Shapes In Clouds

"Bulls head," she says

Though to me it looks

More like a moose

This is something couples

Do on lazy afternoons

Pointing out shapes in clouds

Believing what we see says

Something about our compatibility

"Aeroplane," she says and I

Watch a silver trail snake by

"No, that actually is an aeroplane."

"I know," says she

"This was meant to be," say I

"Love heart," she shouts

And I see it pinned there

Against the big blue sky

As if it were the first time

I'd ever used my eyes

© shaun patrick green 2012

Walk With Me.

His hand in mine doesn't feel so strange

Though to look at him people might baulk

He is sweet and innocent in many ways

Though no one has stooped to that thought

So I will walk him through the streets

My only friend given freedom not bought

And tell the people, all the people,

About the freedom they might have sought.

© shaun patrick green 2012

The waves play

The surf club serves up its fare

They walk among people gathered there

Take a drink, watch the brilliant sunset

Think about which meal they might get

In the humid evening all the tables

Are taken so they find a spot where they're able

Bums perched on a sea wall by the foreshore

Drinking white wine till they are very sure

That the cover band playing is the worst

They have ever heard; even kids avoid the curse

And amuse themselves rather than spasm dutifully

In front of a misused stage; how beautiful,

She thinks, the toddlers tarrying in tide pools

Watched over by patient mothers flocking in schools

But then it hits: is she capable of it?

Bringing life flapping and flailing into this?

A world so hellbent on killing itself?

Maybe life is the antidote -

The more you spit out the more evil you demote

She watches the sun hit the horizon

Like a hot coal in a bucket of snow

Sucks back a wine cooler and says no

Tomorrow the clinic will make it all go away

She can go back to watching the waves play.

© shaun patrick green 2012

A Tropical Gardener Dreams.

Thunder in the distance

As if the moon is lifting

The earth's crust and sifting

For its own cold bones

He rolls in dark sleep

Mind relentlessly replaying

The day, sifting in his way

For why he's alone

Sun had warmed his arms

Sweat sticking shirt to skin

As he weeded, staked, trimmed

Raking leaves like stones

Hearing sprinklers hiss

He breathed rotting fruit stench

As along the lawns shady edge

Bush turkeys roamed

Gobbling and cawing

Water and dirt through his fingers

Sifting again for what lingers

Shifting aim of the hose

Facades of houses

Stood along the street in rows

Secrets behind doors and windows

Lives lived unknown

As he rode by on the mower

Shaving bald the nature strip

No secrets for the grass to keep

Each blade lying prone

A lady offered lemonade

Seeking advice about her frangipani

He handed her glass back empty

She slid back to her home

No place for him here

Not among the living whose blood

Pulses with happiness and love

His sap all but gone

Thunder again, insistent and deep

Tonight the moon will not sleep.

© shaun patrick green 2012