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John Wiley Jan 4

Such a small planet
in such a vast universe
with so much beauty.


Such a small planet
in such a vast universe
with so much suffering.
Some forgotten Haiku discovered by chance in an old writing book today.
John Wiley Jan 4
She wore a dress
of “Everglaze” cotton that night,
white with a discreet pattern
of tiny green roses.
I remember it still.

We walked along the beach
and across the causeway
to a rocky island
where we sat
above the pounding waves
of the Southern Ocean.

We were volunteers
at a children’s summer vacation program
and really knew nothing
about each other,
so we just sat and talked,
sharing our two
quite different pasts;
no touching or cuddling.
just talk.

At the end of the program I inquired
“Would you like to meet again?”
and she agreed –
so here we are,
sixty one years later;
two lives so richly shared,
through so many experiences,
and in so many places;
so many memories,
so many friends
and our own wonderful family.

How fortunate we have been.
John Wiley Jan 4
It was a tiny church
in the valley, by the creek;
a place for those who search,
a haven for the meek.
This quatrain has been sitting in my writing book for over a month now awaiting further inspiration that just won't seem to come. It is about the little church where we were married, located at Aldgate Valley in the Adelaide Hills in South Australia. It has now been sold and incorporated into an almost palatial residence on the site.
John Wiley Oct 2020
As a young boy,
I would rise early
and sit with our dog,
watching the sun rise
over the vast desert plain
that surrounded our tiny bush town.

I remember
the jangling hobbles of camels
returning from a night in the desert.

I remember
how I treasured
the solitude.

For some years in my prime
I worked in the bush,
traveling alone on miles of tracks.

I remember
the fine edge of risk,
and the knowledge
that things could go wrong.

I remember
how I treasured
the solitude.

As an old man
I sometimes stand
near our country home
and watch the sun set.

And I treasure
the solitude.
John Wiley Oct 2020
From dawn to dusk
you sit in our tree
filling the air
with sweet melody.

Why this tree, this house,
this street, this town?
Blessed with such song,
dare I be cast down?
I am really not good at writing rhyming poetry but keep pushing myself to try.
This does not do justice to the beauty of the song of our resident blackbird.
John Wiley Sep 2020
Harry was a gentleman street-sweeper
whom I knew years ago
when just a young man -
Harry Hollerhead.
He was a small man
with large hands
and a large nose,
that I had often seen
his large wife kiss
and pat affectionately.

With his large hard broom
and yellow wheel-barrow
Harry kept the streets
of the city immaculate,
while also greeting passers-by
with such warmth and friendship
as if the streets were his –
which, in a way, they were.

It was some decades later
that an artist friend
exhibited for sale
a sketch he had made
as a young man –
a street sweeper who had captivated him
with his charm and style.

Instantly I recognised him,
Harry – Harry Hollerhead.

Harry has long gone now
but his portrait
still hangs on my wall,
a reminder of
what matters in life
and how we respect
and relate to others.
John Wiley Sep 2020
The breeze is fretful today,
typical of early Spring,
sunburst from drifting clouds,
and I sit musing
of winter gone,
hot summer days to come,
red dust stirring on the wind,
the dry land baking in the sun.
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