Frivolity, My heart

Wouldst thou call
on love’s embrace
and its clumsy cuffs
of flimsy lace
to wrap warmly
and surround thee

when spectral lights
adorn the sky,
and snow ghosts,
haughty, loom at night
only to come and haunt thee,

and if thou were touched by such
as she and her lustrous trumpery,
wouldst thou still forswear
under this black maire,
our undying love, but yet vow
to leave me?

Wouldst thy call on it?

Sunset Senses

I smile at sunset’s throng of small songbirds
singing out while nuzzling their nested fauna,
dreamily chirping ‘til sleep stills them.
Resting in treetops higher than dusk,
but still lower than the scattering raindrops,
they are held firmly by devoted arms that reach
forever into the night, soaring upward
to heaven to sleep there ’til dawn.

I stare into the long, last looks of the sky
before unused clouds crawl along alone
into dark slumber where dreams wait to explode.
Glancing at the flowers’ closed petals
in graceful sleep, the moon casts a shadow
on their last blushes as the day grows weary;
their scent lingers freely and comes closer
to me through the tranquil grace of nightfall,
and we walk hand in hand through the garden
at this quiet time.

I listen to the tinkling of ivory
from the stream playing right underneath
my window as it wends its weary way into the
night, moving freely in its dream state;
asleep already but forever moving
closer to a new dawn in another
world somewhere out there and beyond
our scope – to bask always in moonlight’s
infinite pond.

I love the setting of the golden sun as she lays
out her gilded robes; all too soon she will
adorn them once more, but for now she rests
and allows the beauty of an argent face to watch
over us in the darkness. Once inside the night,
the moon caresses the tips of nightfall wherever
it touches and we all slip silently into sleep.
If we’re lucky we soar high and meet
the heavens in our dreams and wake to live
them a thousand fold once daylight’s
waking moment’s blossom.

Nascent Ripples

I stood, as if naked,
stripped by the haughty sheen
that shimmered
against a backdrop
of infinite darkness,
and just a few faltering steps
before the earth’s moon tide.
Sharp highlights
played across the vast, black silken sheet –
and struck the deathly stare
thrown up from its ruptured surface;
with each nascent twinkle,
a wink of adulation
ran across its undulating body.
Murmurs in faint echoes ache
from more tender moments;
the sounds of their soft crescendo
hushed in tune to the ocean,
blow past my still feet
until its quiet fade
takes a life flowing within me.
Our lives, no longer enmeshed,
are hungry and empty.
Slowly, surely, quietly
the stars lay down with me, peacefully,
in the guise of a restless sleep.

Remembrance

Picture: unknown source. The sad plight of the hot spots in this one world lingering on the brink, makes me wonder, have we forgotten? I have a picture of my grandad in the world war as young boy in uniform sitting on his horse, his mates fighting in trenches… they’re doing that still in Ukraine. Slava Ukraine!

‘Miss me not ‘til I have died,
then always remember me…’

In the early glow of dawn,
silence rolls on the bosom
of heavy clouds –
solemn doves, in a new formation,
accompany sunrise, as if hearing
the sound of an abundance of rain.

Above tumulus soil,
peace remains a warm blanket
for all who were lost there,
since death is an aching cold,
and mired in these fatigued
and embattled lands –
lands where life spilled,
and courage was mulch
to the seeds that were sown.
Acres of crimson mist undulates,
to waft forever in cool breezes;
its pitch black eyes peer
through the ruddy murk,
we feel the pulse of its stoic heart,
and, we are touched
by the dew atop each poppy’s blade –
all are there to remind us still,
and without words
often drowned by time.

Raindrops sheet in silver threads
to lace our silent tears. And, as the flight
of doves let loose like windswept petals,
to surrender one by one, we humbly
promise

to always remember,
and, shame on us if we fail.

Where the Snow Wont Go

Image source unknown.

Soulless, half light shivers

as the creaking ache

of an arching snow bow

let’s loose its crisp, prismatic teardrops

to pick at snowdrifts

slumped against jagged, dusted walls

where dreams are snagged before dissolving.

Slowly, the stark ice crumples

giving way under soft,

unforgiving deep snow –

glass smooth hills’

broken finger nails

clutch shattered icicles spilling

the tortured, slow

drips, pooling as far as blinding white

trails allow, ’til

springtime finally breaks us;

how easily she melts

and too soon my heart aches

for callous black ice

to keep forever the footprints

of yesteryear –

I hate how quickly they disappear

and take you with it.

