Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry will not post on Good Friday. Posts resume on Monday March 28

Age 48 youth’s decline has begun
still perceived as largely present
summer diminishing to autumn.
Shorter temperatures
longer nights.
The glass mandated half full.

Pride forms that hair is still abundant
and the same colour as birth
workload has neglected scheduled pruning.
Scruffy
foolish without the cover of youth or eccentricity.

A haircut
non-intimate intimacy.
Physical proximity
rapid fire questions of work,
of family,
of dreams.
Bodies pressed. Indecent.
unlawful in social context.

A constantly changing cast
of impossibly young stylists.
Truth knows hair like this has no style
but vanity asks if something could be done
the look says, “ I’m a hairdresser not a cosmetic surgeon.”

Fallen pride retreats to self effacement
I tell her I’m lucky to have hair at my age
“ain’t that the truth,” the 13-year-old look-alike shrieks
making 48 seem like 95.

For the back story click Backstage
If you like a piece of writing (or the site) please share

 

Summer pours thinly into autumn
the last wine dribbling from a bottle
daylight and temperature are less generous.
Winter rehearses. Melancholy descends.

Lonely Islands
unwanted offspring of the runaway continent
abandoned to empty latitudes
rescued by trigonometry and ancient navigators
subtending midday sun to liquid horizon.

Water and sun
combine to form
most favoured season
the season of youth, default or reclaimed
of bare legs
of tanned arms
of bold mid riffs
of poised hope.

Scenes of the heart backdropped by summer – always
blue and warm. Forever.
If only.
The planet pays no mind
orbiting into chill
into dark
into loss.

For the back story click Backstage
If you like a piece of writing  (or the site) please share