Architects of a New Dawn

We’d like to show the side of the world you don’t normally see on television.

Art - Sharon Lee Goodhand

Thoughts flow from moment to moment-
- 5:24 AM and sleep evades;
darkness still cloisters my world
rain spatters on the rooftop in scattered showers and
splattered downfall, symphony heralding the mood of the morning
a rain-day, wet and grey, where dampness permeates the air…
a pre-winter dampness that steeps into my tobacco, curls my hair to impossible tangles;
Increments of light filter through weary lace curtains, first too faint to see
I now notice hazy tree-shapes still in predawn silhouette and the corner of a dirty brick building;
stained bricks no amount of rain will clean…


6:20 Am… first light…kookaburras laughingly greeting the morning
as rain and cloud and tones of cold grey seep in through the window, my portal
to the world and the untouchables beyond; what epic adventures unfold beyond my domain?
A little color now… cream-stained bricks… light sky surreal white… trees deep olive-grey…
the man downstairs wakes, I hear him start the shower, that whining that passes through aged pipes. And just like that I hear him get out again, as waterpipes complain once more. Always amazed am I by the neighbours micro-showers… does he even get wet?

Outside now lighter than my room where dusty shadows cling to cluttered corners, piles of books
look almost like city buildings in the gloom… pedestal fan a monument to energy use, and the poor design of this unit… only two opening windows allow little airflow… and suddenly the cottage comes to mind… the cottage with its treescape and birdsong and windows flung open wide… I lived there, for a time …. its seems so long ago now….




An Out-Of-Date Formica Bench

it might appear to an observer, should they be glancing in my door, that I found the scarred
out-of-date formica intensely interesting;
in reality or dreamscape, depending on how one viewed life, my gaze reached far beyond
the flecked surface of the kitchen bench.

I still heard the brisk wind whooshing through the trees
I heard the rain as it stopped & started… stopped and started
still continued to be soothed by the soft background sounds
of mellow music…

before me sat a half-eaten bowl of split-pea soup
made fresh the day before… the warm homely aroma lingered on the cool moist air;
the edge had been taken off my hunger, enough at least
to allow thoughts to wander
beyond the formica bench;

My thoughts, this rainy afternoon, were influenced by two conversations I’d had
earlier in the day; one by phone and one by internet chat.
the tone of the conversations aroused in me deep thoughts and concepts
that challenged my theories on life and what this older me could achieve in terms
of creating & leaving behind a useful legacy.
I’m not talking about writing a vade mecum or Book of Wisdom…
nor even the lyrics to a song the whole world sings –
- although that would be an accomplishment, to be sure.

No…for this earthy hippy-gypsy a book of inspirational poetry may be her most worthwhile
contribution to society; perhaps a collection of inspiring art, perhaps.

And I realized today what is holding me back;
I am no longer that fearsome wanderer who walked the highway & dirt track…
… no longer that spur-of-the-moment adventurer
who leapt first and looked later.
bare honest truth of the matter is I’m scarred;
scared to share my soul with the world… scared to try and fail… scared to try and succeed.
I’m a small fish in a small pond; I can cope with the ripples in my semi-placid pond…
but what of the tidal waves and tsunamis beyond …

And if I did take that step… and swim boldly into the bigger lake where the big fish play
what of the essence that is me… what of the heart of my creative projects…
would I need to relinquish a certain measure of control?
Would such influences weary my soul?
And what of the stability of my emotional strength?
I can give & give and not feel weary…
but there are those who take… who drain every element of energy,
leaving the more emotive and emphatic souls depleted.

Sharonlee©

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