smile.

   as days get dark 
      and colder,
we can use such help.

mums we've seen
      as well, in
   autumn pots.

   they add colour, 
      as is needed in 
such evil times.

   husbands carry
      potted plants
for cheery wives.

      bright colours
bold and cheery
   light our lives.

Tile Roof

      down on the
tile roof, a little 
   damp remains...

tropical rain
   sometimes 
      so warm,

sometimes
      it plugs
   the drains.

wet tile roofs,
that might not,
      blow away...


      as stories go,
some things you 
   cannot say.

      maybe her  
   last trip ever,
you never know.

i hold my mouth 
and think again.
      words choke.

   they will not
      come. stuck
in my throat.

      (life without
some pictures)
   we are taught.

   some words
must not be said
      you know.

some thoughts
      must not 
   be thought.


      down on the
tile roof, a little
   damp remains...

tropical rain
   sometimes
   so warm,

sometimes
      it plugs
   the drains.

Old Lava

cold to touch now,
   lava was so hot
so many years ago.

      it flowed
   like water
into the sea.

old lava now
   and rich in
rust (old iron)

and the waves
   break on it
(erosion wins).

      that boulder
   squats quietly
as we sail past.

Counting Chickens

they plan and scheme
      and count 
   imagined profits.

   then the whole world
      changes and
unimagined disaster...

   we see a desert plant
   with small blossoms
(called hen and chicks)

      as if a family
but exotic, bears 
   a closer look.

some details matter.
   unimportant bits
      just fade away.

   it has no plans,
   no schemes, or
imaginary profits.

bury your head
   in the centre 
   of the flower.

one day perhaps,
      our world will
   be restored.