Still Liquid

sf-coldwarstorm

Pic source: http://www.sciencemag.org

Humanity will find peace,
even within the storm;
a ferocity that engulfs a body
and makes it limp, exhausted and mute
will also embrace the indifference
of each soul’s worship –
just as honey drips
stubborn and slow –
ultimately it will be free
as the storm dissipates.

Satin Sheet

ic_1519412204_780x_false Pic source:  Mountain Journal.

(06.12.2010)

Kneeling down on her soft bed, my eyes follow
hollow sounding, icy trails from hot breath;
my hands hold the deep, voluptuous curves
of an ice maiden, languishing e’er long this coldest
of winters.
A contradiction; how easy she melts
at the first caress and too soon my heart aches
for callous black ice to keep forever the footprints
of yesteryear, sadly only imprinted forever in memory –
how quickly they disappear in warmer times.
Is it by tender touch and passionate farewell, or does the iconic
Lady of Winter, as yet unloved, simply
shake off her shrill wrap to vanish once more?

Haeddre

heddir

Haeddre 29/7/2016

(i)
It is fine to be in balance, to hear wistful
cries like invisible veins in the winds,
and see lucky, white strands among
the heather’s Scottish highlands’ type
of sobbing, and to listen as the wind speaks
in gusts; inhaling deeply as if sucking
up a thought before breathing it out
smoothly in a musical phrase.

(ii)
Our giggles are swept away instantly
as we try to stand with pale, bare,
chicken legs; goose pimples and heads
lift deliberately so that we may
be bludgeoned by the wind – our cheeks
are malleable like Playdoh as we turn
to face the brave. Lana’s spectacles
are nudged from their cosy space; nudged
all the while with nary a murmur or complaint
right up until she would trip – her straight
edged, rimmed nose would turn red
underneath freckles that are faint traces
of sunlit birds across a pale expanse
of water rippling.

(iii)
We chat to silver grey, wise, stone heads
happily serenaded by loose petals and grass
quills that are a cosy squire collar for the rugged,
Celtic boulders we sit on. Our nimble fingers
grazed with youth pull dandelions from the roots
amid awkward silences – our actions solicit
a cheeky shrug because we like to hear
them tear – it is a validation of their freedom
from the tough soil as they relinquish
mystery and ghostly Celtic charm,
which is the flesh of the sturdy hillsides
that creep up to all but touch blue zircon sky.

(iv)
Craggy tutus tentatively hold large birds
that, once settled, will disappear
into trances; filtering the world as it sails
by the bewitched and twisting heads
of the Little Owl sleeping while hawks
pierce our eardrums as we fight on, tumbling –
in a race to be the first to conquer this hillside.
We brazenly slide down part way; rough
and ready vanquishers of these grassy mosses
aching from its boulders – our bruises
become the glorious, purple heather down
of our flesh – an indelible tattoo of these glens
already strewn with magical, inked
emblems.

(v)
Exhausted high jinks and chattering
laughter are heightened by stiffening
cold bones – windstorms activate
the grasses motivated by our tomfoolery.
Atop the hill we are puffed and exhausted,
we heave breathless for a while.
Our pigeon chests make us feel like king
and queen, but crinkled noses redefine
our stature and we settle for duke
and duchess given our ragamuffin
elbows and dirty knees, proudly assembled
as witnesses.

(vi)
I kiss my Haeddre, Duchess of Green
Flowers and the White Heather – night giver
to the moon – and I take her slender wrist
until we sit cross legged on nested fauna
and we are draped in the dying sun’s finery;
our shoulders’ shadow becomes a black cloak
glinting regal charm, and her crown is scattered
sun drops escaping the last squeeze of citrus;
they caress her head, anointing it,
just as surging, billowing clouds bid the day
farewell. Gusty breaths deepen around our hilltop
and dozing birds grip their stake with talons
on point and ready.

(vii)
The common buzzard circles in the subdued
hints of autumn’s orange skies, and sounds
of the playful Little Owl sing out.
As our red hands and cold, white knuckles
sit together over our dirty knees, I feel
her pigtails shudder on her shoulders
when I catch her staring at me staring
with eyes full – made moist by the wind.
Aye, It is fine to be aware and look down
on our blustery kingdom’s fine swathe.

Paint Fumes

marks-2539986__340

I have maybe three events before the end of the year.  I  have met my target for 2019 with lots of help.  Onto next year, she says prematurely.   Above all, I do hope you are all well… and happy.

Take care, all.

 

I have always pictured us
as heavenly,

but often, I see a smirk

or a frown, then raillery
invades – not a lot, but

just enough to
make me sink –

right down, down, down
to  deeper depths
where even right sharks can’t breathe,
and they too ignore
my angst.

 I am
forced to think again, and
between the lines
of a complex mind

as my life treads water, it should be simple,
but it is, ironically, hanging by a simple,
thread.
Or is it more?

So, lose me, please,

since I am perpetually in between,

but don’t –
as, I  will be so lost
in between –

the abuse of me –
I have seen the realm
multiple times,

and the inner me,
of course,
will never believe
in ourselves;

so, trust me, please –
and all I can ask

is that you hold me,
so that I can try
and feel all of these lines…

I fear, I am the one
who will be lost,

I will be gone soon,
but never not yours.

Believe me, I will not go for free.

Trust me,
I will be still be there for you,

But, will you be ever be
there for me?

 

New Stuff #CRUK #charity#hand painted crafts

As it Comes

Hi,  I just wanted to add a video and some of the new promotional things I made using my hand crafted items, as larger signage was needed.  I hope you’re all well!

Two dimensional
Satan has no place in art’s
man made persona

Streaming sunlight
on gracious passage of souls
golden heron fly

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New Buds

 

rotten fruit new buds.jpg

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.

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