Posted by: peterhact | May 13, 2012

The cold has come

Today in the sunlight,

the warmth tricked me,

the leaves warned me,

as they continued to turn.

 

 

The cold has come,

stinging,

tearing the heat from me,

a bitter wind,

a darkening afternoon.

 

 

No longer a night under the stars,

no longer windows open in my house,

no longer natural heat,

I rug up and stay inside.

 

 

The wind has come,

the cold has come,

the world has darkened,

I am alone.

 

 

In summer,

when it is baking hot,

when the air is searing,

when my skin feels like parchment,

I wish for a cold day.

 

 

Now,

since the cold has come,

I dream of a hot day,

I cling to summer memories,

I try to wait out the cold.

 

 

Am I colder,

because I am alone?

because my bed is empty?

because my meals are mine alone?

When will the cold end?

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Posted by: peterhact | April 26, 2012

Storm capture

Watching the radar,

on a weather site,

checking the best route,

on a map.

Driving out,

into the open fields,

into the landscapes,

with the storm approaching above me.

I stop.

I set up for the storm,

with my heavy tripod,

my heavy camera,

my heavy bag.

Here it comes!

The wind buffets me,

it knocks me around,

but I stand fast,

and the outside world evaporates.

It is just me, 

and nature,

the lightning and the thunder,

raw energy,

power and beauty.

It has passed,

taking a part of me with it,

trapped in its color and power,

and yet,

I have taken something from the exchange,

images,

photographs,

memories.

Posted by: peterhact | April 26, 2012

The Photographer

Packing the car for the trip,

tripod,

lenses,

battery spares,

water bottle,

camera.

What did I forget?

taking photos of storms,

as they sweep towards me,

heavy with water,

and lightning.

Standing on a hill top,

a mountain,

out in the open,

concentrating,

lost in the viewfinder,

as nature’s show comes calling.

ahh.

Too late I remember,

the item I forgot,

the item that I needed,

the item that would make this storm nicer,

my umbrella.

Posted by: peterhact | February 24, 2012

Love lost

When I had Love….

 

speaking on the telephone,

never wanting to be the last,

never wanting to be the first,

to hang up.

 

picnics in the gardens,

a rug,

a basket,

the world breathes around us,

we are content.

 

Perhaps at that picnic,

perhaps on the telephone,

perhaps while grocery shopping,

perhaps during a night out,

Love was lost.

 

Do I…

search for it,

yearn for it,

fight for it,

or let it go?

 

Do you…

miss it,

want it back,

care about it,

look for it?

 

I feel…

empty,

lonely,

sad,

lost.

 

How can I find,

something so precious,

then lose it,

then just move on?

 

could I make a sign?

 

could I post it around,

putting it on trees,

putting it in shop windows,

“Love is Lost”,

Last seen a few years ago,

with my family,

with my friend,

I miss it,

I want it back,

or at least return my heart.

 

24/2/2012

Peter Holland

Posted by: peterhact | February 24, 2012

The Hoarder

I was talking to a friend,

the other day,

about someone we knew,

who could not throw away,

his memories.

 

He has boxes,

he has pictures in frames,

he has furniture,

he really doesn’t need most of it.

 

It got me thinking.

 

 

What could I lose,

what could I sell,

what could I part with,

if it came to that?

 

Then I realised.

 

I am not the hoarder,

you are,

you keep me around,

you keep me off balance,

you make me feel,

like I have to keep you,

you make me the hoarder.

 

24/2/2012

Peter Holland

Posted by: peterhact | February 23, 2012

Time has moved on

When I started out,

in the big wide world,

next to you,

I was positive.

 

 

when I bought this house,

next to you,

with dreams of plans,

I was positive.

 

 

When you told me there was another,

who met your needs intellectually,

who you could have a proper adult conversation with,

I was crushed.

 

 

When you left,

taking half our stuff,

taking our children,

leaving me with an empty house,

I was heartbroken.

 

 

Time passes.

 

 

I have grown,

I have survived,

I have picked myself up,

I have started again.

 

 

You tell me that it was….

 

 

a mistake,

an error,

a lack of judgement,

I am hesitant.

 

 

We have sold this house,

I am moving out,

I am moving on,

as has your time.

 

Peter Holland 23/2/2012

Posted by: peterhact | February 23, 2012

Sailing on the storm

The air is still,

the sail hangs down,

hardly moving,

and the warm night is peaceful.

 

 

There is a light breath of a breeze,

caressing,

teasing,

still warm and light.

 

 

All is still.

 

 

All is quiet.

 

 

Now the storm comes,

fingers or branches of light arc across the sky,

filling the dark still night with energy,

with the roar of thunder to come.

