#afternoons
I ain't living in squalla
But supernatural, techno colour;
Back here on my wooden deck,
I throw back a whiskey, with lime, check √
I hear a banjo in the back of my mind,
And smell fire burning in time.
Recipe books surround and cake rests on my outdoor table,
Country living could very well be it's label...
But I see it as "God’s waiting room" —
Mowers murmur in neighbours' lawns,
Buzzing bees and billowy butterflies
circumnavigate newly planted trees,
make me yawn like a pawn.
In these moments I lean back and let my soul bloom.
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 1:03 AM UTC
I was listening to roller skating tunes.
Yes, I am shallow, sir.
And though thou may say villainess or mistress,
I am content to be who I am.
One noon, we were over dull
and our hearts we serviced
like two thieves there
in the kissing place
where breaths are both as one
and the first of many kisses doubles.
He made vows in mine ear.
He has such hands and lips
and his fortunate nature fed mine eyes
oh, nothing was scarce.
Our horns locked together
with the intensest chutzpah
and we well-made our match.
We sparked feelings we all ascribe to heaven.
I would not tell you
I can serve a man
that by slow designs
men can melt.
He swore oaths
and dropped
half won.
Later he paid
the sweetest
after-debts
—he did owe it.
.
.
songs for this:
Find Me the Pulse of the Universe by Laetitia Sadier
Stormy (Bossa Mix) by S-Tone Inc
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 8:26 AM UTC
Down here 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.
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 4:28 PM UTC
We draw and come closer on grey rainy days. There is something about the comfortability and serenity in listening to the rain, while laying with the one you love.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 10:22 PM UTC
On days filled with a yellow and orange fire sky, I find comfort laying next to you in the late afternoons.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 10:15 PM UTC
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
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 10:20 AM UTC
you told me you didn't like snakes
so why the hell did i find out
you went looking for them in afternoons
while i had my back turned?
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 2:09 PM UTC
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
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC
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.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC
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.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:48 AM UTC
*I fell in love with the mornings
and waking up to breakfasts in bed
drinking coffee only you would know how to make
I fell in love with noon
and the lunches we had together
talking about the latest news over takeout
I fell in love with the afternoons
and the times we spent reading on the couch
eating every word interrupted by coffee stains
I fell in love with the nights
and our stupid little adventures
driving aimlessly and getting lost on the highway
I fell in love with the midnights
and talking to you about anything and everything
watching you stare at my mouth listening to every word
I fell in love with the moments
and everything in between the beginning and the end
wishing I could still spend them with you
I fell in love with the sound of your voice
and the feel of your existence
but I am not in love with you.*
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
She chases the white rabbit
in the afternoons
plays blackjack
with the doves of youth
her innocence
is colored Pink
her queer dreams
are made of silk
she is the Queen
of sunny afternoons
her heart
is like stained glass
through
which the light appears
and fades
*blackjack - is a card game played in American casinos
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
Some afternoons are sublime
beyond scripting
splendid blue colors the sky
and my lover's lips
taste like dripping honey
Some nights I hear the mantle
clock tick and music sounds
sweeter than it has since
those nights in New Orleans
Some mornings are like those artists paint
of sunshine shimmering on the water
my darling's presence seems
like a celebration without
the need of a parade
Some days are unique
love is easily earned
I can sit near my beloved
and watch love grow
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
The key turns and the door is slammed open.
It’s been a long time and I
Don’t romanticize the cobwebs anymore.
The view of my childhood days
Has now vanished.
But the room remains the same.
I think.
I am reminded but vaguely
Of cold, saturnine nights and
His love letters.
The ones that I preserved for long
Until mum threw them away.
I monitor my steps too carefully,
I even take off my shoes.
The imprint of my feet over the dusty mosaic floor,
Like that of Goddess Saraswati
I was told, once.
The air smells of grandpa’s stories,
Freshly baked, right out of the oven.
The day he died, it was my turn to narrate.
The door to the balcony is locked.
I, sticking my nose out through the railings,
As a lonely ice cream seller,
Wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
The right side is no different from the left.
A curious void of vacancy,
My half-formed thoughts troubling me.
That year when books were my only friends
And I cut my hair,
To mourn my own death.
That mono-syllabic laugh at the back of my head,
A familiar sound.
The lips spreading wide and the eyes contracting,
Just a little bit.
The most beautiful smile I had ever seen.
I count my steps. Twenty-two to my room.
That unfinished bottle of grandma’s lemon pickle,
Most faithful companion to our afternoon dal and rice.
I pick it up and stare at the circle bereft of dust
Protected by the bottle’s lower rim.
I place it back, after a while.
Keeping in mind the limpid outlines.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
trying to begin to explain the color of your eyes
to a group of blind people
in only 26 delicate letters
would be an extremely painful and difficult task
the color of Wednesday afternoon skies
in your old rusty car
telling secrets
palm on palm
or maybe the color of your favorite rain
the cool drizzle that sprinkles onto
your elegant face like a beautiful veil
the color I feel inside
now that you're gone
and you left without saying a word
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC