Original photography

Photo #22

At the markets

At the markets, a place to be, what a lot of things you can see!

The greengrocer is there with his apples and plums, selling his fruits with a merry little hum.

The baker is there with pastries and cakes, nibbling biscuits in her breaks.

At the markets, a place to be, what a lot of things you can see!

The jeweller is there with his pliers and bag, wiping his gems with a dusty old rag.

The butcher is there with his salamis and hams, asking “Would you like that by the kilo or gram?”

At the markets, a place to be, what a lot of things you can see!

The cheese man is there with his monchago and Brie, giving out testers that are all quite free.

The confectioner is there with his bountiful sweets, offering sugary things to eat.

At the markets, a place to be, what a lot of things you can see!

At the markets, a place to be, there is something for you and something for me.

What will you spend your money on?

What will you spend your money on?

A bracelet for mum? A book on cats?

A rubber duck or a magic hat?

A little toy frog that jumps up and down, or maybe a wig that belongs on a clown?

What will you spend your money on?

A hand knitted scarf? A new game to play?

A soft toy elephant or a bundle of hay?

A fine silver necklace that glistens and gleams or a splendid dolly with eyes that are green?

What will you spend your money on?

A patchwork quilt? A rabbit that sings?

A deck of cards with Queens and Kings?

A kangaroo mother that leaps and jumps or a velvet cushion that’s large and plump?

What will you spend your money on?

A train track set? A Rubik’s cube?

A pair of pants? A worm that moves?

A bottle of soap that smell like roses or a wooden man that can stand in poses?

Or will you buy something not on my list, a pair of new socks or some smelly room mist?

Some fancy shampoo to lather your hair, or a nice picture of a grizzly bear?

Or perhaps you will tuck your money away, and come buy something another day.

Through the trees

Through the trees is a winding path, a road not quite as clear cut as the yellow brick one.

Where bears tap dance gaily and cockatoos sing, where emus write newspapers and cookies they bring.

Where darkness is light and lightness is dim, where lightbulbs change colour and cheshire cats grin.

Through the trees is a winding path, a road full of gypsies and acrobats alike.

Where dancers play flutes and gorillas tightrope, where tigers sip tea and llamas tell jokes.

Where circus tents blaze with patterns and silks, and where painting cows wait in line to be milked.

Through the trees is a winding path, a road speckled with magic and fairies and elves.

Where shiny wings flap in the soft scented breeze, and wizards make magic with a calm sort of ease.

Where warlocks roam free and dance at grand balls, where brownies mix potions that make spiders tall.

Through the trees is a winding path, a road that rings with laughter and clanging bells.

Where tinkling cymbals attract you to stalls, that sell scarves and hair ties, and small rubber balls.

Where tears fall down faces in the utmost glee, where no one or thing is taken seriously.

Through the trees is a winding path, a road caked with patchworks and handmade wares.

Where sellers wave their blankets and pottery cups, where bakers hurry others with a “Hup, hup, hup!”

Where sewn bits and bobs lay strewn across tables, and old tortoise mamas tell much loved fables.

A land full of mischief and confusion and delight, a land that muddles up your left from your right.

A land with paths that twist and turn, a land spilling with flowers and leaves and ferns.

A land inside the only one of me, a land that lays just through the trees.

Original photography

Photo #21

The looking glass

Grasped in her hand was a looking glass, a tale waiting to be unraveled.

Long fingers curled around it’s handle etched with birds and leaves, holding tighter than they seemed to be.

She stroked the glass with her fingertips, longing to disappear within its surface.

She closed her eyes slowly, as though afraid of damaging her lashes if she blinked too quickly.

Her lips, although curvaceous and tinged pink, were chapped and had lost their beauty through a lifetime of fighting bitter fights.

Her hands, although long fingered and desirable, were dry and uncomfortable to their owner, making it even more a miserable affair to whoever had to shake them.

Her overall splendour was masked with obvious depravation of care, in a way portraying her as an item that was past its use by date.

The woman’s eyes traced the shape of the mirror with ease, gliding along it with a gentle tenderness.

With one last sigh she muttered a few words that seemed to drain her energy by saying them.

Her hand’s grip grew limp, and with a final gaze into the looking glasses reflection, she slumped to the ground and drifted off.

Original photography

Photo #20

Let me dance

I want to dance, but will these weary limbs hold me?

I want to leap without falling, spin without tripping.

To throw myself into movements, without throwing myself away.

I want to dance, but can my quaking hands break the bars of my cage?

Could I fly with the stars?

Or would I merely jump to touch them and fall short?

I want to dance, yet I won’t try hard enough to let myself.

I’m stuck in a mud of procrastination and lies, lies I tell myself.

I want to dance, so I go to do so but I swivel on my heel instead and walk away.

I won’t push my boundaries set so close that their prongs stick into my sides.

I want to dance, yet I won’t.

Is what I really need to say,

‘Do I want to dance?’

The opening. The shutting.

The opening.

The shutting.

A heart cracked in two.

Love oozing out in place of blood, being trampled by thoughtless strangers.

The opening.

The shutting.

The blink of an eye.

Salty tears touch the dry earth which steals away its moisture.

The opening.

The shutting.

Too much in pain to make anything come out.

Lips sealed tight with imaginary superglue.

The opening.

The shutting.

A hurt too painful to try.

Original Photography

Photo #19

Original photography

Photo #18

Cries from the dead


Does one not hear the moans and shrieks from those laid down in the earth?

Does one not feel the severe quaking ripple through bodies?

Does one not drop to their knees and let the tears stream down and mix with the soil?


I beg thee not to leave me, for I should surely fall into the hands of people who are no longer people!

I shall be taken and locked in a barred cage like a bird who is discarded after losing his song; made to stay by having his wings ripped off and thrown away.

Do not cry, my dear!

For once you start, I too shall be tossed into the pit of despair in which you lay – merely a lump of flesh for savage beasts to feast upon, forgotten and lonely- though, is loneliness still able to wrap its tendrils around me once I have fallen into my grave?


I say again! Hold on to me, my love!

For I fear to be left to rot away, deprived of comfort and sanctuary and peace!

I fear of drifting off to a place where no one has returned from!

I shall grasp your hand if you will grasp mine, against all odds that try to tear me away!

Let me stay, I say! Let me stay!

I should not like to dream of leaving, for what if I should not wake up!

Would my memory stay alive, or die with me?

Promise me, please, that I shall be kept in your heart, not in a barred cage!

I would wilt and sag like a flower that is coming to an end, and I should not want that at all!

I want to stay youthful and oblivious to the cries of the dead that rouse my fears!

I want to stay cooped up and safe like a baby chick, not left to the lions!

I want to stay young for ever, not old and a step away from death!

Take my hopes and wishes and protect them I ask of you!

Even if they do take me, make sure that what I have achieved, and what I hoped to, shall never, ever, hear the cries of the dead!

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