The memory of the beach

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“The beach, of the summer long ago, still fresh, in my memory“ Gun Roswell

The memory of the beach

It was so long ago, so I have to think about it, really, really slow
The memory though, still fresh in my mind, as if permanently there, intertwined
It was such a fulfilling place, the one, where the summers were laid
In perfect harmony with time itself, without running around, like a slave
The beaches sandy and soft, the water the calmest and blue
The sun always shining, but most importantly, no one was ever whining
Of this place, being anything, but perfect as on that beach they played
Sports, of all sorts, swimming until your arms would tire out
And when it was time for a break, some sustenance and drinks, someone would shout
“Come one to the table! The food is getting cold! Hurry up!”
All of us, sprinted out and ran, like the fire was there under our cans
Spending the days on end, on that sandy and sunny beach
Until it was that time of the day, when the sun could no longer reach
Only displaying a magnificent setting, as its rays in various colours kept on slaying
The moonrise only a match, with the stars hitting the skies above
Then at bedtime, dreaming of yet another day on that perfect seaside
Yes, those where the days, where we all so had our eyes so totally wide
Now, I can only reminisce, about the days gone by, but, with a soft smile

Monday, is Murder!

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“Oh, by the by, did anyone notice, by any chance, that I, truly, hate, Mondays?“ Gun Roswell

Monday, is Murder!

Hate, love, hate, love, hate, love, hate!
Yes! That was totally, what the last petal said
Monday, oh dearest of Monday!
Certainly and never, my own fun day!
How I so, loath thee, for you see
You always come, creeping up on me
No matter how prepared, I think I have been
You, are the one and true thorn, on my side 
I so can not, no matter, how hard, I try
To seem to shake you loose, not even, if I so hard choose
To completely, totally and utterly ignore, that very feeling 
That eternal, all compassing, and yes, awful stinging
The pain of it all, like a sharp knife in a wound, being ground
An ultimate relieve, of a permanent state of being free
Is nowhere, no how, ever, never, to be found
Your presence, always lasting so very long
Grinding my teeth, trying, so hard, to stay strong
But, am I really so alone and so totally wrong
In wanting you permanently erased, totally, and completely, gone?
For can’t you so not see, oh dearest of Mondays
That to me, myself and I, you, are pure murder, always?

Doors, Entryways and Gates

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“Remember, to check behind each and every door, open and even closed, then only, will you find, that which, you seek“ Gun Roswell

Doors, Entryways and Gates

The darkened wooden door, most likely, had something special in store
Shut close, tightly, even, if the red car up front, was in the sunlight gleaming brightly
The short clotheslines, filled with every day garments, of lived lives
But, when trying the handle gently, there was no granted, entry
All the secrets, of those dwellers inside, continued to remain, in the hide
The bright cream coloured house, with an off white entryway 
Planted pots evenly placed alongside, the narrow and tall stairway
Almost scenic in view, alas the entrance to the house, was reserved only, for a few
Alas, there was no sign, no written words, nothing, even slightly suggesting
That the odd visitors, were welcomed, to this, fine local home
The blue painted gate, lead the weary traveller, to speculate
Was there something there, to be seen, here, at the gate and in between
The yard totally sparse, and the house of the gate was protecting
Lacking any kind of locks, soon enough, the traveller, inside did trot
Then, quickly crossing the yard, in just a few steps smart
Knocking, on the door, with anticipation, but eyes headed, towards the floor
Soon enough, the squeaky sounds indicating the opening
A small and timid crack only, but still, quite inviting
The traveller softly and slowly stepping, to the darkened inside
After all, at this point, turning back, was not an option
And from now on, the best bet, really is, to just keep going, on

The Cool Cat

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“The cool black cat, on the side of the street sat, and no, there was no hat involved” Gun Roswell

The Cool Cat

A blackest of cats, on the busy street corner, calmly sat
He had nothing better to do, but on his furry ass sit and chew
The yellow eyes, staring, glaring, all the passersby, spied
It looked so scary, that some of them even started to cry
Luring the cat into some kind of a food reduced trap
Wasn’t an option, because this animal was no ordinary concoction
Of fur and feline DNA, such you might find eating it’s pray
Like a mouse or other type of pest, making the meal a fest
But no, this was a spy, sent from another place so high
It would take a spaceship just to reach there, in the stratosphere
The alien cat, still in disguise, kept on spying
The unsuspecting hooman race, sitting there, on his place
Watching, taking notes, of those poor people dragging their totes
And also making sure, they would stay put without allure
To venture out there, into the great wild space without fear
At least, not without some fish and catnip as a gift
If ever they would the alien cats home planet reach!

