Poetry – As it Comes

Sunset Senses

I smile at sunset’s throng of small songbirds
singing out while nuzzling their nested fauna,
dreamily chirping ‘til sleep stills them.
Resting in treetops higher than dusk,
but still lower than the scattering raindrops,
they are held firmly by devoted arms that reach
forever into the night, soaring upward
to heaven to sleep there ’til dawn.

I stare into the long, last looks of the sky
before unused clouds crawl along alone
into dark slumber where dreams wait to explode.
Glancing at the flowers’ closed petals
in graceful sleep, the moon casts a shadow
on their last blushes as the day grows weary;
their scent lingers freely and comes closer
to me through the tranquil grace of nightfall,
and we walk hand in hand through the garden
at this quiet time.

I listen to the tinkling of ivory
from the stream playing right underneath
my window as it wends its weary way into the
night, moving freely in its dream state;
asleep already but forever moving
closer to a new dawn in another
world somewhere out there and beyond
our scope – to bask always in moonlight’s
infinite pond.

I love the setting of the golden sun as she lays
out her gilded robes; all too soon she will
adorn them once more, but for now she rests
and allows the beauty of an argent face to watch
over us in the darkness. Once inside the night,
the moon caresses the tips of nightfall wherever
it touches and we all slip silently into sleep.
If we’re lucky we soar high and meet
the heavens in our dreams and wake to live
them a thousand fold once daylight’s
waking moment’s blossom.

Nascent Ripples

I stood, as if naked,
stripped by the haughty sheen
that shimmered
against a backdrop
of infinite darkness,
and just a few faltering steps
before the earth’s moon tide.
Sharp highlights
played across the vast, black silken sheet –
and struck the deathly stare
thrown up from its ruptured surface;
with each nascent twinkle,
a wink of adulation
ran across its undulating body.
Murmurs in faint echoes ache
from more tender moments;
the sounds of their soft crescendo
hushed in tune to the ocean,
blow past my still feet
until its quiet fade
takes a life flowing within me.
Our lives, no longer enmeshed,
are hungry and empty.
Slowly, surely, quietly
the stars lay down with me, peacefully,
in the guise of a restless sleep.

Where the Snow Wont Go

Image source unknown.

Soulless, half light shivers

as the creaking ache

of an arching snow bow

let’s loose its crisp, prismatic teardrops

to pick at snowdrifts

slumped against jagged, dusted walls

where dreams are snagged before dissolving.

Slowly, the stark ice crumples

giving way under soft,

unforgiving deep snow –

glass smooth hills’

broken finger nails

clutch shattered icicles spilling

the tortured, slow

drips, pooling as far as blinding white

trails allow, ’til

springtime finally breaks us;

how easily she melts

and too soon my heart aches

for callous black ice

to keep forever the footprints

of yesteryear –

I hate how quickly they disappear

and take you with it.

Where did the snow go?

Chalk Bones

My polished cheeks inherited

these whispered blushes.

Above them sits one jewel

in the traverse

of my brow’s flesh –

a stream of teardrops,

permanently nestle

in the body of my face –

they remind me of the child

caught crying

in ink black darkness

where the silver shadows

of pale moons would try to invade

her solemnity –

Occasionally,

we would dance

a reflection; swooning and

dipping, dodging emptiness,

faded scars and the morass

of past pain, redacted,

and the remains left to degrade.

Calm, moon chalk

expressions would beat down

in rhythmic shadows on my chest,

imposing stoic interruptions

where my stolid heart should be;

still at press pause, afraid of my

its heartbeat, of my organs,

of mnemonic patterns –

countless disjointed

memories have scattered,

fluttering endlessly like crazed

butterflies –

out of control

in chasms of grey, fleshy matter

where pretty cacti run my veins –

flower buds, seldom seen,

are happy there

forcing blood, forcing life.

I bang on the mirror…

until cracks fill with my blood –

like grime and dirt,

the pain of my disease

is ingrained –

it cannot be wiped away –

so my reflection oscillates.

I roll my cheeks one at a time;

offering warm flesh pressed hard

against cold glass –

my orange painted lips linger,

to mouth a prayer –

‘let my bones break

so that I might heal.’

I resolve one day to stop this

dance of attrition – and smear on

the neon, shop bought face mask,

swapping sorrows for sin,

and wade out from the steamy mire –

memories wiped, facets polished, pores unclogged –

for a little while

at least.

Cold cupped hands beat

the rhythm of the rain – the pale moonshine

is still smothered in shade –

ashen faced, I am inside the mirror,

but at least, I am whole.

Desolate sounds

O quilted sky,
drape gently on me,
here in my shallow darkness.

Before the moon is high,
let me in as nightfall’s
shadow soaked image
becomes secreted
under such a fine cloak,
and this day, which has seen
all there is to see,
is hidden underneath it all.

