Kinmokusei

Walking along the familiar paths,
A nostalgic smell whose name escapes me,
Golden yellow blossoms, initially unseen.

Reminiscence incited by the smell,
Thoughts of mother describing autumn's harbinger,
Sweet, soft, serene, maternal scent.

Following the aroma to seek the source,
Longing to be embraced by the floral bouquet,
Yet, it is far too distant from this place.

Recollections of childhood, unforgettable,
The first encounter relived.
Immaculate garden, forbidden to enter within.

A calming influence breathed in deeply,
Filling the lungs, intoxicating the mind,
A chemical reaction bringing bliss,
An inhaled pathway to Paradise.

Clovelly Night

Fading Impression
Desperate to keep it intact
Hidden from view here

Fragile reflection
Reminder of existence
Seeming powerless

Reassuring sight
Self-evident in their place
Ever present friends

Empowering light
Distant but not out of sight
Flames in the darkness

Surging waves below
The sound of the stars singing
The two connected

In the ebb and flow
Mirrored wonders from above
The sky's true prowess

Passing fulfillment
Momentarily enough
A shower of light

Present resentment
The world has hidden them
I long for redress

The Old Rogue

The old lot, you could be mistaken
To believe that he was a tramp;
The ragged clothes with a hole
In the pocket where the pen,
Came back and forth struck by words.

You would never see what he was thinking
And how he was feeling because he,
Wouldn't show it lest they were written
In the letters of his senses.

The bad lot, you could be fooled into
Not accepting him and trying to avoid.
You might think that he was an outcast,
But he was one of the people. He'd had,
A lot in his life to contemplate upon,

Out of which, what he wanted to share
Was the blessing in life, with you.
He never gave up in the faith of life,
He, just wanted to tell you that,
The old rogue.

The last will and testament of the mother at the fish 'n' chip shop

I, the mother of my only son, residing at the fish 'n' chip shop
that I ran on my own, turning potatoes into money every day,
all the while feeding my own couch potato at home,
being of sound mind, even when my son shunned fish to live a fish story
about an illiterate writer and always came home dipped in the beer batter of his addiction,
do hereby declare this instrument,
to beat the head of my son and to be my last will and testament.
I give all the rest and residue of my estate to my son, the drunken lout,
should he survive me for sixty minutes, occupying himself painting the door
to the shop, to revoke the indignity of his debauchery.
If my son does not survive me, I give all the rest and residue of my estate to AA.

Left in Paris

Our cakes were left where we stayed together,
The tokens of a trip to Paris. Of encounters
The hope, the excitement in the world full of wonders.
The dessert for us after taking photos, memories to gether.
Our cakes, we finally obtained in the relentless rain.
Without our appreciation, their fate to be perished,
When the time had come in between and impelled
To tear us apart. The endeavour ended in vain.

My heart, torn, was where the cakes once lay.
However much I long, it is too late
To turn back and return to them. I must surrender.
With a roar, the airplane broke off our runway,
Without a trail it's gone, discarded fate.
Our cakes are left where we stayed together.