Where did the snow go?

Chalk Bones

My polished cheeks inherited

these whispered blushes.

Above them sits one jewel

in the traverse

of my brow’s flesh –

a stream of teardrops,

permanently nestle

in the body of my face –

they remind me of the child

caught crying

in ink black darkness

where the silver shadows

of pale moons would try to invade

her solemnity –

Occasionally,

we would dance

a reflection; swooning and

dipping, dodging emptiness,

faded scars and the morass

of past pain, redacted,

and the remains left to degrade.

Calm, moon chalk

expressions would beat down

in rhythmic shadows on my chest,

imposing stoic interruptions

where my stolid heart should be;

still at press pause, afraid of my

its heartbeat, of my organs,

of mnemonic patterns –

countless disjointed

memories have scattered,

fluttering endlessly like crazed

butterflies –

out of control

in chasms of grey, fleshy matter

where pretty cacti run my veins –

flower buds, seldom seen,

are happy there

forcing blood, forcing life.

I bang on the mirror…

until cracks fill with my blood –

like grime and dirt,

the pain of my disease

is ingrained –

it cannot be wiped away –

so my reflection oscillates.

I roll my cheeks one at a time;

offering warm flesh pressed hard

against cold glass –

my orange painted lips linger,

to mouth a prayer –

‘let my bones break

so that I might heal.’

I resolve one day to stop this

dance of attrition – and smear on

the neon, shop bought face mask,

swapping sorrows for sin,

and wade out from the steamy mire –

memories wiped, facets polished, pores unclogged –

for a little while

at least.

Cold cupped hands beat

the rhythm of the rain – the pale moonshine

is still smothered in shade –

ashen faced, I am inside the mirror,

but at least, I am whole.

Desolate sounds

O quilted sky,
drape gently on me,
here in my shallow darkness.

Before the moon is high,
let me in as nightfall’s
shadow soaked image
becomes secreted
under such a fine cloak,
and this day, which has seen
all there is to see,
is hidden underneath it all.

As I lay crying, I will remember
not to wish or want for it all;
sadness is what it is –
but, because it is nightfall
where no one can see me,
I will share my thoughts
before I dream
to the edge of sleep –
and until its frayed corners
sift the yawns of sunshine
and covers this bed.

No doubt, I will rise refreshed
on my bleak horizon,
and watch the morning’s
soft dew dissipate
with tears still in my eyes
as I try to escape with it

into the air’s naked light –
where birds, half lit, wake
to congregate as buds on boughs
with fingers spread to
temper such glowing
melody; their songs will echo
the stirring winds ’til this full chorus
becomes the daylight of each new day,
and, only then, can I be tempted to breathe it all in.

Missy

Her skin is fair, lightly freckled and starkly
contrasts her ambiguous demeanour.
I always tip my cap, ‘Good day, Miss,’
but she never casts a glance.
I carry on my way, meandering
deep in wild thoughts that are always
honeysuckle, blue grass, rosehips
and my Miss.
The sun beats down on she and us,
but when my Miss smiles, the heavens open
and it pours, dare I say, it rains tears.
My thinking is, it can not compete
with the lovely lady who does not care
if I live or die, because I know us to be just
a part of my wildest dreams –
the place I go to swiftly as I pass
the dingy, rusted via duct
on my way to work –
I pass that way often, my dreams,
so as not to be seduced by the muggy
waters of brown stench lying along my trail.
Deep down, I think it may just take time.
Today, anyway, I saw a glimmer,
a near warming at the corners of her mouth,
but it could have been the damp, or
maybe, just maybe, as she meanders
to her dress shop,
bypassing her own thoughts and dreams, she is
smiling as she thinks of me.
Maybe.
But, ah, I hear the whistle. Time for work.
Until tomorrow then, Miss.

The Raven

Raven, black, atop a tree

Screamed religion spuriously

Bleak-black probed me; evil glee

Before I shot it dead

Raven crowned so hideously

In a dream he came to me

Pitch black, vacant eyes I see

Before he swooped on dread

Raven claws insidiously

Gouge my own indemnity

Black robe swoops to smother me

Before tearing flesh, he said

Raven, black, atop the tree

Why do you seek to crucify me?