As I lay crying, I will remember
not to wish or want for it all;
sadness is what it is –
but, because it is nightfall
where no one can see me,
I will share my thoughts
before I dream
to the edge of sleep –
and until its frayed corners
sift the yawns of sunshine
and covers this bed.

No doubt, I will rise refreshed
on my bleak horizon,
and watch the morning’s
soft dew dissipate
with tears still in my eyes
as I try to escape with it

into the air’s naked light –
where birds, half lit, wake
to congregate as buds on boughs
with fingers spread to
temper such glowing
melody; their songs will echo
the stirring winds ’til this full chorus
becomes the daylight of each new day,
and, only then, can I be tempted to breathe it all in.

Missy

Her skin is fair, lightly freckled and starkly
contrasts her ambiguous demeanour.
I always tip my cap, ‘Good day, Miss,’
but she never casts a glance.
I carry on my way, meandering
deep in wild thoughts that are always
honeysuckle, blue grass, rosehips
and my Miss.
The sun beats down on she and us,
but when my Miss smiles, the heavens open
and it pours, dare I say, it rains tears.
My thinking is, it can not compete
with the lovely lady who does not care
if I live or die, because I know us to be just
a part of my wildest dreams –
the place I go to swiftly as I pass
the dingy, rusted via duct
on my way to work –
I pass that way often, my dreams,
so as not to be seduced by the muggy
waters of brown stench lying along my trail.
Deep down, I think it may just take time.
Today, anyway, I saw a glimmer,
a near warming at the corners of her mouth,
but it could have been the damp, or
maybe, just maybe, as she meanders
to her dress shop,
bypassing her own thoughts and dreams, she is
smiling as she thinks of me.
Maybe.
But, ah, I hear the whistle. Time for work.
Until tomorrow then, Miss.

The Raven

Raven, black, atop a tree

Screamed religion spuriously

Bleak-black probed me; evil glee

Before I shot it dead

Raven crowned so hideously

In a dream he came to me

Pitch black, vacant eyes I see

Before he swooped on dread

Raven claws insidiously

Gouge my own indemnity

Black robe swoops to smother me

Before tearing flesh, he said

Raven, black, atop the tree

Why do you seek to crucify me?

I only ask as courtesy

Before I shoot you dead

Visionary Heart

My trembles are you;
a part of you so ingrained,
entrenched within my mental and moral constitution.

I pity there is no eternal power
nor anomaly
in this wayward stack
of melting rainbows –
none at all, it seems,
to guide me.

Overwhelmed by a myriad
of colour,
I retreat and ache
in this dichotomy-
placed centrally in the valves
of my heart; unborn,
unloved, but aghast
at prospects of warmed honey
and dislodged membranes.

Within this dimension,
I seek solace
and that elusive eternal power
to catch all of the colours,
to hold them vehemently,
as potent, unadulterated lust;
a lust for life, a lust for equity,
a lust for consumption

of everything about everything
and something about you.

I have been too busy fundraising to write until I saw an email post of one of my ultimate female writers, and I was energised (and inspired by) My Valiant Soul.https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/2022/07/08/to-the-poets-i-have-been-reading-all-these-years/#like-5366 and some of her thoughts.

A Haunting

A shadow’s clear face –
is that my haunted muse?

I too am wary of past’s ghosts,
squeezed by daylight
into ethereal painted diaphanous
landscapes,

and where equally pellucid capes
waft in the nothingness
of such a delicate dimension.

Sunshine filters
through the interstices
of arching trees –
their spindly finger shadows
pierce the throb
of my ripened veins
resting
under the mirror
of spider branches
hanging lazily –

adust words
tease the vastly hollow chambers
of my heart and mind

whilst unwanted ghosts, these stark
strangers, pass by me
trying to scavenge my thoughts –
thoughts once hid, but which now bustle briskly
under this fair poplar – but adamantly
refuse daylight in their presence

my muse blows timidly
to rustle up my tired parchments
not scratched since autumn opened its eyes
on the majestic fade of green –

before it reawakens – under these dreaming spires,
I will write a sonnet for her –

to coax, to not be afraid of ghosts,
nor reconcile me with my own
by her very absence –

me thinks I’ll keep it safe in heart,
away from prying eyes and strangers’ judgement
at least until summer comes again.

I see you, haunted muse
come out from the shadows.

Cherish the Mortal

I speak low lest
my love evaporates
before e’en kissed
by your infant’s breath,
and beg before day’s
whispered hush
ascends to nightfall;
small child, look at me
one last time
before you crawl away as slow
as time roams vast.

Too soon,
tomorrow’s
branches laced
with the chirp of sweet song
will bow to cradle this dear life –
and since time nor death
show mercy –
warm arms
shall send him safely
unto a strange, beatific world,
where all will be waiting

all, except for me.