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.

Dedicating this old chestnut on Valentine’s day to my lovely husband, Jay.  Love you.

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.

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Longing #Haiku

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Over excited
my dreams roam too far from me
trampling lush heather

Often in springtime
scents of favourite flowers
push back to winter

Walking though the world
hand in hand with nature’s woes
a cool breeze still blows

Privileged to touch
rough, wrinkled bodies of logs
reminds me of life

Parallaxed

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Memories are slim chance shadows
That glide between the light and darkness

Imagination is a fat cat
Waiting to swell our indifferences

Hope is a ritual seizing of every chance we have
Breathing is an exercise performed daily

Waiting is a nervous habit, what are we waiting for?
Doom is nearby and calling cards are left

Defiantly… What are we going to do?

If you don’t believe the earth is not flat
Or that it revolves around the sun…

Go away.

 

Twilight

 

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art: ifeng.com

Each dawn brings
Sunday’s lament
for ancient times.
Released on twilight’s limbs,
it crawls slowly
through arched skies –
wafting the darkness –
until it settles to meet
my ankles.
Luckily, songbirds
hidden by the morning mist
accompany me
on my journey,
always before sadness
beclouds my intent.
Ahead of me on this long,
long road, hope waits
with its strange arms
open wide, outstretched,
and ready to cradle me,
to make me replete.

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.

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‘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.