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.

Breath and Bones

Rejigged this a bit. Hope you are all well and coping.

unknown source

We are more than breath and bones,
or the dust of a soul’s divide that gilds
our pale faces with heavenly alchemy;
we are combined essences
swirling underneath complex skin
with all of love’s triumphant splendour
placed on our brows.

We are more than breath and bones
with no more taught sinew to soothe
since all mapped outreaches tethered
by distance and timid pasts have been conquered,
and before intruders, unseen, steal west
with their disgrace. We stay low and soft
within this warm, diaphanous wrap;
it is no fair costume this skin
of faux silk.

We are more than breath and bones,
as within each of us lies such vast continents
yet to be stroked, to align
with us under our blue skies.
Synapses crawl to make us,
messaged and volatile, their eager grip
might conquer us still…
we are more than breath and bones,
and we will not be torn asunder.

We are more than breath and bones,
or the thousands of strange shadows
that tend us; each have all but one shade,
and poor imitations lend counterfeit images,
all of you. But, the truth lies in a kiss
of your cheek, and there I see us
in every shape and shadow we know.

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.

Burning Both Ends

Unknown source

A
flicker,
a stare,
fires the
column,
bled bare,
by the pale
yellow, violet
flame
as

its gliding wax
grips and its rhythmic drip sets fast,
and not unlike our game.
The Slowness of time
runs with our thoughts down
this vine as I tease the quick
with scorched fingers. And, as
is your want, you navigate me,
and like moths, we
self destruct when we linger.
A stolid breath of air soon releases our
stares, and we flinch in the
flame’s parting sigh;
its sulphuric stench from the quickening
wrench, reminds me of that
stark light – as
sleeping birds hum
and a candlelit morn draws nigh.

Tone

I have been here at WordPress for five years apparently. Thanks to everyone who has supported my efforts, and those in passing, who have stopped a while. Be safe out there until this surreal period of our lives is over. Take care.

guitar-touch-instrument-guitarist

With every sound
of each word uttered
there is pause, a silence –
as if waiting for the touch
of a lover – distant still,
but out there.

Until such time,
words float as poetry,
lightly wrought
on cool staves,
only now just stirring;
no tone is forced, just harsh
and breathy –

they wait, and would wait
forever,
as every song, like love,
is incomplete
until it hears its heart echo.

Missing

I found this and turns out it was one of the first posts I made here back in November 2015, but I think I had written it around 2006 or so. A bit bleak, but hey ho. Anyway, I hope you are all doing well, and staying safe! Take care.

cropped water

Unknown source

It’s been such a long time; it could be ten thousand years. Time passes much faster when you cry all your tears. Last time I looked back, I could only see my feet. I never saw the sky, I missed a treat, and I miss my old life. I can only look back and cry. I miss my future, but it is too late, I say. And, I cry for the passing of time, all of the day.

‘There are blue skies and a cold yearning face. Catching the breeze with eyes closed in embrace. Swirled on tip toes, hearts lift in the air; wind cool on the fingertips is chilled in the stare. Longing and heartache kept warm all the while, and never a dry eye let down by goodbye. She holds it all in still after many have cared, but don’t tell her you’re leaving, don’t stroke her there.’

I take off my robe in ankles held deep. My hands fill the water with each step of my feet. The waves fully clothe me until I’m replete. I disappear from view to drown in this pain; and I miss my future, fresh and anew, but, I can see the stars now, over and over and over again.

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..

Itiswhatitis

Back for a short while after completing what seems like a zillion pendants and zentangle light bottles… don’t ponder… lol.  I have an event this Sunday coming,  then a month of work/rest/restock then some more.  Needed to write so I did.  Garden is great, sun keeps coming – all’s good. Hope you are all well.  I shouldn’t ‘write’ myself off.  I will take it ‘As it Comes’! I can do both.

indiff

Your head feels warm
in my colder arms
as you hold me close,
oblivious, inside my turmoil –

and you speak to me,
only if you’re willing,
otherwise,
go live by yourself.

This fucking honey liqueur,
is too thick to pour,
but somehow it gets me drunk –
does it’s sticky glue create a distance?

Moths fly around me
hurling their abuse,
so please dowse the light –
god, you’re ignorant.

Are we to stay
‘ignited’?
Do we still make a good match?

Since you close your mind,
it is indifference, I feel,

and I wonder aloud
in all of my screams,

and I see the past streaming before me,
till it muddies my glass – it’s all unreal.

What the fuck was it
that we created?

Can we live up to that?
I feel a need.

I sang you songs –
and not inebriated,

I sat on your lap
watching TV.

I thought I belonged,
but was mistaken,

I don’t even belong
to me.

Stuck in the thick of it,
wrangling with these lacy honeyed sleeves,
I’m interrupted by full on indifference;

 it pours from orifices

I thought were mine,
but it is all the stuff that you bleed.