returning from the past/never look back

She marches in, all burnt orange
and exploding smiles, a loud siren
calling, warning of impending calamity
that's already hit if she but knew it,
marches, leading the assault
to the table where she plonks and reigns
until one by one they leave
her preaching to empty chairs
that no longer sing her praises.

Made Up

There is a lady who paints her face
with such skill
that it bars neighbour's smiles,

stops them in their tracks
forcing them to step aside
as she passes from home

to car, to shops and back
as if she had no care left
no concerns of time, or food,

or dwindling money
that will be replenished, eventually.
No amount of tears

changes her stance, her face
must go on, regardless
of the memories that visit her

at night when it doesn't matter
if her eyeshadow is green, or blue.

Yellow Rapt

Smoke curls from his cigarette,
a carefully rolled papered tobacco
that will send him to his grave
sooner. He still speaks
his opinions, loudly, as if daring
others to disagree.
The yellow on his fingers
mimics the yellow that crawls inside
keeps him from calling bluff.

Earthbind

A dandelion opens itself to the wind
and sprinkle of first Autumn rain,
bows solemnly so the rush of sun
plays upon its petals, golden fingers
waving to the last monarch
that hovers in the garden, waiting
for the slow grind of seasons to pass,
the supple tease of wind to release seeds -
new plants for next Spring's confinement,
the slow death that binds us to the earth
from birth.

Change

One glance out the window
is all it takes
to send me scurrying out,
a craving for the green and golden
of Autumn. I know it is better

out there, better
than the purple and blue within
the unpolished panorama put on
for players each day who do nothing
more than fold their hands

and look up expecting answers
or at the very least, a release
from daily woes. Out there
they are all the same
looking for better, easier lives.

In here they strive one against another
as if trampling is the foundation
for change.

Fallen Sun

A walk along the beach
yields no treasures amongst the broken
shells, no dreams

of far away lands with Zeus Gods
or Amazonian women, no
bones to cross and lament
as we would our unseen dreams.

Instead we find the water-lapped sand
worn just enough to trick us
into walking over a fallen sun.