P.S.Mirage.

MIRAGE

You see before you a mirage.

It could be a cool, translucent moon,

Half-hidden among clouds.

Surely you hear owls hooting.

Surely the world is asleep.

Surely the air is cool,

Maybe even chilly.

But you are deceived.

This is a heatwave sun rising.

Already the air is heavy,

The skin is moist,

The pulse beats sluggishly.

This mist,

Is not a cool caress,

But a warning,

Drifting in from the sea.

Soon it will 'burn off'.

'Watch out' they say

'When the mist burns off.'

It is the height of the Australian summer.

And don't we know it!

Touching!

TOUCHING!

Oh how I hate the apple which is smooth and round and bright,

And not in the least affected by the dreadful cellulite!

I have a seething hatred for the beastly little grape,

Which also is unblemished and a neat and rounded shape.

Why should a cherry glisten and reflect the morning sun?

Why is it that the orange is the only pock-marked one?

I agree, the poor old lemon and the grapefruit also suffer,

But my skin's more indented and the texture seems much rougher.

They are distant cousins. I avoid them when I can.

A lemon's such a sour thing and quite an also-ran.

But the pear sits in the fruit-bowl in yellow pride indulging!

And it's such a fascinating shape! Part thin and then part bulging!

A pineapple, I must agree, has troubles of its own,

But at least it can defend itself; that's why its spikes are grown.

Then, look at the banana! Now there's a skin to sigh for!

Skin that's smooth and rubbery and a yellow that I'd die for.

For it isn't just the cellulite that makes my skin look duller;

It's the aggravating, nauseating, awful

ORANGE

colour!

Yes, orange is the colour of a sunset on the sea,

And orange is the colour of the honey from the bee,

And a bracelet made from amber is a gorgeous orange hue,

And a harvest-moon can be a really lovely orange too.

And then orange is a colour that's favoured by the Dutch.

But I've got my opinion and I just don't like it much.

*

Now I step into this treatment in the hope that I'll emerge

Quite free from all my cellulite; that most unpleasant scourge!

Then off into the bleach I'll go, until my skin is white

And round and white and smooth I'll be, a vision of delight.
Those human-beings change themselves with ointments and the knife!
I know I'm on the verge now of a quite spectacular life!

*

I'll find the nearest apple and I'll kick it in the shin!

And, for the first time in my life, I'll be 'happy in my skin'.

294. Candle-light

CANDLE-LIGHT!

The light of the sun is harmful,

The light of the moon is pale,

While electric light

On a stormy night

Can very often fail.

An oil lamp may sometimes flicker

And neon lights give no cheer.

But candle-light

Is exactly right;

It creates an atmosphere.

Candle-light's kind to wrinkles;

I know that is the truth.

Old faces soften

And, very often,

Renew the look of youth.

Candle-light casts the shadows

That make the world brand new;

The fairy gloom

Of a flame-lit room

Can make one's dreams come true.

There's nothing brash or modern

About the candle-glow,

An old-world charm

Makes us feel more calm

And we find ourselves speaking low.

So insist on the light of candles

To brighten up your night.

Let hearts beat quicker

At each warm flicker.

Love loves candle-light.

Guitar Magic.

GUITAR MAGIC!

When you play your guitar,

 I visit castles in Spain.

I see the walls reaching high

To the blue of the sky.

 I'm back there again.

I walk the streets of Madrid

 And make a wish on a star.

I feel the joy I once did,

When you play your guitar.

When you play your guitar,

 I sit in courtyards at night.

I feel the warm, scented air

As it ruffles my hair

And I thrill with delight.

I place a glass to my lips

 And I drink sangria.

I'm there in Spain once again

When you play your guitar.

When you play your guitar,

I see mantillas of lace.

I feel the spell of romance

 And I still seem to dance

With beauty and grace.

Though it's so long ago,

It seems it's not very far.

My heart will sing 'Bolero'

 When you play your guitar.

When you play your guitar

I see the face I adored

And then I suddenly find

I taste in my mind

The wine he once poured.

I smell the scents of the night

Through attic windows ajar.

His arms are holding me tight

When you play your guitar.

