Futon #Haiku

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closer to earth
nearer to heaven
my aching bones

Cats #Haiku

the coldness of
an empty lap
old cat hairs

Seasons Haiku#

spring sunshine
the slow drip
of icicles

winds gently knock
tall shadows
creak

humming birds
a blush of ruby vests
summer haze

 

 

New Buds

 

In twilight’s dank and odious arbour,
I look for solace among dead vines.
Their choking hands admit and harbour
Many lies from within their strands.

Too deathly pale the honey suckle rose,
Its pallid echoes breathe and gasp.
Its frown then holds me, and does suppose,
That I too, am often left to the cold.

I bite on rotten forbidden fruits,
Long forgotten and refused by time.
Frightening, but appetising are these shoots
They let me retch whilst savouring.

Dig Deep #domestic abuse #hypocrite

Theresa May – Traitor in action.  Hypocrite.

A little rant and a p-o-e-m in light of increasing domestic abuse and even unrecognised domestic abuse depending on perspective and bribes.   With the embodiment of the courts, and this time, the realm, our ex fuckwit prime minister, who by her actions,  has condoned domestic abuse –  is saying that it is ok to beat up women – by recommending that an ex con and domestic abuser should get a medal (a Knighthood).  That is not right.  He played cricket for England, and he was/is a hero?  But, in reality, he is an arsehole and a criminal.

It is not OK to say that women are here to be beaten, abused and trod on.  So, I thought, nah, I cannot stand for this either, and I won’t.

I emailed my local MP.   And, I will keep emailing until she stands up in parliament and speaks.   Our ex PM granted an honour in her resignation honours list (an archaic entitlement, which is highly immoral in this case) to an abuser and ex crim.  But she, as a privileged, right wing B******* gave it to this one, her pal.   With that, she has let another vicious genie out from its bottle – again, that is ok to beat up a women.

Bury me deeply
so that the sun can’t find
my heart,
and its sting cannot oblige
by tearing from my smouldering flesh,
small, peeling shadows of my life, or wisdom
and memories, or the pearls
of my faith that now run as sweat that cries, while streaming down
my ashen face;

my soul is already on fire,
and your hands are burning.
Bury me deeply
so that the crows you tame
will not abuse me,
until solace is no longer
a sacred place,
or death an arbitrary mulch.
Bury me deeply,
so that when your fists rage and pound
against the rise of dank, dark soil,
I will be blessed, and will not feel you.
And when you scream and shout,
begging for grief because I am not
there to blame –
crows scatter once again,
only to befriend me, oddly –
and because you will watch them shield me –
you should bury
me, deeply.

Tone

With every sound
of each word uttered
there is pause – a silence,
as if waiting for the touch
of a lover – distant still,
but out there.

Until such time,
words float as poetry
lightly wrought
on cool staves
only now just stirring;
no tone is forced, just harsh
and breathy –

they wait and would wait
forever,
as every song, like love,
is incomplete
until it hears its heart echo.

Amarita

Drink up my wine
since these dead and lonely dark nights prevail,
and countless, luminous stars will make you ordinary;
and you will yearn
whilst you struggle outside of me,

especially when caught up in these heaving times,
when precious ills pressed closest

to your undulating
chest, might cause you to succumb
or be fed whilst I am lost –

but you will learn that I am made up of hundreds,
and that you knew who I was –
till I married you –

but, please worship me still
amid cold comforts lost –

pray, come back inside,
leave naivety at the door
and, please beckon it not.

Let us be as it once was –

let us be as it should be.
Let us be love.