Song for a Bluebird

Picture source: art for CRUK: Anta Nabonne

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 me until the piano
aches, just as 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.

Song for a Bluebird

I’m starting another year fundraising for CRUK, and painting my socks off again for my first event on 23rd February.  Sorry I haven’t been able to get around to your blogs and good works yet.  I hope you all have a lovely Valentine’s day,  loving one another, and many others.  Be kind and careful.   Here are some of my hearts for you from last year’s painting spree.  Take care.

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 me till 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

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

Walnut

malformed_with_misintent_by_sfreidin-daiktes.jpg

poetry-surreal-trees-walnut-writingasitcomes

Poetry dances me,
with its incorrigible vice.
In the beauty of silence
naked jawbones crack
a fleshless shudder.
Torrid words smirk,
as they fall into your walnut air
in small pieces.
Particles, heavy of scent,
cascade
from my mouth
exploding further
into this silence –
silence is the page we write on –
dance with me.

Burnt Orange

fire-49954_960_720

Silent autumn’s hands are winding,
Curling up others in another sleep –
Sweep me a pyre, statuesque.
Winds come and merge from all four corners,
Finally they meet undanced as yet.

Crisped bronzed fires are set ablaze,
Browned slaves are tossed and cast adrift –
Swept but sculpted, arabesque.
All of the fallen, recipient mourners,
Are deftly ushered, to their kismet.

Adagio

Gravure_door_Reinier_van_Persijn

Beats of time reverberate wholeheartedly,
Echoes reply and carry on the game.

Ages pass without compassion and acquiesce,
Suffering the ravages of man and beast.

Beats in time; rhythmically, belligerently,
Death is a drum roll in this excuse me of a dance.

Doubts in our minds torment us constantly,
Voices ill perceived cause havoc to sustain.

Wars do pass but go on relentlessly,
Continual and incessant; the suffering of all beasts.

Beating in time, rhythmically but belligerently,
We all waltz to the same tune in this excuse me of a dance.

 

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