On set, shooting the ultimate selfie

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“Everyone! Quiet on the set! Ready, lights, sound, camera and… action! “ Gun Roswell

On set, shooting the ultimate selfie

All was quiet, the crew and actors taking their places
The lights were set, the camera was ready for recording all them faces
As the director had ordered, before they closed the doors
The only sound, the metallic clang that of a clapperboard
It was that time, for the shoot, the shoot of some serious selfie photos
As, in this modern day and age, no resume is complete without those

The proverbial needled dropped, on to the quiet floor
As the camera clicked, making the shutter stall
But only for a moment, as the dramatic duck faces image was captured
The end result appearing, on to the monitor for screening

All eyes on the very spot, where the end result blocked
A collective breath holding for a moment, waiting seemingly torment
The pixels of the very image filling the once black screen with colours
Some softly commenting, its a good thing there are no odours

Finally, the end product is complete for all to see
There eyes, the nose, the hair, nothing out of place if feared
A perfect shot for the present and the prosperity
Once some minor adjustments made with some filter trickery
Nothing more to do, except save, upload, post and send
And the world wide web, most likely will remain the same

Monumentally so

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“The monuments of yesteryear… yep, they are still here! “ Gun Roswell

Monumentally so

The dark and mysterious silhouette, against the night sky
Bold, pompous and really big, is the character flying high

Animals, people and even abstract figures were applied
The parks, streets and even museums, filled with all sizes
“Monumental!” someone in awe sighed
“Extraordinaire!” an other one was all smiles
“Such beauty!” from off the sides
“I want one of them to buy!”

The art works from yesteryear, were really pleasing, on the eyes
And the great point being, it was all for free, with zero cents for buying!

Roses in monochrome pose

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“Roses of any colour are so gorgeous, even in black and white poses” Gun Roswell

Roses in monochrome pose

The neatly made arrangement, in the tall vase
Making sure, the flowers, in an orderly stance stay
The fresh cut stems, certainly trimmed to fit
As all the colourful, roses inside of it neatly sit

The pose, so completely natural, it’s almost second nature
The plush petals trimmed, to reminisce that of a statue 
The strong yet delicate odour, filling, the surrounding air
As such is the nature, of this ever so romantic floras flair

Even, when stripped all the way down, to the bare basics 
The lush colours, the volume, and all other imaginable clicks
These, as the most beautiful roses, still stand tall in their form
Grey in colour now, but, that could have easily been the norm

But, it does not really matter in the end, too much really
Whether the image can be seen sharp, or even so clearly 
And certainly no kind of colour, even black or white
Can bring out the very essence or do just justice 
To this, entity, of a gorgeous rose, always, shining brightly

Step, on a Tram, it’s not a scam!

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“A slow ride on the rails, on a bench, in a low riding long car, the hum of the electricity crackling, as the driver turns the tram towards the happenings, a joyride, has begun“ Gun Roswell

Step, on a Tram, it’s not a scam!

The long, long awaited adventure, was them waiting
Alas, the now weary travellers, were still, hesitating
To get on board or not to get on board, was the question
And, whether to throw themselves, to the flow, with abandon
As it was, the exploring visitors, already had their plate full

After, some painfully doubtful moments of waiting 
On the platform, with tickets in hand, debating
Whether to skip this, reserved joyride, and go hide
Because the new place they found, was open wide
For exploration, and they were really, pressed with time

But, all of the doubt, was soon cast aside, at the first sight
Of the old school vehicle, with headlights so bright
Rolled coolly down the tracks, stopping, with a loud clank
The cheerfully red painted car, looking it could not travel too far
Alas, there was something irresistible, so why not hop on!

“All aboard!” The conductor loudly ordered, 
“Tickets please!” he then hollered
“Go on, move along,
There is no time to be wasted, for too long,
We are taking off, at the bang of the bong!”

As all of the passengers, started boarding
The best of the seats, some of them hoarding
But there was room enough for all
Small, fat, thin, odd, plain and yes, even tall
And so, the ride finally begun, with all of them in awe

Gaping, mouths open, at the passing sights and scenery
And one them even commented quite easily:
“Clearly,
This was the best decision ever made,
Or at least, on this, very day!”

Secret doorway

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“What’s behind door number infinity? Secrets? Buried treasure? Bodies? Are you willing to find out?” Gun Roswell 

Secret doorway

“Step right through, step right through” the bouncer shouted out loud
“Nobody knows what secrets may loom, behind this cool blue door,
Only a penny to enter, stay close to the center, 
For stepping aside, may cause you to go blind,
But the the rewards at the end of the corridor awaits those,
Who dare to venture, inside, the scary door!”

Surprisingly, there was a line just outside 
A long and a winding one at that, even of the fact
Was, that there might not be anything precious 
Or even remotely reminiscent of a treasure
Hidden or otherwise, which would explain causing a smile
To those going through the scary door
Alas, I was still one among them, feeling strongly 
That something worth while would turn up there, ever so wrongly

And, as I stepped inside, I heard the evil laughter 
Of the doorman, knowing I might have been drafted
For something I would soon regret
But, then again the option of turning back…
Well, I had accepted the challenge
So going forward, to balance 
The terror of a feeling, inside of me reeling
And after the door closed behind me, it had begun 

S is for Sunday

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“Something about Sunday that makes me calm” Gun Roswell 

S is for Sunday

The early morning with its light 
Peeks through my covered window 
The time is still before everyone is to rise 
And everything in this house is totally quite 

There is no hurry for anything yet
The only thing to do is to reflect
The weeks which is coming to and end
As I lay here on my comfortable bed

Soon another day and week will take over
But this, today, this Sunday still has the power
Of keeping me and myself in the moment 
For a fee hours before it is time to let

The new day, with new things, begin
And the circle thus once again, complete