Down by the Murray River,
where life swims all around;
above and beneath the surface,
in this heat, everything flows.
Beers, BBQs, budgie smugglers and babes in bikinis,
memories bobbing above ground
capturing freedom, post-pandemic and pre-celebrations.

Down by the Murray River,
watching things flow safely and soundly,
birthing new possibilities:
boyfriends, babies, businesses and brews?!
Endless possibilities abound,
prophecies realised; salvation.

Down by the Murray River,
with nature, our souls sing loudly,
simplicity is possible,
trusting and enjoying,
everything is allowed.

There are
corners for
open secrets
as in
a dream

Adolescence
cast
in long
brutal
shadows
by a waning
midday
light

Scents
of bound
whispers
echoing
through
the stacks

The promise
of fantasy
in reality
amid the
fading
week's
end

Eve's a lovable sensitive thang.
Opting to pass usual good morning as some sang.
Skipping morning bits.. rushing into the afternoon.
She welcomed the mid day
Knowing  with it a smile was on the way.
She allowed early evening to greet letting things bloom.
Working away late evening as sleepy eyes rang.
Conversations a quick cute head nodding overhang.
Good nights are like lullabies of verbal hugs.
Wasted evenings are snatching from beneath feet taken for granted rugs.
All to start another night in shimmering thoughtful plights.
Tugging away ribbons in flights.
Meaningful minds quietly dreamin.
As Other are secretly scheming.
Attentions paid to faded good morning hello's.
With hollow tones from yesterdays grading zero's.
Wash rinse and repeating..
Behaviors doomed to be failing.
Creativity craves new feelings.
Rare moments  seems to be fleeting.
Evenings are acceptable, noons welcoming,
as are the rushing of mornings.
selinasharday rosePoet s.a.m 2019-5-1

Snowflakes scraped underneath fingernail tips
When the charcoal was pressed harder.
As often as the cheetah runs with the crocodiles by the nile
They do not look for each other.

As often as the bees sing
Only once could they muster poison and sting
With a clockwork, shelter and carpentry of honey.
The fruitness of a living body.

The sound that gets lost in the woods
Gets lost and carried
Flying through the whispers between the branches and twigs.
All the creatures are all but lost
Yet the striking fur
Shocks
Hunters into firing hot shells across
and the falcon fell.

A shouting cull
The silence that meant that wildly blooms have been collected.
A bouquet was calling the passing hours
Wrapped in the scraped white spirit of the wooden towers.

Breathing in the hot drowsy wind
that then sits, stagnant, in the lungs
of the weary figure (mine own)
and exhaling long, the lazy summer air
as she waited (I sat for hours you know)
for the afternoon to decay
even though time itself seemed to be drugged
slumbering in the African heat.