Mountain range view from St James,🇹🇹
Not me maybe you not i,
Bulky bulge enormous insane,
Clouds can sit in passing by,
Giants jealous of passing rain,
Shelter with umbrellas and sigh,
If you raise your mind to gain,
Out of respect to the higher guy,
Buzzards pass watch you strange,
Crazies! on the mountain range.
Hoping they will bring about change
© gillena cox 2026
When the morning opens and
The moon shies herself in fadng moods
When the sky takes back her box of crayons
And roostings wings flutter
Then beaks wide open sing songs of rebirth
That is when
Earthworms wiggle beneath the surface
For they have no need of azure skies
Theirs is the gift of dirt and how to shovell it well
But the winged ones
Those are the event bringers i celebrate with
Birdsongs are prayers to the newness
The thanksgiving chants for
Waking to another day
© gillena cox 2026
A terribly hot day. Even so we still deceided on a hike. Back packs secured, our sneakered feet started walking, up the hills so dry, so dense the underbrush, that where I pushed my way the giant hush was changed to soft explosion of hurrah we can do this.
And so we walked on through scrub and trees we could not name, until the forest darkness changed to light of sky. This is certainly the most successful hike ever
© gillena cox 2026
Something old - those photos faded now, seem strange and somewhat awkard, faces disappearing within past times
Something new will perhaps be so, for mere moments; time and technology in a fierce battle of existing and continuing.
Something borrowed - does anything really belong? is anything even really owned? Food, clothing, rites and rituals
Something blue like the sky, which scientists report is not coloured so but only appears thus. Not to be confusing. So don't overthink it
© gillena cox
A most embrassing moment,
Why did he accept the challenge?
The band leader shouted,
Blow boy!
He put the horn to his lips and with all his might.
He blew.
The horn is not his instrument.
What he grew up playing, is the pan
© gillena cox
