Corridors

Picture source unknown

I say goodbye
holding your hand,
desperately searching
for raw comfort,
but from clay cold skin and defeated flesh,
words will no longer form, nor
draw me close.
You hold a smile,
and it squeezes my heart softly
with a palpable
sense of who I am and who we were.
I think you have just found a dream
inside of death, and see a vision
higher than we, one rich in vitality
for your journey or destiny –
I don’t believe we are
really saying goodbye,
and so, sweet dreams, my love –
stay far from errant shadows –
so I can see you
on the other side
.

A Poem

source: The Franklin Institute

I
am a poem that roams, sprawls
and meanders, but
can also be still a while – enough to heal a dying a heart,
a heart in need of nurture – a living, pounding thing
deserving of meaningful blood, a blood that would keep the soul alive, that would will the vessel to breath;
they, in part, belong to me. So, I roam and thrive and pump my life’s air into another, so that I will not die.

I
am a heart that flounders, and with open wounds,
but can still be revived with love, even when
the daylight has gone from its shell. Still a living thing,
desperate for the richest ebony, I keep his pulse vital –
a pulse that throbs in my own veins.
So, I knead and revive, and breath life into those tired chambers,
lest I die.

I
am one half of one thing, drinking
the necessary fluids that course through
our minds and truths. We are never separated from each other like a lie
from a consequence devoid of honesty.
Morbid collections of everyday fodder clog and wither
the youth of a valve – I am constantly reborn as a testament to love
in case it
should not survive..

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.

Strings Snap

heart_strings_poster-reb95c1701bbf4d9da543037a971126b8_em3be_8byvr_260

Palms astride reality
articulate and come together
to cup a sad butterfly,
my lifeless heart.

Sad veins and tired, raw blades
frantically percussion; with a quick riff
of brushing cymbals,
blood pumps stronger,

sharp wings strike the air,
shattering its magical glass
in the struggle to be free.
Palms astride reality

with lazy elbows bent,
plucks at strings, unplugged,
while stomaching tingling
insects that crawl

to his insipid tune –
all the while, the wild
butterfly is reborn.
Metamorphosis is paramount,

escape is key
to sanity and freedom –
all happening in his sweaty hands
as he scurries back…

either side or reality.

You Are Everything

images

How can I say
I must live without you,
for everywhere I go,
you’re there –
your face,
your stare.

Is there a way
to be without you?
For every shadow of doubt, I see you
in windows,
in mirrors,
in places.

I lost my way
without you,
but now, I‘ve found the path to
each step,
each corner,
each turn.

You had a way
about you,
so of course you’d be there,
to love,
to watch,
to care.

In my smile, there is worry
I have lost you.
I hurriedly search,
but soon
I hear,
I feel,
and I see
you everywhere.

You Are

love-2331486_960_720.jpgPixabay

(Co written with my then husband to be, Jay Nabonne (2009 ish) 

When I see an attractive woman,
she embodies the best in women
and she becomes you.

You are attraction.

When I see a movie,
lovers kissing and holding hands,
all I can think is you and us.

You are romance

When I look to a future of times shared
and discoveries found together,
I can’t see anyone but you.

You are companionship

When I lie in bed and fantasize,
it’s your face I see
and your body and your sighs.

You are intimacy

When I feel in my heart what I feel for you,
I know there can’t be any other
to take the place of you.

You are love.

And to me, you are

the brushing of my hand against my hair,
I feel your presence interwoven in the strands
because you have been there.

You are the air

when I stop and hear my breath,
I see you as my chest heaves
because you were once there.

You are my heart

when shadows run and fade away,
I glimpse a glance until they return to
see the other part of me.

You are my soul

when light hits my eyes,
and shines on my face between branches
from a nearby place, I see that
 
you are the moon

when heavy breath whispers
into my ears and makes bristle my longing.
I yearn and I am moved and I sway.

You are the wind

when I can feel soft down against my skin
and see the rougher greys of time embraced by
every other person passing, I see

you are man

when time stops and slows
and its gaps are filled with warmth and
radiated energy, I feel

you are the sun

when I can’t breathe and hope to die,
if only to take you with me forever.
Blood surges through my veins. You

are my life

when I hear laughter and a voice
deep in assured tones and his smile
presses down on her face, I think you
 
are my smile

when prints imprint and fingers
interlock as if to feed a need
that can never be sated, I feel you

are my hands

when thoughts of us spur me on to try to make
the world a better place.
It’s all because you’ll be there to see it with me.

You are

my inspiration, my love, my heart’s beat.
A time without you would be a sad waste
of living; all this time later, I still love you.

Inside, Will the Sun Shine?

imagesQRU62QCA

I wish it was possible to live
without a heart,
and walk inside a head
without thoughts
and dread.
And as I was walking in my head,
the lighting wasn’t set –
good moods left me at the lamppost –

its metallic flavour permeated my tongue
as I wrapped my cold arms around it,
while your taste
and the taste of blood
brought me darkness and tears.
I had hoped reinventing
the sunshine would bring me
memories like ham rolls,
and hot mustard
spilled onto a tablecloth of time
where I’d lay out my choices;
of meetings in the square,
casual and attentive,
awash with shadows
when they came to serve the daylight,
and with more than enough warmth
to dry these morbid tears.

I still walk for hours and hours,
but never venture out.

Bring me sunshine,
bring me laughter,
bring me love.

See the Ivy

I wrote this way, way back…did a quick edit.  Inspired by the ‘b’ side of a Kate Bush song.  I hope you enjoy it.

Feeringbury_Manor_garden_steps,_Feering_Essex_England_-_low_sun.jpg

‘It won’t take me long
to show you where to find me,
to show you where I’ll be…’

Her skirts brush a path through a dusting of dead soil trying to steal
the crazily paved thoughts that lead the way down through the tolling bells
of Fuchsia that ring only in her ears.

Wilted scent long since a memory, wafts past her nostrils only.
Birds never sing or hover gently – there are
no lush enticements such as sunlight or colour for them to repose in.

The ivy, once triumphant in its climb, has grown weary;
its brittle hands crumble without so much as a touch,
just as she would, and so easily, we fear.

Heavy oak doors sigh and groan as a frail, ashen gesture
endears her to them, and they give as if opening for her
and her alone. She turns to wave us on, and she smiles at us,

the intruders into this labyrinth of sadness, where melancholic
blossoms lay forlorn at her feet. She does not see us –
she does not see anything at all – but she smiles knowingly,

tilting her head back slightly as the wind begins a cooling serenade
causing her gait to slow. She comes to rest upon a mildewed bench –
her skirts still once more, and there she waits;

we cannot tell for what or for whom, and not just from the widening
of her smile. She heaves a heavy sigh and plucks imaginary petals
from a spent stem, long since dried and rotted.

She plucks rhythmically to the deadened beat of her tired heart.
But for her, inside her secret garden, inside of her walled off mind, the beautiful colours fall lazily, and one by one, she counts them all.

‘He loves me,
he loves me not,
he loves…’

We tip our hats and bid her good day, all of us without the heart
to remove her from within – from her secret garden… and she smiles.

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