The winds of change

Autumn

Autumn leaves falling in drifts
Flying with the will of the wind
The brown confetti from the trees
Fall aimless to the ground
As I sit here on this park bench
I feel the chill of the evening air
And I shiver

I hug myself as the cold starts
In, to biting ice in my old bones
I pull my cardigan closer
And snuggle in its warm embrace
My arthritic hands twinge
I grimace and wince
At its throbbing pain

Pretty passersby look at me
A snigger, bouts of laughter
A pointing finger
Look at the crone, how ugly
All wrinkly and musty
Like a trampled banana
Without dignity, old as sin

You look at me  
With your leery eyes,
Look that old bag lady,
You laugh
She is cold and hungry
Why doesn’t she just die?
And rid us of an eyesore

Come deary listen to me
My fate is yours
To know someday
Pride not in your lily white hands
For they will be as claws
They will know pain and labour
Just like mine did

Rejoice you not in your clean white cheeks
Or your pretty hair all in a bunch
Or your taut body ready for love
For age is not kind to beauty
Nor will it stroke with kindly fingers
You will shrink, wrinkle and crease
You will look like a dried raisin

Look at the autumn leaves
You will be as them
Old brown and discarded
To the ground you go
And be interred
Age is not kind, but it’s honest
Beauty then will shine from within.

Brought to light


Eyes stapled to the wall, blots of colour sheen over
my focus in a bitter display of mechanical philosophies.
Questions revive in the springtime, enveloped in dust.
The hollow hunt for answers grinds to life once more,
rusted cogs pressured into movement by obligation.

Mind whirling into paradoxes, I struggle with tangled
webs of knotted threads that squirm in their hast
to be set free. Each one leads to understanding.
Sleep is both a curse and a blessing.
Neon bolts through my veins.

Lips tremble at the taste of freedom of thought,
the shackles around my frontal lobes breaking.
Irises contract with the sudden burst of light;
in this fragile skeleton with my blood running weak,
I've never felt this powerful.

In the spring, all is brought to light.

“Decaying Days”
http://media.smashingmagazine.com/images/urban-decay/sta.jpg
I pray
dear angel
to keep the
violent
tempests
at bay.
They
constantly-creep
into
my fray,
draining me
of fire,
my inspiration
ebbs.
I am weak,
I am tired,
unable to
withstand
the pains
of yet
another storm
hurled my way.
Blown away,
I fear
the waning desire
in
my broken heart,
weathered
from resistance,
in a
temporal
existence.
I live inside
these
decaying days
seeking change,
come hither.

Spring's Cohorts

The snowdrops steal in first,
Quiet, unobtrusive, pale and frail,
They infiltrate unnoticed,
But suddenly, they’re there.
Silent, drooping, humble, shy,
But undeniably There.

Winter blusters on, unready for defeat:
Wind, snow, floods, ice,
Sharp skirmishes of frost,
But all to no avail;
The die is cast
And Spring will not be cowed.

Today, the crocuses turned up.
Brave in yellow, royal in purple,
Fearless in their livery,
Their bright platoons defy drab Winter’s hordes.
They will not yield,
They will not be denied.

Grim Pluto’s game is up;
The daffodils are massing in the field,
The black branches loading their buds
For a final push of foliage.
A triumphal volley of birdsong,
And Victory is ours - Spring is here!