 

 

The sail is still,

hanging down,

then it billows,

snaps,

and the fingers of the storm tug at its restraints.

 

 

It billows,

filling with air and power,

forcing the sail out and up,

till it empties its air and collapses down.

 

 

The rain arrives,

absent before,

no doubt now,

it thunders on the sail,

bending the restraints,

making it heavy with water.

 

 

The sail cannot billow,

it cannot fill,

it cannot break free of its restraints,

it is held down by water.

 

 

The storm passes,

lightning illuminates the sail,

then,

with fingers questing,

seeks another sail to play with,

leaves this one to droop,

hang down,

almost with shame.

 

 

The night is still,

the night is noisy,

the crickets and frogs thank the storm,

for coming,

for visiting,

and the sail hangs down.

 

Peter Holland 23/2/2012

Posted by: peterhact | February 23, 2012

The Old Shoe

I remember a discussion,

about love,

about how it felt,

just like an old shoe.

 

 

This old shoe is comfortable,

you know its failings,

its comforts,

it makes you happy,

to throw it away is unthinkable.

 

 

The old shoe is falling apart,

pieces are breaking,

falling behind when you walk,

soon it will have to be discarded.

 

 

Am I…

 

 

Am I the old shoe?

do you feel comfortable with me?

do you know my failings?

do I make you happy?

when will you discard me?

 

 

I found the old shoe,

buried in the wardrobe,

dusty,

forgotten,

unloved,

and I threw it out.

Peter Holland 23/2/2012

Posted by: peterhact | November 20, 2011

Driving

We are driving,

moving away from the outskirts of the city with a promise of scenery,

moving out of suburbia into a rural setting,

a loop of sorts that will end with us back in the city,

yet having spent time with nature’s bountiful beauty.

 

I am driving down a road,

a road that a few years ago was desolate,

burnt,

a scene of despair.

 

we see flowers,

we see birds,

there are comments about the trees,

they are green,

they are tall,

they are alive.

 

Our first stop,

a picnic spot that is filled with sunlight and shade,

plenty of space for families,

games,

reading a book under a tree.

 

We stay here momentarily,

my charges want to see more,

they want to see more of the river,

the trees and the hills.

 

We drive across a bridge,

there are trees,

massive trunks split and broken,

jammed under the bridge,

a casualty of the winter floods.

 

Everywhere we look,

there is new life,

dead trees,

and the white buildings of the observatory,

we are seeing them from behind the hill,

we are seeing them where they would be looking out,

the trees that hid them before are long gone.

 

This drive is discovery for us all,

for me,

for them,

I am seeing roads that were tree lined,

bare,

They are seeing new things,

exploring a new area close to their backyard,

that they never knew was here.

 

We come down the road,

around a corner,

into an open area,

and there,

in majesty and glory,

massive and crowning,

the new dam works,

towering cranes that stand tall,

open gouges into the earth,

they exclaim at the size and breadth of this new construction site.

 

As quickly as it appears,

we round another corner and it is gone,

we are now in its shadow,

down to a bridge with a traffic light,

red,

waiting,

green,

and over the tiny bridge we go.

 

There was a picnic area here,

there were playgrounds,

there were swings,

now there are gates,

fences,

and I feel disappointed.

 

I hatch a plan,

we keep driving,

they don’t know where we are going now,

we come to a small town,

I pull in,

stopping,

and we get out of the car.

 

This place I have come to,

this small shop,

has been here since I was a kid,

my father would stop here,

we would get out,

and there was the promise of a drink,

on a warm day.

 

This general store,

this small slice of the past,

hasn’t changed over the years,

outside.

 

We buy modern drinks,

back in the car,

I tell them we are close to home,

they laugh,

it is a joke?

then we see the sign,

the sign they know,

the golden arches.

 

We drove in a big loop.

they saw trees,

they saw the river,

they saw lots of signs,

kangaroos,

wombats,

and a traffic light.

 

when are we doing this again?

when the weather is fine,

when we have a picnic to eat at the first stop,

when we have drinks for the park by the traffic light,

when we just want to get out of town for a while.

 

Posted by: peterhact | January 1, 2011

winter dreaming

I am sitting at my desk,

in the heat of the house,

lesser than the heat outside,

but only just.

 

I have a fan going,

i am listening to it whirring,

humming,

lulling me into a sleepy state.

 

why does summer have such a bite,

a slap in the face,

that we wish for cooler days,

and for winter to come?

 

we quickly dismiss the seasons,

we don’t seem to remember,

we crave other seasons,

we crave something we don’t have.

 

when winter is here,

with the frosts,

with the fog,

with the hibernation of friends,

we wish for summer.

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