I only ask as courtesy

Before I shoot you dead

Ketley

Ketley was a burly man, and because of our differences over the years, he and I stood at the end of an aching pole; his muscled arms were bent on pulling in that monster.  He often snarled mid heave.  I was sure, at times, he would have loved the head on that line to have been mine.  I may have been wrong, but I had chills that morning on the river; strong notions, dare I say it, that I couldn’t cast aside.

He froze my core with his backward glances as he caught me reminiscing.  I knew how wrong, but at the same time, how tantalising my dalliances had been with his shapely fair-haired, sassy woman, whom I did love with all my heart.

Had I been altogether spoiled for choices, I could have kept her, instead of being plainly faced with death’s place underground.  So, I kissed her farewell and braced myself for the wrath of Ketley, but why we had to meet here of all places  was not a curiosity to me.

His sights were held firmly on that there bleak as hell’s charmed water, and god knows what he thought was underneath it all.

“Give me that small hook, will you?” He growled at me with a threatened animal growl – that low noise in its throat – usually, it meant it was angry.  He looked at me hard, and that always made me go cold.  He was angry.

What he called a small hook could have suspended a small calf.  The cold steel was sharp and grey,  and it looked like it could pierce three men at a time – and I was just one.  Still, I had trusted him all of my life, and I didn’t necessarily want to stop now.  Also, I had an escape planned.

I handed the hook to him as I recoiled involuntarily, and at the same time, I watched my sweat be flung into the Four Corners of a god-an awful night’s sea swell.  He swung the steely crook over the boat’s edge and it soon took hold of the hellish, glistening creature he had managed to draw alongside us.  It was magnificent. It was huge!  God almighty, it could have been the devil.  I’d never seen a catch that size.  Heh, in my mind, he should have rode off majestically then and there on that critter!

But instead, he started talking, and not in the angry voice I’d anticipated for most of the night; he was too watchful of the water, and seemingly, any possible onlookers.  I sat back away from him just in case.  He seemed calm and collected as he (just like that) asked me if I felt confident enough to run his livery, and that he ‘knew for damn sure’ I could take care of his wife.  But what about his three kids?

I stammered for quite a while, both inside and out – the words just would not come.  My mouth?  Well, that giant fish from hell was looking mighty interested in its large space as my jaw got wider and wider.   Despite the abundance of torrid sea water, my mouth just plain dried.

“Just as I thought.”  His creased to bust eyebrows all of a sudden burst.  He savagely continued with,  “Thinkin’ with yer groin, but with actions of a jellyfish.  So, yeah, meet yer maker, squirt!|

Plunging into the freezing dark perdition of my predicament, I felt a hitherto calming warmth, as if hell froze for me all that was bad.  Ketley saw wrongdoing and acted… and  I, at the time, only saw curvaceous smiles, fear, her desperation and a hallelujah heaven awaitin’, and so, I indeed acted.  But who was right?

By now that great creature of a fish was as damn inconsequential as one might get.  And me?  I was a goner, but also didn’t altogether mightily care two hoots.  Ketley went home, she froze as she always did and turned for warmth to another, who soon joined me in purgatory for cosy chats and fishing and good times.  I knew just by commons sense, she would soon be joining me.

Visionary Heart

‘Pinterest’

My trembles are you;
a part of you so ingrained,
entrenched within my mental and moral constitution.

I pity there is no eternal power
nor anomaly
in this wayward stack
of melting rainbows –
none at all, it seems,
to guide me.

Overwhelmed by a myriad
of colour,
I retreat and ache
in this dichotomy-
placed centrally in the valves
of my heart; unborn,
unloved, but aghast
at prospects of warmed honey
and dislodged membranes.

Within this dimension,
I seek solace
and that elusive eternal power
to catch all of the colours,
to hold them vehemently,
as potent, unadulterated lust;
a lust for life, a lust for equity,
a lust for consumption

of everything about everything
and something about you.

I have been too busy fundraising to write until I saw an email post of one of my ultimate female writers, and I was energised (and inspired by) My Valiant Soul.https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/2022/07/08/to-the-poets-i-have-been-reading-all-these-years/#like-5366 and some of her thoughts.