No agenda and no friends

Sometimes life does not work out as we plan, and rather than dwell we write. Humour can often soften the blow.

I had no intention of coming

There were things to do
Holiday packing
A winter escape
A reef to explore

Don’s email arrived
Could I help?

Duty called.

At my age
Nature most often calls.

I welcomed the change

The keys,
I forgot the keys

“We will leave it open.”
The Director says
and they did

The best laid plans

A well-meaning Samaritan
security conscious
made sure
all was well

The door
does not budge

The temperature
drops

My friends due to arrive
any minute
will expect
a warm reception

Phone a friend

Sympathetic,
but unable to help
having done all she could
and all she promised

Phone home.

“Use the library,” she says
Borders has coffee
I counter

It’s not yet winter
but who can tell?

Canberra nights
do not make good bedfellows
however,
they do encourage you
to look for one

I huddle in wait
knowing coffee
will ease the burdens
of a writer’s group
minus an agenda

We could not visit humour
yet humour visits me
sheltered
in a darkened doorway

Six thirty comes
I order coffee
for one

I never intended to be here

Duty done
Nature calls


BJR

Desolation

To be, and to be seen
as unique
special in the eyes of love
not one of many
fitted
as hands to a glove

To be felt there
love
within this heart to touch
a life spent hoping
expecting
could it be too much?

Doubt,
sow the needless seeds
no sleight of hand exists
I am the one,
not seen
through a world of mists

Crushed
repeatedly
self-respect slain
the battler
now too weary
craves freedom from the pain

How builds the teary glaze
that befalls
the long lost bard
imposters reign, the mighty fall
age weary,
is a new dawn too hard?

Courage
for one last effort
to seek the final treasure
to feel complete, special, wanted
giving,
so others reap the pleasure

Friendships are hard to find
don’t waste them
this commodity is rare
these words reflecting my soul,
my deepest thoughts,
are not written for flare

One last try
win or fail
happiness, my mind screams
respect, regard, craved a lifetime
trust and love
life’s ultimate dreams.


© Bernard J Rossi

Transparent beauty

Often our poems tell stories that lie deep within our own thoughts, other times we describe the vision that greets our eyes. We combine two images into one and dream of the illusion it creates. These poems can give rise to vigorous discussions when a poet hits the right note between the obvious and the underlying.

Transparent Visions

The rising sun transforms the veil
Sheer and free flowing
Accentuating the magnificence
Painted on a mountainous background
Familiar silhouettes reach out
Giving hope and promise
They will penetrate the winter mist
Loosely covering the tantalizing ranges
Proud and unimposing
Ravenous they beguile
Gliding down the undulation
No attempt to hide the seduction
Underbrush, wild in nature
Trimmed to perfect shapes
Hidden only from the blind
Behind no more than nylon and lace
Rivers run freely
Driven by nature’s urge
Calling to the animal
Wild and optimistic
That sight will transform
Beckoned to be touched
Until mind and picture embrace
Merging their treasures into one

© Bernard J Rossi

Sirens

This is one I would like to recite to you, but alas ...

Sirens

Sirens scream
Off in the distance.
Are they coming for me?

Trapped

Plotting paths
Seeking me out
Are they coming for me?

Helpless

Blue, red
Visions in my head.
Are they coming for me?

Unyielding

Dancing lights
Relentless in their warning
Are they coming for me?

Numb

Fear attacks
Rises up in my throat,
Are they coming for me?

Fading

Crumbled wreckage
Surrounds my body
Are they coming for me?

Hurry



© Bernard J Rossi

The poetry workshop is under way

The first in a series of very interesting workshops has begun today at http://newauthorworkshop.blogspot.com/ and it just so happens it is a poetry workshop

These workshops are being run jointly between myself and The New Author Website and they will span a wide range areas over the next few months. I encourage all poets to take a look, participate in as many as you can , learn as much as you from the group and from any guest presenters we hope to have from time to time, and enjoy the experience.

Poetry is not something we choose, it chooses us, but it is something we can master..

Good luck and great writing.

BJR

Introspection

To write well we need to know ourselves better than mere mortals know themselves, and then we need to be able take that knowledge and paint a picture with the words it creates.

Introspection

To know myself
what I am capable of
I must look inside my soul,
my mind,
my heart.
What lays in wait below the surface,
beyond the facade?
What rules me,
good, evil,
both?
Which thoughts can I bring to life?
What am I strong enough to suppress?
What truth drives me?
What animal lurks within?
How great can I be?
Will history recall?

© Bernard J Rossi

Pirates 2009

The shoulder parrot
and the wooden leg
are gone
No more dangling earrings
or swashbuckling swords
hanging from belts hoisting
tattered old shorts

Bare chests are still in vogue
however, eye patches
are all but forgotten

The Jolly Roger has gone
There are no tall ships
made of timber
and driven by enormous sails
filled with air,
or terror
depending on your view

Pirates sail little dinghies
and carry big guns

They call for ransoms
rather than scuttle
the ships of the scurvy dogs

The pirates of 2009
are big business,
charging millions
for a single transaction
however,
they never see it that way
preferring to cling to a romantic idea
an excuse
for their behaviour

Not much has changed
but everything has

Calico Jack, Anne Bonny and Mary Read
went down in history
however, who hijacked
the Maersk Alabama?

Jack would not have lost the ship
then fled
shadowed by warships
hiding in a life boat
that looked more
like a death boat
as each hour passed

Imminent danger
snipers on the Bainbridge
all over in seconds

Captain Richard Phillips
survived the hero
though calling himself
‘The by-line’

The pirates
dead
we will forget
There will be
no history books for them

No romantic memory
or campfire story

Easter Sunday
the pirates chose death
over justice

The hunter must become
the hunted
the seas once again
a battlefield
for justice

© Bernard J Rossi