Waves of words wash over her
transporting her through
space and time
to other realms
where dreams come true
and the adventurer knows no bounds.
Riding the White Horses of the Camargue
Dancing with Wolves
Searching for The Beach
She journeys to the Centre of the Earth
explores King Solomon’s Mines
and witnesses the Return of the King.
Laying aside her book
she drifts, dreams,
and the waves of words
still wash over her.
Written in response to Sadje‘s ‘What Do You See #3‘ photo prompt.
Look up at that little tree,
sparkling in the moonlight,
lit up by the stars.
Take a moment to remind yourself
of what is truly precious.
One life, one planet,
last chance.
Written in response to Sadje‘s ‘What Do You See‘ photo prompt.
Hemingway drains his whisky glass and picks up his rifle,
stomps from the room.
Sadly, the last we’ll see of him.
His clipped and perfect prose
Done for good.
Sylvia surfaces for the last time, before disappearing
below the lapping waves,
one last word on her beautiful blue lips.
No, not waving.
Gone for good.
Pass the purple prose and the sugar-pink poetry,
the long-winded sagas and the tea-time trash.
Just give me the facts!
Boris burbles, bright but bonkers.
I said the facts, sir!
Thatcher, Thatcher, school milk snatcher!
Not what history will recall.
HIS story?
What about HER story?
Diana, princess betrayed
Norma Jean?
Her story says it all.
Drop the pretense.
Give me something I can believe.
Believe in the beauty of fine-tuned fiction:
the gentle rustle of pages turning,
the perfume of old paper.
Behold the tranquility of a mind engrossed
and a spirit at peace.
Inspired by a visit to ‘The House of Books’ in Barrydale, South Africa. It lives up to its name!
Eccentric owner, Anton, is pictured above.
Here on the wild, west coast,
near the great continent’s southern-most tip,
rest a while.
Here Eve’s footprints marked the rocks,
her children decorated the caves and adorned their bodies
in shades of ochre and red.
Stretch out, open your mind,
feel the sun-warmed rock, absorb the stone-etched stories.
Isn’t this the magic you’re seeking?
Drag open cupboards! Rummage the dusty shelves!
Words spill out; letters separate, scatter across the floor.
Photos flame to ash, picture frames’ contents
ooze sludgily down the walls.
You fling open a window. There’s a beach, sunshine and the smell of the sea!
Waves lapping; a boy in a boat.
He points and you look
but there’s nothing to see.
A sudden squall
slams the window
shut.
Here’s a door; chained and padlocked.
There’s a message, curled and yellow, stuck to the frame
A single word, written in your own hand:
No.
You step away, anxiously.
You know. Now
is not the time.
Turn away, turn back!
You trudge step-by-step
over the disturbed contents
of your untidy mind.
Empty handed.
Empty headed?
You take a breath, drain the mug of tepid tea and realise that
Today, you simply have
Nothing to say.
You were there when I arrived
You nodded in my direction
And I felt the warmth of your smile.
Your wit lit up the room
Your laughter sparkled
Your stories enlivened, inspired
Touched a heart; a nerve.
And then you left.
And it was as if
You’d never been there.
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