Poetry

Elliot Rose says, “I wrote this poem for a personal development task earlier in the year when Pam asked us to create a metaphor for the mind using any medium we wished. I looked out of my lounge window and saw a tree that had been there all the time but I had never taken the time to notice it before and the words just grew from there.”

What if your mind was like an apple tree,
that grew with time from one small seed?
Within that seed a blueprint be,
a mighty plan for your mind-like tree.

The roots fulfil a basic urgency
of hunger, thirst and security.
Growing thick, earth-bound cable.
Establish presence, making you stable.

And, like your spinal cord erect,
a trunk emerges to connect.
Sprouting branches, skyward grows,
like neuron fashioned internal lobes.

Picture the shape of your apple tree.
Filtering leaves distort what you see.
Scatty shadows, diffuse sight,
leafy breaks let through the light.

Blossoms flourish among your leaves
entice pollinating busy bees.
They bumble and buzz around your frame.
External influences in a genetic game?

From each blossom a fruit shall grow.
Emerge like thoughts, but not all on show.
Camouflaged by your many branches.
Obscured by your wind-swept, hypnotic dances.

Like an apple, thoughts may turn bad.
Ferment and fester into something mad.
Life could appear to rot away.
But within, those seeds will grow again.

Tracy Jarvis writes “Thought I’d blog this. Sometimes I feel so lucky to be studying this artform. Especially when I see and look around every day.”

I often wonder about the world
I wonder about the people
I see the homeless every day
I think about them

I remember a man
Convulsing, skin so blue
Almost a coma
An addict
I presumed drugs and alcohol
Maybe a mixture
I didn’t care
The stench

A Life.

I looked through him
Our unconscious met
I saw him, just a boy
Only a boy
Nothing else
The ambulance came

I drove down the road
The sky so blue
The smell of summer and sweetness
The sound of trees
Delightful

Then I saw him
That boy
That boy with a beard
His skin so soft, unshaven
His bristles alive and well

I looked at him
I smiled
My eyes smiled tears of joy
And my heart sank
I cried

I still wonder about him.

Last week I rode past a needle
I stared, I still do
How many lives has it taken?
How many boys?
How many girls?

Aren’t we just the same?
Separated by our ability of choice

Tracy Jarvis says of this poem, “I wrote it last night, unable to sleep. I realised I’m stuck in one big T.O.T (T.O.T.E without the exit) and I don’t know how to exit? Its like I’m trying to get something, and I realised I’ve had enough. I’m considering an exit and it feels rather scary. Maybe some more fish, a bigger fish tank or the ocean….the possibilities seem endless…”

Goldfish!

The bowl is round
The sand is yellow
There is a piece of seaweed

You are well looked after
Your water is changed
And you are well fed

You swim

The bowl is round
The sand is yellow
There is a piece of seaweed

You play

The bowl is round
The sand is yellow
There is a piece of seaweed

You dance

The bowl is round
The sand is yellow
There is a piece of seaweed

You look at yourself.

“Did it ever ocur to you that
The bowl is round
The sand is yellow
There is a piece of seaweed”