All posts by Diana

A little here a little there, with at least one foot firmly placed. Otherwise my motorcycle might tip, tight? Finding my mid age art groove thing in the blogosphere. Poems, photography and more. Grateful for every second of my existence; of the journey. Seeking tranquility and connection with the tender souls of the world.

Blood Moon

the Sea of Tranquility

named by an imaginative soul

yet not a sea at all

a burnished, basalt hole

sunken eye watching humanity toil

a pockmarked director of tides

conducting diurnal rhythm

as we squander, as we spoil

heavenly, cyclic conductor

my monthly crimson hymn

whispers to your balsamic phase

 a veiled face reflecting

in your lakes of saturnine solitude, of sorrow

floating weightless in Mare Fucunditatis

childless in my ferrous scented tomorrow

The Worm

are you acquainted with tales of tenderness?

voluble versions of vulnerability

from the pen of one

once a child

who would stoop for the lowly earth worm

on a perilous concrete passage

returning him to lush, moist loam

ending such an errant, wayward roam


what would you do with him?

alter the cadence of your stride?


and what of me?

for I am in your path

and the day is warm

offer me your shadow

there, a soothing darkness


threaten me with careless boot?

i’ve crossed such paths before

lulled in poikiloform torpor


no, gather me

my annuli traverse your heart line

your palm sensing shuffling setae

tender me to your love…

in tepid torpor, on soporific soil

tangling in such terrestrial toil 


how can i talk of the night

when you blind me with moon

and star pierce my sight

when you tarnish my gaze

with firefly bright

an erratic flicker

pinpricks of light




how can you tempt with diffident day

soft sunshine sojourn; shadows will sway

in promise of heat, dare you take me away?




of sand and temptation in turquoise seas

our luxuriant skin

under tropical trees


every time you tell me a lie

another tile falls from the temple of trust

and blunt fingernails trail

along the rough mortar of my insecurities

what can we do to rebuild the precarious frame

of filigree fractures?

a teetering, deceit infused structure

a child’s dollhouse of

faded pastel plastic

attic abandoned

a sandcastle askew

in the path of a solo beachcomber

tripping at dusk

First time

As an Australian, it is sometimes hard for me to appreciate that some may not see the ocean until they are decades into their lives. Perhaps never…
There are so many other firsts in life, and @Written Frames makes us ponder them with this great piece of writing!

Written Frames

we demand ignorance

negotiate over the ‘first time’

a dilettante at recording happenings

as the present segues to the past

in a blink, in a click

the tongue slays

burnt stubs rest in ashtray

we smolder to live the mistakes

cinders multiply and the experience stays

archetypal complexion of blue skies

always a first time

dark and clouded, it rains

first cry, first love, first ache

fails us, in itself it never fails

‘The first’ happens and plays

a buttress for ‘the second’

‘The third’ to lose or gain

steps stumble

©Written Frames, 2018

P.S. The first time moments trigger a will to live this life. This picture was taken on my first ever visit to a beach. It took me 24 years to see the mighty waves sing a lullaby of forever to this frail heart of mine. I surrendered to the beauty of it and there is no single…

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The Code

O fickle love

your fingertips part my preposterous notions

as spring petals dampen with oleaginous dew

my tongue traces in cursive flow

all the curved secrets: sanctimonious you


for words merely gather the solitary sighs

of a craven collective myth

constricting with bind of twine

to tether wrists forthwith


with eyes closed

i discover your truth

raised braille on cool skin

conveys all to me

messages you dare not speak

are fierce textured, transparent

and eyelid fluttered morse code

–  – – – . . – – . – . …. / – – .

says, come to me; run from me

let that time arrive,

when we shall be…


you find my words at their crumbled end

powdered syllables tumbled

from cracked lips

smudged ink stains paper

flecked with fools’ gold

mordant mildew and dank mould

you open your mouth to speak

and the air is winter

forming icicles of perennial


going, going, gone

i hear

and the sharp nib scratches

as ink runs clear