Shelter from the Storms (of Love)

 

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Should my mourning sky
not include you in it,
should your heavy sighs
not be for me and intimate,
it would be like the rain
inside its smoking haze of tears.
Should you not be there on wilder days
lending strong arms and shoulders
to shield me from my cloudy fears,
the leather would be so cold
and the chill air of night, bold.
Love, she scolds and yearns
because the bed is empty still,
despite I lay with hope
whilst here without you.

Her raging torrents beat me down,
and savage waves engulf
such as I am. At its meekest,
the crest of each tumult still carries me
as I witness a softening of her fiery face,
all of anguish and sad torment.
Night time brings lamenting grace
and equal cooling of her fervent wish.
I have embraced all storms in varied
measure, and this night which is nought but calm.
I am battle hardened but not weary,
and I will rest just enough to brace
myself for when love comes again –
bring on the storm.

Evaporated, she ran and hid,
I am a worthy opponent –
not even a slender emergence
of guise or flimsy skirt from which to beguile
and lavish on me the timid blows
she threatened to wreak.
All have subsided and been blown
off course. The storm, once afeared,
was ne’er more than
a consumption of air, the very air
I breathe and devour with such voracity –
and she cannot bare it;
hair swirling in distaste,
the uneasy swallow of bitter aftertaste,
that is me, and in my grief, I am the storm –
beware the calm.

We Close our Eyes

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Above our head, hail forms, plummeting to pin prick curiosity
just as the jilted spring we foresaw disappears from view;
we crawl back to hide between the shadows of winter and yesterday.

New bells toll and sound out the dawning sun but they refuse
it a foothold until pale and wan like the crisp, bitter flakes
of morbid snow and frostbitten mouths that feed in it.

As snow comes to ponder deeply, black crevasses are eked out;
we peek into them and risk falling in with no hope of rescue
by warmth or thaw or sunlight, all dwarfed by a blizzard’s gloom.

Whilst caught sleeping, the dimness of winter is swallowed up
by tell tale signs of blue, airy skies wafting overhead –
the lustre of azure water swims in its eagerness to set us free…

Houseboats

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Inspired by a tremendous haiku on Lize Bard

Why would the water be dead?
We have hope, enough to pour
into lost loams,
and to remember the lilies singing
one night past midnight
a long time ago.
Afloat they were on the darkest
green backgrounds of palms upturned,
creased with worry
atop a watery grave, I suppose.
We hugged as its mouth opened
and it breathed one night,
we nearly died of fright, but it
sucked them all in;
maybe we ignored their cries
due to sanity
tugging at our sleeves –
maybe cowardice too,
but with survival utmost in our minds.

What’s Up? ~ Cinquain

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Clean air,
gone in seconds.
Race with butterfly nets
across fields with jam jars aloft –
capture.

 

Keep badgering your local and central government until they get to grip on industry and look at rhe real issues afloat here.  We have a right to clean air and water.  They do not have a right to extortionate profit making at the expense of humanity.

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