Splash off the wall in total colour

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“One needs a hint of colour in the midst of all the grey, am I right?” Gun Roswell

Splash off the wall in total colour

The paint brushes swirling left and right, up and down, around and around
As the painter concentrated, with gusto, in the job with a wide upside frown
This case was a happy occasion, refurbishing old houses without hesitation
As the full and plush colours, quickly appeared, onto the dull canvas cleared
Painting, the minds image to a well loved and cared for housing project to reflect
After such a long time having been left in total and utter neglect now being resurrect
Completing the task in minimal time, and the end result turning up more than fine
The bright and bolds, done with what some might say, something of eye sores
As the could now easily be spotted from miles away and then some but never more bores
But hey, who ever said life or in addition, the outer walls, oh an old but new home
Should be, anything, but dull, and so, the artist doing their thing, went on completing
The paint job they had been commissioned to do with a touch of spring

Lunch time in the archipelago

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“Island life, even in just the memories, it beats this dull city dwelling of a strife” Gun Roswell

Lunch time in the archipelago

Never hurried, simply slow, is the life spent on the island
Having a break when ever it suites, simply widely smiling
Even the time of lunch on the beach without any kind of timing
Is the way to go out here, in the middle of nowhere, in the archipelago
Where people abandoned their watches oh so long ago
As this is a place, time still stays, where no one has to hurry
And all the worldly troubles, were in the deep ditch buried
Life, as we know it, for at least the summer period is to be sent
On this very small island, so far away from it all, making no dents
In anything else, except maybe, in the cookie jar, but then again
You can always bake new ones, if you feel like it, or then just sit
All day long, as the sea shore, on this place, from heavens sent

The Rock, it is called, just for short

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“The island life is the dream kind, bringing me a smile, each time, I see the pictures” Gun Roswell

The Rock, it is called, just for short

The harsh rock solid unforgiving ground, every which where can be found
On the small thatch of a land, which solemnly out there stands
In the middle of the sometimes blue and other times ruthless ocean
Where the rough weather and barren nature is part of the potion
Of that which is the dream life for a few adventurous dare devils
Living their lives out there where no one, but only a few seagulls
Land on the dreamy and soft sands of the beaches non existing
As hidden away is this exotic and praised paradise from prying eyes
Protecting those lonely dwellers dedicated to the strange but appealing life
On the island of some kind of fantasy with the good kind of strife

Winter sunrise in Suburbia without hurry

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“January, what a cold hearted month thou art!” Gun Roswell

Winter sunrise in Suburbia without hurry

Peekaboo, through, the slight opened shutters, in the early morning hours, finding a nice surprise, in a form, of a pretty sunrise. The light alone blinding, yet somehow reminding, of a start of a new day. As the rays of light, dance on top the now snow covered grounds, which only a few days before, were dulled down with murky waters and total darkness, but, are now reflecting those earliest of rays, off of each and every surface, making a dance of it, with some splits.

With my steaming hot coffee mug beside me, I am admiring the view from the cozy inside, as the temperatures, despite, the sunny disposition in the skies, are still way below freezing your still sleepy derriere off, should you dare to venture to the quite inviting looking outside. But for now, there is no need, as the slow speed, of the winter months, has arrived with a loud thump, and sitting around without any kind of hurry, is a luxury, reserved only, for this special time of January.