When you play your guitar

I wear an old Spanish shawl,

And then the soft summer breeze

That wafts through the trees

Can't chill me at all.

The blossoms fall on my hair

Like scented rain from afar

And every song seems a prayer

When you play your guitar.

So please play your guitar,

And let the music revive

All the songs that were sung

When the world was still young

And so much alive.

Let me be, once again,

Where happy memories are!

Transport me back there to Spain

With your magic guitar.
*

P.S. Lucky World!

This poem is, in part, a response to

READWRITEPOEM

who have suggested the topic

'Celebrating the New'.

(Most of the poems I've read on this site are more 'poetic' than this but I think I'll sneak it in!)

The photograph was taken at my birthday party yesterday.

 At the rear we see Blake (10) and Malcolm, the gift-giver. At the front see Max (2) and Harry (4) with me.

For those interested, more family photos can be seen on my PLUS blog.

LUCKY WORLD!

I pictured old age as pure nostalgia,

Punctuated by gout and neuralgia!

I thought I'd sit in the ingle-nook,

With some decayed but improving book.

I thought my wise words would be heeded!

And by the young folk I'd be needed.

I thought I'd be leafing through the pages

Of love-letters from my by-gone ages.

I thought my eyes would be dim and blurred

And I wouldn't hear a single word.

I thought 'new-fangled' would be a phrase

That meant that I was set in my ways!

But no! As I'm approaching eighty

And the years become more dire and weighty,

I find my energy increasing!

I rarely think of my 'deceasing'!

And yesterday I celebrated

My birthday. I was so elated!

For I was given, not books of verse,

Or a season-ticket to the hearse,

But a brand new computer 'cam'!

Oh what a lucky girl I am!

Very soon YouTube will be aimed-for,

And then my husband will be blamed for

The fact that all the human race

Will find they're treated to my wrinkled face!

You asked me to Celebrate the New!

Here's one old lady shouting out 'Yahoo!' *

*(NOT the Trade Name!)

292. Summer Blooms

I'm trying to kid myself that I'm sending this picture to ward-off your Winter Blues!

In reality I'm just trying to prove that there are advantages in living upsidedown!

SUMMER BLOOMS.

When in the town, busy shopping,

In admiration I was stopping,

To view these blooms along the way!.

I only hope they make your day!

291. The Source

                                                 'Ophelia' by Arthur Hughes

*Oddly enough, there is a similarity between both my weekend offerings, though one was in response to a picture and one to a word.

Another enticing painting from SIMPLY SNICKERS! Every picture tells a story....... luckily.

THE SOURCE 

Witness the lovely Ophelia, there by the riverside.

We all know how she pined for Hamlet and how, in the river, she died.

We see her planning her drowning, gazing down at the water's flow,

Agonising over Hamlet and doomed to the water below.

Screed upon screed has been written of her heart-breaking love-affair.

Artists have thrilled to the vision of her flowing still-lovely hair

Floating along in the river, framing her still-calm face,

But  Katherine preceded Ophelia, and, of her, there isn't a trace!

Shakespeare was just a young fellow of sixteen or so it is said,

When a girl from a nearby village was found in the river, dead.

The drowning was seen as a mystery; the girl had a lover, it's true,

And the gossips spoke of a broken heart, as gossips often do.

She was only a humble creature, maybe a lowly maid,

And she was carrying buckets, part of her stock-in-trade.

Finally, it was decided that accidental death

Had caused her to fall in the river, and take her final breath.

Maybe she overbalanced, or tripped on a rock by chance,

But the rumours always persisted as a story of romance.

Shakespeare was young and dreamy; he thought of the girl, no doubt,

And. as a man, it's rumoured, he let the story out.

'Katherine' became a lady of noble and royal birth,

Far removed from peasantry and the toil of the common earth.

Shakespeare 'created' Ophelia, immortalised her history;

Imbued her with grand yearnings and an air of eternal mystery.

No-one knows, for certain, that this was Shakespeare's source,

And no-one ever will know at this late stage, of course.

The uncertainty about it must be underlined.

But the girl's name was

KATHERINE HAMLET!

So make up your own mind!