Poetry of Everything
“Travelling can be such fun, unless it’s not” Gun Roswell
Sights a Seeing
Hiking up and down the hills
Always on the look out, for that special thrill
Sometimes, I find what I seek
But other times, it’s just a curious peek
Wonders of nature are the best
But do not the locals underestimate
Many a great details to be found
If you lift up your eyes from the ground
Architecture, tales and history,
May be the most interesting story
But also focus on the scenery
You may come across a mystery
Travelling can be such fun, unless it’s not” Gun Roswell
In the Sun a Bathing
To the sunny beach it’s time to go
Because today we’ll take things slow
Laying down, reading and resting
Maybe later, the cool waves testing
Take a dip in the blue ocean
Or read a good book, in slow motion
Later when hungry, try a buffet
Eat some seafood, you can’t get enough of it
Remember to lotion, with SPF of high
Or in the late evening, you’ll be in denial
Red as a lobster may seem like fun
But soon your skin will come undone
“When travelling, travel with a smile” Gun Roswell
Taking a nostalgic trip, to re-visit forgotten places
Which mind and memory, long since have replaced
With images stored, in an album, never browsed
Despite all the effort, made promises and vows
So now, here I am, sailing across the seven seas
Letting my mind at ease, for carrying all the keys
Unlocking, and bringing forth, all those memories
Names, places, even faces, coming out of stasis
As the ship the designated harbour reaches
Looking forward to those sandy beaches
Clear waters, sea otters, dolphins and other creatures
As they all on the postcards were featured
When the captain let out a shout: “Land ahoy!”
I knew, this was not a dream nor a decoy
I had finally landed, as per trip advisory had planned it
Starting my trip, quite nostalgic
“To lie under the blue sky on the coolest of sands” Gun Roswell
Blue is the Beach
Why don’t you, come on over,
To this place quite special, where
The Heavens, meet the Earth
This really is, the end, of your search
A place where, all that is sometimes lost, is now found
A place where, the skies, are the same, as the grounds
A place where, time itself, stands completely still
A place where, there is only need, for one, special skill
Enjoy this life, that now exists, in the here, and now
Of the time for freedom and also, being proud
Of the time for total celebration and, yes, even singing
Of being what you are, as you come so far
Simply enjoy yourself, in the here, and now
“Time spent with cats, is never wasted”
The Lookout Cat
The lookout cat, at her very post
Neatly and frozen, staying, in the exact same pose
In her current pray, she seems, totally engrossed
Or just maybe, she already had a feast and ate a roast
And now only digesting, is the utter and most
Task she is able, for the least this moment, to coast
“If you’re not bringing anything to the table, give up your seat, please!”
A Bench at the Beach?
Looking, for my very favourite spot
The one, I prefer for my rare and deserved break times
Yet, buried, under so much snow it seems
The workings, of some wintry plot!
But, the snow aside,
Since, I really don’t mind
And, now, sitting down for a few
Totally, enjoying the silent view
Before once again, the evening‘s
Most glorious sun, sets
“A calm, cloudy, and sunny Sunday, what a contradiction indeed!” Gun Roswell
A Summer’s Sunday at the Beach
When the Sunday time, loudly, its present chimed
We ran, like we were on fire, out there, from the dire
Into the open wild nature, with colours so lush
There really was no need for any kind of rush
To enjoy the art work devised by our beloved Mother Nature
Was there for everyone to see, without any kind of fee
But we ran, as fast as any one can, really
For you see, there was somewhere else we wanted to be, really
Beside the calm and cooling waters, fooling around like a bunch of sea otters
We made our way, discarding all clothing, falling where ever they may
Splashing into the soft waves, letting the healing waters save
Ourselves in the process, as this was the place for us, the total bliss
We played and frolicked, until the darkness descended we stayed
Then only, reaching for the softest of sands, lending each other a hand
To find the discarded garments, a little dirty, maybe even sandy, was a mild statement
But nobody cared, as it had all been time so well spent
Out here, on the beach, on this summer’s Sunday we had reached
And if we were to be lucky, maybe next weekend, we could come back again
At the Beach
Swimming
All thoughts slowly dimming
Relaxing
Nothing is quite so perplexing
Mind
Finally in total rest
Unwind
Is certainly the best
Turquoise
Filling all of the view
Disguise
All feelings this, gorgeous blue
“My little pretty red gloves bring me joy and warmth; after all it is winter or at least, it started once again, surprise!” Gun Roswell
Red Leather Gloves
“This is when the gloves come off!” She stated with a huff and added a puff.
Throwing down the protective shielding onto the ground, she was about to defy all beliefs of what would happen when exposing yourself to the elements.
It was that time of the year, when the cold season had taken over. There was no hiding from the white powdery substance covering most of the northern world. The only thing to do to survive was to put as much woven garments on top of the skin as possible. The degrees sinking down below zero in the tens, sometimes even hundreds, this season lasted for a length of six moons.
But those damn gloves! How they irritated her, especially today. They were always in the way. Grabbing things was not easy, not to mention holding a big rugged shovel.
She looked at the discarded gloves laying on the ground. Red against the whitest of snow. Pretty were they, she thought and kept staring at them, while her fingers were getting numb. Finally, as beckoning her, she scooped the offending hand garments from the pile of snow, pulled them on and admired the colour and the feel of them.
Once again, she was very, very happy in her gorgeous red leather gloves.
“All kinds of witches are about, usually all year long, but especially on Easter!” Gun Roswell
The Three Witches of Easter
The three witches from some-wick
Never mind with
They ain’t winning no beauty contests
To that many can attest
But ugly can be an asset
Especially for the wickedness
Scaring folks and cattle
Just by showing up tattle
After all, this is a holy ball
For all the witch kind
And if you any of them find
Then try to stir to the right
As the witches always drive
On the left hand side
Rantings Of A Third Kind 