Angie W.'s Inner Child 'n' other CCS inspired writings....

[Ang Monsoon]

Identity No. 1

The thirst is irrefutable,
the longing for divine springs.

It is irrefutable that I lap up poems, paintings,
and the sound of the last bus,
dropping passengers off.
Lap up that minute when the street lights come on.
Lap up the lupins, colonising the factory grounds,
purple and pink abacus.

The thirst, the observation, is irrefutable.
It's the shadow on the linoleum,
scored by tea-leaves from the wall-mounted dispenser.
It can't be removed.

So, swirl the tea, and let's see what the future holds.
You will continue to walk hard city streets,
divining a whole universe underneath.
There are springs of crystal water,
and food, succulent rabbits, roasting on spits.
Occasionally, sustenance will come,
passed by hands from another place.

Identity No. 2

What's your first memory?
Perhaps shadows on the white lace sun canopy.
But I don't remember unravelling my sock,
on the long journey to collect my sister,
the day of her adoption.

It was an Important Day,
but I can't remember.
I do remember everyone saying how cute she was.
I remember how that felt.
But it's a photo now, the passion is spent.

And I'm told that I wore a lovely lemon dress,
the day they collected me.
I came with jars of dried milk,
one had a little note inside, smuggled in.

And I remember the grey donkey,
I remember the egg-blue leather bridle.
A small finger could just squeeze inside
the donkey's mouth,
find the large white teeth, the red felt tongue.






New Flower

There's a new flower in my garden.
The little sticks in the ground around it are not telling its name.
I laid a white picnic cloth on the heartbeat of the earth, next to my flower.

And even if a legion of soldiers gatecrashed my picnic and
crushed my white picket fence, and soiled my white cloth,
they couldn't destroy the new flower.
With their dead eyes they couldn't even see it.

When they'd gone I'd write: "Army of Ignorance" on a little stick
and plant it at the foot of my new flower.
I'd take the white cloth and soak their footprints off,
then I'd dry it in the milk-smelling air.

I'd spread the white cloth against the heartbeat of the earth.
And then she would come, through the little gate of the white picket fence.
She'd picnic on the white sheet, she's the real me.


Blossom

Blossom hangs in my face.
Beauty in a bonnet,
Enquiring,
Enticing,
Quizzical,
Searching,
Patient.
The blossom hangs in my face.
Pink blizzard.
Giddy, in full costume,
Adorned.
A bridgegroom puts a morsel in her mouth, feeds her...
Pink ocean of dreams,
The blossom hangs in my face, reaches down,
Offers forgiveness.

[Susan Hosken]

Loved reading your poems Ange. I have also joined the ATC swap.
lots of love from susan in australia

[Ang Monsoon]

i've posted 2 new poems, but i've posted them in the top bit by mistake, i've tried to copy n paste here unsuccessfully so i'm giving up & getting some fresh air instead!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Lin Neiswender]

Oh Angie, I think these are just beautiful! You could be posting these in the poetry group as well! Please do so everybody can share in them. You have a gift for this.

They posted in the top because you edited the discussion instead of posting a reply. But that wasn't a big deal.

[DJ]

Angie,
These have such a sensitive mood to them, setting a tone in a photographic story-telling lilt...thoughtful and real. Summery and fresh and antique all at the same time.
More, Please...
DJ

[Ang Monsoon]

you 2 are real sweethearts...

[NITA]

I really enjoy reading your poems, Angie..especially blossom I love its flow...More, more please!!