Trees still as statues
On carpets of grass.
Air barely moving
And flowers like glass.
A world scarcely breathing,
A moment serene.
In the silence, a healing,
An unceasing dream.
Then out of the aching
Blue dome up above,
The city descends
Like the slap of a glove,
Shoving the statues
And breaking the glass
And, far too soon,
This Eden must pass.
Stephen Tomkins
19/2/19
Perth
A quorum of quarrelsome clouds has convened,
Disrupting a day that had dawned quite serene.
Sparking an argument, rumbling away,
It’s clear that they all will have plenty to say.
For those of us earthlings stuck here on the ground,
It’s time to seek shelter, if some can be found.
For while the big boys are all roaring their rage,
One never can find a free Faraday cage.
Lit up with rage and all venting their spleens,
Like indulged children, they conquer the scene.
And, in the end, when they go on their way,
I’ll still be here wondering what they tried to say.
Stephen Tomkins
26 November 2018
Sydney
This morning, the Sun is a little bit shy –
I know he’s not normally that kind of guy.
A thin veil of cloud is disguising his face,
Though it’s clear that he’s there in his usual place.
Regaining his mojo as morning moves on,
He’s now as defiant as a Mafia Don –
Glaring unblinkingly right in my face,
The sensible choice is retire with grace.
He knows his usurper will rise and, that soon,
His place will be taken by silvery Moon.
So, in what remains of this glorious day,
The Sun will ensure that his face will hold sway.
Stephen Tomkins
29 October 18
Singapore
In the brief Purple Hour,
The Sun’s still down there,
Brushing his teeth
And now combing his hair.
The Moon, all the while,
Is yet in quite a tizzy,
Sipping away
At her nightcap, still fizzy.
And while this one night,
Bravely, faces its death,
It seems all creation
Is holding its breath.
Bathed in the softest
Of Royal purple hues,
Sound, too, is hushed
As the Sun seeks his cue.
The air of expectancy
Finally breaks
As a bright, red-faced Sun
The whole landscape remakes.
Embarrassed, he seems,
As if turning up late
At the door of the house
Of his heart’s longed-for date.
Bashfulness fades
And reveals Sun’s full glory,
Closing the book
On the Moon’s bedtime story.
Day after day,
The same story is read,
While most of us
Lie, fast asleep, in our bed.
Stephen Tomkins
16 June 2017
Perth
Pinpricks of white in an indigo sky,
Stars twinkling at us, they’re not at all shy.
A platinum moon shines ethereal light
On towering battlements, black, edged in white.
Cathedrals of Cumulus, silent, imposing,
At eight miles a minute, we’re rapidly closing.
From deep inside, there’s a bright flash of light,
Perhaps it’s the incense that chose to ignite?
Threading the needle between them we go
While back in the cabin, you hardly would know.
A few hours later, the sky pales ahead
And rapidly morphs into deepest blood red.
Below us the ground turns a purplish hue,
And gradually features start coming to view.
Orange, then pink and finally gold,
The sun then ascends, it’s a sight to behold.
Stephen Tomkins
9 February 2015
Wave after wave, the invasion continues,
Pounding the shore with ephemeral sinews.
Unceasing, the aqueous army advances;
Observing, it’s clear that the whole thing entrances.
The beach battles on in it’s own unique way,
Seemingly letting the sea win the day.
An unlikely defence is so expertly mounted
By armies of sand, in their legions uncounted.
Invaders advance and retreat once again;
The battle continues, a war without end.
A paradox of tumult that somehow brings peace,
A meeting of foes world-renowned for caprice.
Much has been said about maritime moods:
One day she sleeps and the next day she broods.
Perpetual motion, a palette unbounded,
Don’t turn your back or you may just get pounded!
All through the day and then late at night
The sea’s roar continues, but now out of sight.
At some point, the wind’s airy music crescendoes,
Battering huts with tin roofs and small windows.
Transient humans, the sea will remain
Completely unmoved by our joy and our pain.
Her riches we harvest but never can tame
Poseidon unchanging but never the same.
Some say she’s moody but I disagree:
There’s never been artwork that’s quite like the sea!
With every whitecap and every hue,
A masterful canvas no human could do!
Stephen Tomkins
18 December 2014
Pondering Poet Pilot 