Love’s Fair Bounty

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Picture: Vincent Van Gogh

What summer’s sad fair
wouldst have me grace thy lips rightly
without strokes of seduction?
Tantalising is it not when ripeness befits
us as hosts and we lay warmly against each?
O, to take comfort
from those comely eyes is indeed
like breath itself,
for they eagerly greet such slender hopes
with backs as yet unbroken against
the firmament’s green sheets,
and that from whence we lay, to steer to riches
inside of the vast continent orb above
this fair orchard is remarkable. ‘Tis little to suffer
her streamers of adulation as we cradle
true love’s generosity
amongst each other in these verdant fields.

Daily Post : Bounty

Screaming Nights

nightt

Bolt upright in bed
I am drenched
by crawling shadows
accompanying the sweat
running down me in tiny rivulets
which fall into every crevasse
until finally, both disappear.
I lay back down in the dark
and to the coldness
I fall prey too, once I am
removed from unkempt sleep,
but like an unwelcome cover
on a sweltered night
they both wrap themselves about me
as I toss and turn.
Held firm in their grip,
I breathe like the wretch
they will devour – the hollow
echo of sweeter dreams on
these scathing,
shallow nights don’t tame
their lust or cravings – instead
they mock my own,
poking fun at the emptiness
they clamour to reside
in until I am consumed and there
is no more of me.
I am  convinced they will leave nothing
in their wake,
nothing to greet life’s reawakening
each morning,
once the monster has had its way.
I lie here and try to breathe deeply,
until short, sharp, shallow
breaths take over, pushing me out of the way –
anxiety taking me over.
But still, I think to myself,
as its arms envelop
all of my hopes and dreams
and hopelessness takes over
making me cold from the tip of my toes
to the outermost reaches
of my nightmare,
things could be worse –
couldn’t they?
I turn over tentatively
reaching through the darkness –
a darkness which has a viscosity equal
to that of molasses, trapping
gossamer webs that hold
a thousand
deadly spiders – I
seek out the arm I can feel
in the shadows and say,
‘Warm me…’

Screaming Nights

Countless

The Daily Post Prompt Countless

Countless interventions
Of famine’s starving nations
They are lost
I tell you why
Countless story messages
Of rich and prosperous nations
They are full it
I tell no lie
It is this whole understanding
Now coming to bear
We close our eyes
Between the scares
We are here
and
They are there
They are poor
and
We don’t care
and
Life is rough
But
Never fair
Countless variations
from the rich, their condemnation
They are cruel
But say they try
Countless apprehension
When bureaucracy in motion
Grinds to a halt
Then asks a why
It’s an astute misunderstanding
Coming from promises
I hope we can
Overcome this
For this –
Just be there
For those out there
Always care
And not beware
…Or lie

Vulcan: God of Fire

volcano_0

A breath
stirs from the belly
of heavy, molten slumber,
moaning and grumbling.
Cold, hard lungs cough and inhale.

A tamed mouth, kept silent for too long
ruptures a white, cool silence as its voice erupts
into the heavens and offers up a prayer, this
god of fire reaches with deft claws to capture the timid skies.

Speech, free and flowing, driven and desperate as hungry amber
tones now argue in red fury, burning the earth’s crusted
feet and scorching the skin it ambles over. In the wake of self expression,
the cragged face of a new temple is quiet; it stands aloft but alone in the cool sky.

 

Syria – Face in the Crowd

Revised and published in the magazine I am not a silent poet.  Syria – Face in the Crowd.

Too many cold and lonely faces
in the crowd on board a cheerless boat

on top of a heartless ocean where swells
of desperation toss them up and down.

Innocent children’s squashed playtimes
scream wild excitement, confusion and fear?

A small babe, wide eyed, unaware, bereft
of warm suckling – sits on his knee,

still safe but the boat bares a heavy load,
much like their hearts.

Too many desperate families –
so much desperation in their eyes.

Rubbing together thin bones does not a fire make
and lost, wide eyes lower in bewilderment.

Faces in this crowd are turned to the world ahead
of them; hands held aloft is despair like a beacon

beckoning death, floating in the twilight -some dying –
no one will see them – there are too many.

Pleading, tired hands trace the waves
as they watch crying souls departing.

The ocean swells with bodies
scarred and torn – they at last are now free?

He holds aloft his small shivering bundle,
arms stretched high from the gaping mouth

of a hungry sea whose scoundrel’s dimples distort
when rain batters it with torrential madness

punishing him for wanting to be safe,
punishing him for wanting to be free,

punishing him for wanting a new land
punishment for him and his family.

Grasping fingers can almost feel the sand,
taste the food they will never eat, smell clean beds

they will never sleep in beyond those insidious
shores where their dreams lay basking.

Some more will perish; defeat and resignation
takes up precious space. Hope, life and longing

fall away like paper petals strewn,
petiole are too weak, pot bound and cramped.

This tired boat struggles to keep afloat
remnants of their life – life needs room to grow.

He cries for someone to take his son
before he kisses him and slips into the abyss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shadow Dancer – Daily Post Prompt

Long dark shadows run from her toes
A dancer in silhouette creates her prose
With soft, silken movements she begins to talk
Her stillness is silence; she begins to walk
Long strides denote words seldom heard before
A tall, slender shadow follows behind on the floor

Cascading hair gleams and falls with grace
Swirling and curling covering her face
She carries on her poetry; she moves again
But stumbles and glides to where her shadow had lain
Her words stop flowing and the dark shapes are no more
A hand brushes her forehead it is the shadow from the floor

It surrounds her broken spirit with a plethora of new words
They rise together singing, arms fluttering like birds
They speak in angelic chorus with notes high and long
Turning their words into sonnets and sonnets into song
Paleness now dampens their bright moon’s glow
Silently they watch shadows fade and slowly go.

The sun casts a new theme a rich golden haze
Mist becomes their music and they dance in a daze
Talking in gestures, rhyming rhythmically and grand
The dew takes the place of shadows where they stand
Silencing their dance and with a garland in her hair
She pirouettes under crown in a radiance filled air

Their words have been spoken in a dance now complete
A cool wind rolls, wrapping leaves around still feet
She looks up from the earth but the shadow isn’t there
She tries to tilt her head to the suns stringent glare
Her gaze is stolen by chinks of light at play
It is the shadow dancer in the trees as they sway

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