Song for a Bluebird

An old one for an old one…happy Valentine’s day, Jay.

(And all of you good people).

As it Comes

Dedicated to my husband, Jay (Bluejay)

pink tree

walk me to the end
of love, let us be love

fold me where the
seams are stitched

edges brought closer
till there is no end

play until the piano
aches, when drifting sighs

start dancing and crooning
violins stop playing

lift me like a hope
seeking light from dust

hold me with your beauty
like a soul on fire

let me be the risk you take
dance me to the edge

wait with me until the end
of love, let us be love.

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River Song ~ #Quadrille

reeds

For d’Verse Quadrille 50.  Other entries here.

Wistful waters murmur
harmonious, tranquil notes,
stirring the streams
that run the course
of our age’s peaks and troughs –
ululating reservoirs pool
naturally when catastrophes
become walled dams.
Unabated, the simple reed’s voice
needs no coax from restless winds
to play us healing songs.

A quadrille is a 44 word poem.
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The Missing Infrared Filter

Still busy…posting over piles of paint!  Weird in itself.

I was inspired by this video a while ago now.

As it Comes

First seen on The Photo Nomad – check out his amazing photography, Video shot and cut by Philip Bloom – music Beethoven’s 2nd -7th movement.

Blue-grey steel’s cigar belly glides
ever so slowly rubbing against harsh,
smoky skies,
the passenger jet’s roar and metallic
greying temples are oblivious to the removal
of barriers
slowing to 33 and a third –
in harmony,
as if Beethoven’s 7th (2nd movement)
permeating our fibres
was a summons to a world temporarily
captured by an invisible lens – within it
an easy going dreamscape lie is being
created.
Muted walks on pavements, carpeted
with tufts of individualism, create
one of surrealism’s manifestations – filling
the landscape with a strangeness,
the mystery of someone’s characteristic
dream.
Moving sedately – re configured
and with newly defined algorithms, we
perform
…………like a
…………..solemn
…………….metronome
………………finger
………………..adrift
………………….on the timbre
……………………of a
……………………..masterpiece’s voice,
……………………….our tempo
………………………… is…

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See the Ivy

I wrote this way, way back…did a quick edit.  Inspired by the ‘b’ side of a Kate Bush song.  I hope you enjoy it.

Feeringbury_Manor_garden_steps,_Feering_Essex_England_-_low_sun.jpg

‘It won’t take me long
to show you where to find me,
to show you where I’ll be…’

Her skirts brush a path through a dusting of dead soil trying to steal
the crazily paved thoughts that lead the way down through the tolling bells
of Fuchsia that ring only in her ears.

Wilted scent long since a memory, wafts past her nostrils only.
Birds never sing or hover gently – there are
no lush enticements such as sunlight or colour for them to repose in.

The ivy, once triumphant in its climb, has grown weary;
its brittle hands crumble without so much as a touch,
just as she would, and so easily, we fear.

Heavy oak doors sigh and groan as a frail, ashen gesture
endears her to them, and they give as if opening for her
and her alone. She turns to wave us on, and she smiles at us,

the intruders into this labyrinth of sadness, where melancholic
blossoms lay forlorn at her feet. She does not see us –
she does not see anything at all – but she smiles knowingly,

tilting her head back slightly as the wind begins a cooling serenade
causing her gait to slow. She comes to rest upon a mildewed bench –
her skirts still once more, and there she waits;

we cannot tell for what or for whom, and not just from the widening
of her smile. She heaves a heavy sigh and plucks imaginary petals
from a spent stem, long since dried and rotted.

She plucks rhythmically to the deadened beat of her tired heart.
But for her, inside her secret garden, inside of her walled off mind, the beautiful colours fall lazily, and one by one, she counts them all.

‘He loves me,
he loves me not,
he loves…’

We tip our hats and bid her good day, all of us without the heart
to remove her from within – from her secret garden… and she smiles.

Memories

imagesV6ZET47P

When we were a twinkle in the Gods’ eyes.  He would write, I would interject,  and still hate poetry.

Remember
when we strolled through the trees,
our breath mingling in the air,
kissing in the dark
like us?

The air wrapped around us like
your arms about
me.

Remember
when we wrote crappy poems,
our spirits connected once more,
expressing the feelings
inside us?

The words came alive though us
as we did when we could
be.

Remember
when we danced in the rain,
our hearts singing to be there,
exploring the world
around us?

Soaked by spirits
that came to us.
We saw through them to
see.

Remember
when we watched the sunrise,
our bodies warm and tired in bed,
imagining the new day
before us?

Lazy sunlight wakened us
and shone on thoughts that broke
free.

Remember
when I told you I love you,
my being happy at last
delighting and revelling
in all of you?

Remember?

I remember there is an us,
and love enough from both,
a we.

And remember the future
and the memories still unwritten,
our pages blank
wanting and waiting
just for us.

I will remember to write,
and fill the spaces
just for us