Dreaded Whispers

Strokes of moonlight smother
the inflorescent
whispers of the smoke bush –

fighting, but wavering against twilight’s
ghostly dreams,
it drapes the water,
pondering depth and death,

and, whereupon streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect pink wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –

a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of still water
and life –

finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.

Dreaded Whispers

AF0EEDD8B65EF78E39DD438AD8C90519.jpg

Cotinus Young Lady-SmokeBush-writingasitcomes

Been gardening again… love this plant.

Strokes of moonlight smother
the inflorescent
whispers of the smoke bush

wavering against twilight’s
ghostly dreams
while pondering the water,
pondering depth and death.

Subdued, hushed panicles warp,
subtly interwoven
inside black steel ripples
made by water splashed sedge warblers
flung across the sheen of bleak, black,
stretched canvas

where streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –

a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of water
and of life –

finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.

My Green

close-up-1842325_960_720.jpg

Picture source; Pixabay

In the serenity of green leaves there is tenderness,
which strives to wrap and bind us

in memories, all whilst blowing in the breeze.
Our imaginings glimmer on soft stems

nurtured by life strewn far and wide; oceanic green
floats around us, and can dance while being thrown

to kingdom come; like the explosion of flamenco’s
wooden sound and its far reaching flamboyance of

grimaces and stoic craftsmanship – all of which try and make nature
tremble under stampeding foot – but nature and its

green, especially that which whispers together,  will always
be the force – there will always be harmony, there will always be green –

despite us.

Black Narcissus

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Remnants of love
are the last breaths
of the narcissus:
lifeless, black petals,
eyes gouged red from crying,
and inked pitch stains from dying…

Flowers drift and flowers sigh, all erstwhile
emotion from wilting lies that leave signals in the thorns
below that prick at tender lesions to show wherein deceit
and disease has spread to choke a love as yet unwed.

Scattered petals bare no perfume just cluttered haste
of abandonment strewn like sadness across a waste ground’s gloom
in the clinging vines of ivy rose – your stinging charms
still suffocate and presuppose, squeezing the life from all that’s new,
leaving nothing behind but necrotic hue.

Naivety lost and innocence shed makes me the bud
whose sorrowful dread was nurtured and revitalised, but far too late
I realised; so take these dew drops cried anew to moisten
seeded ground for you, to tend, to fret to watch them grow,
and when full bloom of youthful woe is within your grasping
hand, I will return in spirit like a flame’s nebulous  glow –
to fire this, Svengali’s land.

 

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