No one thing has ever really described the Acacias in the morning in autumn.
When they flower in springtime, that’s when people see them.
Big yellow pom-poms hanging out egg yolks, fluffy but when wet a yellow painting that’s leaked over the grass.
It’s hard not to miss that. I suppose.
It’s in the autumn I think their best beautiful display is out, because no flowers, but they always seem a bit greener. Like they have all summer stores the green and now it’s overflowing into their leaves.
That green, it’s the best green. When the frosts come and slivers of ice melt on the leaves, the green comes out even more somehow. It’s the green of life. You can see them hold it. Store it.
Then as it matures it turns yellow and grows and they let it out with the yellow flowers, letting it spill across the country. Letting the life out, all over the ground and into the grass, the other plants, the animals and then me.
I know though, the summer will come then. The heat and rains will fall. The life will be stored again, in the acacias, the wattles. If it’s not, who knows if it will last all the winter.
The first frost closes in on my flesh like a falling leaf, dying in its orange light. Pattering sighs of ice melting towards a harsh stream. Rotting pumpkins sit being slowly nibbled by rabbits, getting hungry and trying to eat as much as they can for a long cold winter.
I open the frost inwardly, hearing crackling thunder of the last summer storms across the plains. Dark bark, scraped off trees defeated by another encore of the days.
Slippery streets, full of black ice, steering carts and buggies around gets dangerous for the livery. Most of them have tasted the new grapes, thinking of them on long trips as the city is emptied out of suites. Green velvet cake and fresh iced coffee greets them in the tea room, to remind them of the snakes who will not be seen in the winters haze.
Roadworks start in ernest as none may know they need to keep from doing such things when they suited can see them. Orange hatted daisies are but only paid slaves to the white ghost gums, whom keep them under close eye.
dangerous thunderheads brought on by political blunder headsshreds of all the buildings, stings from hail and crops that failed
will we be able to sail away from this place?
or rebuild to the wee hours?
shelter is in the church tower
doesn’t matter if you are so endowed
cower, from these storms and the winds power
irony of the day that it was some of these believers
procedures that made such a mess of this
climate depression, and the cowering congregation
if it seems that Gaia is angry, perhaps that’s just debris in your supree
this angry orange man
does whatever he can
to take all you care about
twist into a doubt mouth
he’s going to get worse
soon all of us will be in a hurse
dangerous blunder heads brought on by political thunderheads
shreds of men, stings from baileys mail and promises that failed
will we be able to save us?
Good deep soil takes aches away
Rooted in this place
Others, under the same crescent moon
Drink in stony places
Bitter frosting us both
Bark, long and dark
I’ll never meet them
Not now or soon or ever no matter how I swoon
My flowers bloom for them as much
Grow up, from this frosty days
Into the misty spring
My bark, bark grows ever mossy
And the frost comes and I wounder if my rock biting lovers
Are doing as well again?
Ducks. Snow. Tamed memories.
Little things I remember.
Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had.
Pentagram, in a logical place.
Never, ever, even being.
Your words that saved me. And these little things I do.
Pain gone. That’s a comfort.
I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile.
Desolation the empty. Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting.
Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain?
The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time.
Yours, to breif.
Purple sky darkens
I cannot apologize for this present marking
Sealed with my lonely life
Peeled like a bone thife
Why I’m so cold, distant from plight
Partly my thoughts, partly my fright
Scared like I am
Of all these thing that can and have
Traumatized by their shouts and fights
Mind anexity going at the speed of light
Part and marshal, white distance frightful
Will any grass grow in my barren mind?
Salted as it is by hate, cold, hard, fire and brimstone that isn’t even real
It’s my birth of the color
Caution, doors open outside your head but inside your mind
And mine were shut such a long time ago
You were the only one who ever opened them
Trees sitting still in autumn rain
Sometimes, music comes to me
Pain, goes and sits and watches
It’s just a reminding present
Of my body’s sore and broken promises
Past my mistakes and indeed was it fate?
Decided and debating and devised
In my head it’s always active like a new hive
White is my life, grey woman is my namesake
But new green, shoots and roots
Grow in my hair
I’m sure they’ll be the new trees ready to stand
Still in the autumn rain
Down by the course dirt lane
The hard presence of the pebbles
Cutting the hot sun baked grasses
It’s grasshopper, working to raise the littlest flags
His tiny little empty empire has hard times
Drought and floods, growth and death
They both come as a hash brown
Sand wasps and birds seek him out
Each with a different evil agenda
If either are successful his empire ends
Nothing left but his little flags
To be rotted out next flood
Or burned by a forever sun
Grasshopper has to raise his flags
To bring a mate
Will his family be a reality?
Like white sheets in the wind
Sometimes they hold rain
Throw down lightning and hail
Then wispy little ones like scales on a fish
Sun comes in this sky
Changes it heat from day to day
Through the clouds
They eat her rays gladly
Wind chases them like a little child chases butterflies
Ground is changed by these clouds
Hit ground with rain and plants come through the pavement
Hit the ground with hot dry sun
Hit the ground with mist
A succulent kiss on the ground from the clouds
Listen to the whole hootI don’t care who you moot
It’s the owls erection
Feathers and a fuel
Found your stool?
Blackberries leaking literally
A hooted obituary
Rights to the valedictory owl
Lights from faded
Little ants crawl
Leaves flowing into my body
I’m a pretty little thing, even in death
Rotting at my full body
A little more time
Their is a fox that loves to forage in my foyers
Birds in my eves nesting
Wasps are taking the little insects out fighting a endless tiny war against the spiders
With wight a wings a seed pod falls from a kurrajong
My foyer becomes its home and soon I watch it grow
Down the roots fall and dig
My basement has a little more Earth in it now
Then I feel like I will be gone soon
My floors start to crumble
Gradually the gradient gives into a flight of pivotal moments
Trickle the droplets pulled into a flicking daze
Shiny glaze from my warmth
Soft warm flesh, nonetheless a sensualist tickle play
Tendrils, tendrils pointing fractals of my petals
Biting then down on the honey, triplet a covert action
Nipple, tickle, the prickles and teeth out to bite to your furry might
Fight, fight it with a kiss firm and fully aware
Rubbing down to the bones
Thrusting until I let go of all this and more
Striped theith, you stole my honey heart
Shine on that spring sunshine
I’ve got that green and yellow on my mind
I taste the air, I take my time
Down wattle road, see the sign
All those suits, give into the grind
I’ve never seen people so blind
The wattle road is very kind
Flowers green and gold for all their lives
I’m taken by this weekend bold
The frosts still grasps at being being cold
I’m not going anywhere else in the world except wattle road
Loosing my emptiness, download my new emotion
String cheese devotion on a jalapeño mistake
In high times, the waiting for fates to boast
Toast with traffic jam, brunch with cantaloupe sunrise
To grasp at the warmth of the inspiration light
Touches the leaf, root, brach and soil
Dancing in the flowers
To sounds that activate your minds
Bringing forth the spirit
Trueness is this thing in its current form
Also part of Devine
That is also part of all
Changed and charged to the chanting of the hazy summers
Rising steamy visions of the mirage
Eagle flying and searching
Barely a cloud above the scorched red earth
A creekbed just below his ancheint sandles
Waiting in this sunlit virtually brings you to feel hell
Then suddenly a whisper from the tree
The dance of the new rains will begin