Late November, the last days of spring
are beginning to preheat the air, the vast
outback furnace is set to fire up
for summer and ignite the northerlies.
But for now, the evenings are cool
as I take breath, float thoughts off
towards a dozen vague destinations
that glow on memory's horizon.
Old age sets you off on such journeys
as if to find something lost long ago
that seems to have left a lifelong cavity
at the very centre of yourself.
Meanwhile, the world calls me
to hear what it has to say in the sounds
of a November evening.
It is not interested in my memories.
It cares little that I'm old
and that my body is sometimes hell.
I am perfect for it to echo its sounds
just like an empty seashell.
Along these Great Southern Shores
Where Antarctic waters pound the beaches
Or scorching Northerlies
bring clouds of desert sands
I do battle
Having entered into a ferocious duel
With the GARDEN STRUCTURE
my hands of sinew and bone
against elements sewn together
a straight, silver representation of absolute
forged by men who value strength
my plans and intentions
rough ink scratchings on a paper thin imagination
against a cold heart, rigidly holding the line
no wavering in steely resolution
my sweating organic determination
against a garden structure fighting boldly
I ally myself with electronic torque certainty
to screw metallic defiance to its very self
Along these Great Southern Shores
Where Antarctic waters pound the beaches
Or scorching Northerlies
bring clouds of desert sands
Bloodied from battle
I stand victorious after a ferocious duel
With the Garden Structure
No coolin’ breeze in the summer night
Northerlies blow the dusty blight
A full moon shines on the red dusty ground
No cloud to block the stars shinin’ down
You can smell the wild oat grass as you ride on by
The Southern Cross lords above in the open sky.
© Paul Warren Poetry
As autumn breezes bluster, leaves descend
Parading nature's pageantry of hues
The ceremony is the season's cue
To summon Jack Frost and his chilly friends
Jack signals for the snow flakes to begin
While he ice skates on frozen crystal streams
The moon enhances nightly with moonbeams
Fall colors gone, now winter's white transcends
Wrapped in her blankets, Mother Nature sleeps
One autumn leaves the other downy snow
She's dormant in her springtime reverie
And all the while the snow is drifting deep
As winter rages on and blizzards blow
Those autumn breezes turned to Northerlies.
an original poem by Daniel Turner
NOT FOR CONTEST
words to use: Flakes, Jack Frost, skating
snow, crystals, blizzard
If only and only if i was the moon
I would be the fullest moon
Brightening up your darkest nights
If only and only if i was the wind
I would blow love your way non stop
Westerlies to the easterlies
Northerlies to the southerlies
If only and only if i was the rain
I would forever shower you with love
Washing away all sadness
Like the desert needs the rain
I would be the oasis if only
And only if
rugged
northerlies
disrobe the beech-
a solitary nest
wobbles
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