Blue on white, before the night

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“All is still, in the forest, before the fall of the night, at least, on the surface, it seems to be so“
Gun Roswell

Blue on white, before the night

Crispy and crunchy, the frozen flakes on the cold ground sounded, under the small steps
On the path of the searchers, which deep into the snowy white forest before night fall led
It was that time of the eve, where the silence too fell, just a little before the sun would leave
Making way for the moon to rise in the skies, but before that, a stand still on the low and high
A moment of true blue colours surrounding all those, who dared to follow the calls of the wild
Perfectly still, nature turning from white to the coolest of hues, from light blues to darkening night
Staying there until the moment had passed, only then venturing back home in the pale moon light

Wooden frames, never the same

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“Old discarded buildings made out of wood, gently merging to the landscape, back to the earth from wheres they came, as they should, not too lame, huh?” Gun Roswell

Wooden frames, never the same

The island barren with only a few standing trees, but the houses they were building, out of wood you see, as the idea was to never make them be forever there, but only for the while as the dwellers stayed and lived their lives, in small hives. And now into rest they may finally lay, in the long and lingering process of decay. But do not feel sad or even sorry or for nature worry. As all that which was built from the land, by the land and with a lending human hand, will once again merge with the earth, as per rust to dust, or what ever the old saying. It is just a matter of time before they are all laid in, and one, with the ground. Then, in no time, soon to sprout, new trees, will be standing there instead, oh so proud.

Monday’s with(out) Coffee?

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“No, this cannot be happening! We, are out of, coffee!!! Gun Roswell

Monday’s with(out) Coffee?

What is a Monday
But a slow day of Sunday
Without coffee
It’s just a faded copy

It’s just what you seek
So, don’t hesitate
Go ahead, start the week
With a fresh, clean slate

Make your way
To the coffee maker
For a while stay
After all,
You deserved a break

It’s just Monday after all

The seat and the snow

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“Take a seat, in the middle of the snowy scenery” Gun Roswell

The seat and the snow

The white and crispy clean snow, beckoned to venture outside, to the seashore, even with the hard wind blowing. But the sun was shining so brightly and the glittering slopes, or rather huge piles of the same stuff, were perfect for any kind of wintry activities. So, picking up a pair of old school skis and a kind of a rusted and somewhat busted sleigh, and then, out the door was this eager snow loving persons way, and in the open wide wild nature to stay, as this was a perfect of days for such fun activities.

Then after so many hours, which in all honesty were just like thirty minutes or so, the sings of exhaustion started pulling towards some kind of respite for a moment to stay. As the overall physical condition were not really equipped for such a sudden outburst, where sweat and pumping heart was part of the equation. Spotting the best place in the park, and like an x marked red bench, was waiting for this tired old ass, to take a load off. And the scenery, wasn’t too bad either, as it was the best spot to spy on all the others, having their wintery fun too, on this Sunday, somewhat overdue.

Winter morning in the snow

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“Oh winter, you are such a b… Ah, just forget about it, I’ll just deal with it!” Gun Roswell

Winter morning in the snow

It had been quite the night, the freezing weather and the howling winds alike. Not one single moment of sleep, only a nightmarish slumber non too deep. All of this causing fowl mood and slight headache in the early morning hours, and nothing not even the darkest of coffee, was enough to lift the spirits up.

But as I looked out the window, I could see, lots and lots of snow. Gone, was the dull and grey and even if this meant I had to at the handle of a shovel for sometime to slay, to dig out a path from the house. Then it was all good as the crisp clean planes of the snow covered grounds, were now sparkling as the sun had come out.

Even if I openly despise winter as a whole, there is nothing more gorgeous than a clean world outside the widow after a night of storm. As it just might be enough to make even the most cold hearted hater of this, unforgiving yet quite necessary season, quite whole.

The trees are made of white stuff

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“Wintery forest, is quite gorgeous, especially in the morning” Gun Roswell

The trees are made of white stuff

In the early morning, just when the sun is yawning
Step into to the magical realm, where threes of white dwell
The quietness of it all, makes seem like time has stalled
And if you listen really carefully, you can hear the songs
Sung by all those beings making their home in there
Far away from the real worlds disturbing stares
A magical winter wonderland for those true seekers
Whom others might call, total and utter geeks
But you and me, we, both know that what you want to see
Can be much better than what those non-believers redeem
To be hocus-pocus, so never mind, just enjoy the find
As this is as rare as it truly gets, out here