you pass through
like sunrise behind clouds
you pass through
in smoke on autumn air
you pass through
when wind ripples across sand
elusive and ephemeral
and whole worlds birth and die
as you pass through
© ceenoa
Poetry
No Alcohol was Involved
i broke my ankle on New Years Eve,
on a simple attempt to cross the street.
my feet moved off before my head,
and so i tripped right off the edge.
I broke both bones in my left leg,
“we’ll call an ambulance” they said,
but 2 hours later I still waited
getting more agitated.
so in the end to my car i hopped,
and my kidlet drove to the hospital and stopped.
they told me I would have to stay,
for an operation the next day.
I’ve had to have a plate put in,
securely fixed with 7 pins,
and part of a bone they couldn’t fix,
has now been given the surgeons flick.
so now I hop, and scoot round in my chair,
6 whole weeks no weight to bear,
and i think each time i see my foot,
before i moved I should have looked!
© ceenoa
15
I counted all the years of we
then all the years of widow
and my world had tilted
the balance shifted
and so I cried.
© ceenoa
Two Stories
once i was young and lissome,
a tight bud of youth in my prime,
now I am crinkled and shrivelled
as happens to all in time.
once I had velvet complexion,
as soft as the dew of the dawn,
now life’s wear and tear is evident,
in a visage that looks tired and worn.
once all the youth surrounded me,
i was sheltered and shaded, and strong,
now all that freshness has faded,
and yet, some beauty lives on.
© ceenoa
Bones and Scars
the fierce missing shatters my bones
the gravity of grief unraveling
exposing my marrow
stripping off layers.
and I have to regrow again
the skin and sinew of “now”
that holds me together.
© ceenoa
you cannot see my scars, the silver lines that cover me,
head to toe, heart to soul, completely wrapped.
an irredescent netting, marking the breaking and the healing,
the threads of a new outer that constrain the broken.
© ceenoa
Bubble
I am a bubble
a world of colour
memories swirl within
and I cling
to the outside
I am a bubble
delicate and fragile
yet strong enough
to hold on
to support.
I am a bubble
floating in the universe
blown by some others hand
I move
until I land.
© ceenoa
A Shed
I’d love to have a shed,
where I could put my stuff,
where it would not matter,
should I splatter,
paint or resin on the floor.
I’d love to have a shed,
a space I could create in,
inks and clay,
on the benches could stay
and not have to be packed up.
I’d love to have a shed,
a Sister’s Shed I’d have
to share the fun of art,
with those of similar heart,
oh, I’d love to have shed.
© ceenoa
Jangle
like a jar of marbles
rattled energetically,
this jangle of words in my head
skittle back and forth,
and never settle
to a rhythm that makes sense.
© ceenoa
Apologies to Banjo
There was movement in the paddock, for the sight had got around
that the chick from Old Ma White had got away
and had joined the wild bush turbo hens – she was worth 5 cents all told,
predictably no neighbours had gathered to the fray.
For they didn’t care for livestock, which they let wander anywhere
and it made me wild to see their disregard,
for I’d oft had to remove their livestock from my garden and my lawn,
and chasing goats and chooks just makes me mad.
© ceenoa
***********************
If you have never read the poem “The Man From Snowy River” by A.B. “Banjo” Paterson- which was one of my all-time favourite poems as a younger person, I could recite all 13 verse by memory at one stage – do yourself a favour and check it out here.
I had a dream – again. (Repost: A Dream and a Wish)
It happened again last night, it must be this time of year,
that prompts a rummage through my unconscious,
and in amongst the rubble, finding a flicker of a thought,
pounces, and drags it forth,
to present, like a cats favour lying at my door,
sadly unwelcome but understood.
© ceenoa
The original post below, which prompted the one above, is from 24 December 2014, and can be found here.
I had a dream of you last night,
I heard your voice, I saw your face,
and it woke again the yearning,
from it’s quietly slumbering place.
That desperate sense of needing,
which years have mercifully worn away,
the savage grief dispersed,
through life’s anaesthetising day.
And even though they carry sorrow,
I long to dream of you again,
to feel that fierce connection,
as you quietly say my name.
© ceenoa
