“The life on the island is peaceful at best of times, when the tourists are gone, as is the storm, until next time then, I guess?” Gun Roswell
Peaceful and silent
On this solitary island
Like a rough uncut diamond
Where blue meets blue
In the waters and skies hue
There is really not much to do
Maybe, just maybe
This is really good for you
Yes, this is my land
Here is were I stand
Just because, I can
“It’s a solitary stance, the two huddled together for warmth. But, during the darkest hours, the light will guide those lost at sea to a safe harbour.” Gun Roswell
The light might be the only hope
For those travelling in the darkness on a slippery watery slope
Guidance the one thing the structure solemn needs to do
The weary traveller back on the right path
No hardships endured
“Thank goodness it’s Friday finally!” Gun Roswell
Friday, at last, this week, could not have gone any faster
Faster, as I very well know, will this day end too
Too, and then “boohoo” I cry, but hey, that is just fine
Fine, as I know, there will be another Friday
Friday, which unfortunately only comes, one a week
Week, is such a dreary measure
Measure, like a year or even a hundred
Hundred, is the number of the percent
Percent, which I always give this day
Day, unlike so many others consists of hope
Hope, so hard to find these days
Days, gone by, but hopefully plenty ahead
Ahead, like the word hope, wish, what ever
Ever, I wish Friday here to stay
Stay, please stay, I totally pray
Pray, like you are a deity or something so great
Great, better than anything else
Else, is where I usually am
Am, exist, being, living, solely for Friday
Friday, oh how I love you
You, this, feeling which you can only bring
Bring little ol’ me, each and every week
Week, oh, were are back to this again
Again, and in circles I run until
Until I come to the end of this poem
Poem, so yeah, guess I have a thing for Fridays then!
“Island life, can be a strife, but during summer time, all is simply fine” Gun Roswell
On a remote Island
The place so remote, you will have to take a boat and then row it, a long, long stretch, before even let, close enough to the very space , the perfect spot, right there, on the dot, an island, which when boarded will keep you smiling, all summer long, but only if you can stay strong, never ever complain, about the lack of, all them creature comforts, left behind, on the mainland, as learning to stand, on your own feet, then and there, on the island bare, so far removed from civilisation, the only ones are the flying birds, which can you disturb, in the morning hours, but it’s all simply fine, as learning the mundane life, on the remote isle.
“The island life can be, a kind of a strife, at least some times, as it makes none smile, but hey, that is the life, on an island, am I right!“ Gun Roswell
Island Life in Monochrome, when the Sun is none too bright
The low hanging dark grey skies against the tall greyish mountains
The mood quite dark, without a spark, as is the ambiance, all around
But there is really no escape, even if you wanted to leave the place
As, after all, you have chosen this small kind of life, on a remote island
But, when the season is totally right and the sun is shining so bright
Then all notion for fight and flight completely vanishes, like a dirty dish
As the beaches are so very soft and the skies turn to the coolest blue
Mimicking the waters hues, simply because this colour us soothes
Still, whatever the weather is, or the time of seasonal delight
It does not matter for the true island dwellers, because they will fight
Against all the elements, just to be able to live on their promised land
No matter if it will mostly stay, in the monochromatic colour of grey
“It would be nice to live on a small island in the middle of nowhere much, then again, I might miss some creature comforts” Gun Roswell
Small island life
The island beckoning, small as it is, the town with only two buildings and a few people there, the rest of it just trees and sandy shores totally free as far as eyes can see, well, at least, for the short stretch, as this is a minuscule island resort, far away from the highlands, and that is fine, as this land might be small, but it’s not crowded and that makes me smile, as all the vile of the big city, never made me feel giddy, not like this place does, and without any kind of fuss, being oneself the key, these people don’t care or flee, even if sometimes in your underwear you like to sprint across the main street, not a feat though as the distance is quite short, pretty much the diameter the island across. And even if this might not be a permanent residence, there is nothing so good sometimes rouging it out, the creature comforts soon forgotten, as the peace and quiet caresses the senses on the verge of total stress, the small island life, can be a strife, but also, a great big reward, if you balance it all right.
“Where there is a small one, there usually is another one taller there” Gun Roswell
The tall and the small one
The small one was looking for some support, perhaps possibly some place to lay low, not that it would really be a stretch for this tiny one of stature, to be on the lowest of lows, but some nice shade or cover would suffice at this very moment, just to get a small moment of a respite, as it had been too long as it had been on its own, mostly defenceless and so, it was looking for something strong, on the taller side to call its protector of sorts.
And there it was, all proud and definitely tall, a contract of such magnificent proportions, there was no denying it was strong and would most likely last, any kinds of blasts. Soldier, warrior, whatever the phrase best suited, those were all going to be used while describing the mighty tall one standing there in its place. After all, it was, well, quite tall and so, the small one immediately made its way, asking for the much needed aid and after one long glance at the poor tiny thing, the tall one decided this would be their sprint, while protecting this more helpless kind, its purpose they then could find.
“Nostalgia, is the best word to describe these two dwellings“ Gun Roswell
The old cottage on the island lies
They are rusted and quite busted, neglected and rejected, those dwellings from the past, which no one thought would until this century last, but how wrong they were as those houses are still here, and will most likely be long after we are all gone, remaining strong.
They might not look like much, maybe needing a slight touch up, but once you get inside, you cannot help but smile, as despite the rough outlook of the houses, the insides are far from louse, but rather cozy and warm, keeping you safe and sound through any imaginable storm.
So, if ever in doubt, when wandering out there, on an island with none too much to share, at least not in looks and on the surface of it, barren by default, without a fault of its own, but of nature without much going on, the houses will still give you shelter without faltering.
Next time you may want to reconsider, judging a book or any other by just looking at the cover, don’t forget there is so much more beneath of the simple looks, and yes, it applies too so many other things as well than just books.
“Monday’s might be totally blue, but the houses of red will cheer you up for sure!” Gun Roswell
Red houses for a blue Monday
You may hate Monday’s because they will make you totally blue like
In feeling and mood and worse case scenario, your face so fright
But then something so wonderfully delightful catches your very eye
Red coated homes at the end of the street as they stand in perfect pose
Surely such colourful things will take your kind off the Monday’s dose?
So, do not be afraid, but a step inside, through the door open wide
And then, make your way, shedding off the Monday’s saddening dismay
Maybe, even for a while stay, and let the colours your blue to red claim
“The other one is taller than the smaller one, but they do support each other very well” Gun Roswell
Tall against the blue skies, with a touch of red on the side
The tall lighthouse was sticking out, from the bed rock from which it firmly sprouts. Ever so gorgeous and made from solid rock, seemingly, nothing it could stop, from reaching towards the blue open and wide skies, singing many a song of all that which is divine.
But, the truth was, that the tall one could not survive without, being tethered with its small side kick of a tiny wooden shack, painted in red, dangerously so, as even seemingly making it only in tow of the tall handsome structure, the smaller one was, the stronger one of the two, never swaying in the wind, even if it could never sing the beautiful notes to reach for the skies.
Rantings Of A Third Kind 