This weeks blog is again another repeat. My apologies to those who prefer new poems but I’m really…really not wonder woman.
My archiving came to a standstill when I realised I had no image to go with my poem. This required a little thought and eventually the concession that I was just going to have to draw something. So while listening to Siobhan Owen and a little Brillig at the Fleurieu Folk Festival Yesterday I came up with the sketch below to go with the poem. It’s no masterpiece by any means, but for something off the top of my head (on a rather uncomfortable bench it must be said) with no references, I’m happy enough with it. It is a sketch that is going in the “to paint” stack.
I hope some of you enjoy this poem and if you’ve read it before I hope it will stand the test of time for you. 🙂
Wishing you all a lovely week to come.
Sunflowers beckon and bob along the window sill,
As the Sun tumbles from clouds through the blinds.
I open my eyes to pitch perfect silence.
An automatic kiss upon your lips.
I stumble over the kitten and
Past the past…
It’s just you and me.
You smile and beg me back for five minutes longer.
And I am weak because it makes me stronger.
Somewhere between the tangle of legs and sheets
Jasmine tea comes wafting in.
A puppy greets me with tongue lolling grin.
A parry, a tousle and tumble
Past the past…
To you and me.
Raisin toast with butter spread too thick.
Honey sticky sweet.
You scan me hungrily,
As I forgot to dress again.
Naked, breaking the fast of conscious sanity’s gaze.
Dreams are dearer in the morning when they’re fuzzy
Filtered by light.
A tail wraps itself around my ankle
silky, smooth and sleek.
A head scratch and a piece of bacon…
Thrown past the past.
I hear the world in surround sound on Saturdays.
As you lie full, wide-screen in my vision.
The puppy begs to dash outside.
The kitten scuttles after….
Through the sunflowers they run entangled,
Tearing them all to the ground.
I knew it.
I mention that Vincent would be rather angry.
He wouldn’t mind you say, he wouldn’t mind, not these days.
The world comes alive on Saturdays.
Amidst the scattered shards of sunflowers.
Barks, tummy rubs
Grass rolling escapades…
Sunset lingers yet it comes.
We resign ourselves to the observatory,
To encase ourselves in glass.
Walking past the past…
They both lie curled in deep sleep
Beneath the fallen sunflowers.
© 2010 Tikarma Vodicka
Sketch ‘Saturday’ © 2011 Tikarma Vodicka