A Haunting

Pablo Picasso ~ ‘Muse’

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.

Spirited Away

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Picture: One of my arts/crafts pieces that I make and sell for my charity CRUK.   Ghost peacock painted on heavy slate.

Azure lawns cry,
stuck in the past
like dew tears
on dampened stones.
Sometimes
the darkness can be still be seen,
held tightly
between each
raw nerve,
each blade
of black grass
on which
dancers mop up tears,
waltzing the air
with ghost like peacock
fans over their broken faces;
pallid feathers
hover like wisps
of winter taking
one, last, look back.
Its memories
spill over
where those peacocks
once ran wild,
their rainbow fans
since crumbled to dust
to cover all that must
stay hidden while
Azure lawns cry.

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Cracking Shins

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Corrupt hearts and cracking shins,
elicit all that is bad in us,
it surfaces in the night
when death’s courtiers
seek vengeance and atonement.

Spectres ravage putrid night air,
harbouring grim justice,
scabbed nostrils flare
at their own grumbling, aches and groans,
their bickering and jabbering
among bleary headstones
where slyly they plot and gleefully
they scheme
to repay their murderers
and savour their screams.
In freezing cold they’ve been pacing
these long ago hours,
stomping for warmth already dead flowers
as the rounded silver
of the moon’s howl dies down,
they shiver together their collective frowns;
the enticing warm soil, laid out below,
beckons ever so nicely
to the greying ghouls aglow;
‘On reflection, vengeance is overstated, silly –
do we really want justice –
on this night so damn chilly?’

Beseech (Minute)

boat and apricot tree

A Minute form.  Inspired by Michael’s rendition.

wouldst thou call upon love’s embrace
her cuffs of lace
will wrap warmly
and surround thee

as spectral lights adorn blewe sky
and ghosts loom nigh
from whence their place
to haunt your face

if thou were touched by such as she
and trumpery
wouldst thou forswear
at the black maire?

Loose Lips

letters-old-antique-purple-flowers-wood-background

Lilac petals fall
like unconfined purple prose
leaping to its
      

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