Poetry Sunday #4- Fish in the Drain

“It’s not a tadpole!”

That was his first thought

As he scooped up the raindrop-shaped silhouette

Amid water, soil and algae

 

Water trickled away

From the seams of his fingers

An almighty leap

Propelled the pea-sized body onto the concrete floor

 

The silvery face

Gleamed in the afternoon sun

But why would anyone notice it

In a glasshouse full of giant plants?

 

After several attempts

He wedged the fish between his fingers

And released it one foot ahead

Into the now soapy water

 

Poetry Sunday #3- School Holiday Night

School Holiday Night

 

Ten’ o clock at the 24-hour café

Ambient yellow lights and air-conditioning

Queues for overpriced coffee and cakes keep forming

 

An entourage of adults occupy the second longest table

Talking loudly over loudness from elsewhere

None of them have hearing aids or decorum

Their children huddled at one end of the longest table

Shrieking even louder at a smartphone

Their legs swinging amid bar-height furniture

At the other end of the table I shut my laptop

On my right my girlfriend types away unperturbed

I glare at the nuisance as I leave for a walk

 

Warm night air fills my heaving lungs

Up ahead streetlights flicker from a roadside park

Unused exercise machines flank the footpath

Short grass kissing their stainless steel legs

Where the grass ends barbed wire fences gleam

A large supermarket towers over park and road

Its ugly blue facade less discernible this hour

Its surroundings as quiet as its carpark empty

Bright white lights filter from its entrance

Giving away a lone man with a cigarette in his hand

Poetry Sunday #2- Tomorrow’s Lilies

Tomorrow’s Lilies

 

As I take deep breaths and slow steps

The realisation and dread radiating through my head

Disgusting defeatism has penetrated my psyche

And left me hanging by a thread

What a relief it is to wake up

From the torpor and cowardly voices

That tell me I am my greatest enemy

A perverse self-fulfilling prophecy

Now I must act

With purpose and consciousness

To reverse this psychological gangrene

On my otherwise perfect hands

And when the next tide comes

I will relax myself and rise above it

And there will be no need for tomorrow’s lilies

To serve yesterday’s regret

 

Poetry Sunday #1- Sea Haiku

Haikus are among my favourite types of poetry. They are simple, and the beauty of the haiku is expressing oneself or painting a scene within the economy of words. Traditional haiku operates on a 5-7-5 stanza, but modern haiku eschews such rigidity. I suspect the appeal of haiku is not unlike that of a Tweet, where the writer has only 120 characters to express him or herself. Unlike a Tweet however, haiku is, to my knowledge, untainted by trash talk and Trumpisms.

Sea Haiku

Down goes the anchor

Striped fish swim out of the way

Water turns cloudy