A Crown of Feathers

IMG_20190629_171713She wore a crown of feathers
and some did think her mad,
she wore a crown of feathers
to remind her that she had,
learnt not to resist
the subtle twists
of life.

She wore a crown of feathers
upon her short grey hair,
and what they thought of her
she did not care,
because she liked herself.

She wore a crown of feathers
one visible, one unseen,
she wore a crown of feathers
let them wonder what it means,
when she takes to the sky
as she learns
to fly.

© ceenoa

No Alcohol was Involved

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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

 

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

June Frost (4)

 

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

June Frost (12)

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

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

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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.