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.

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.

Tone

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.

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Tone

96d45d2d09b55dde4a02c357e77e9cbc

With every sound
and 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
until caught and lightly wrought
on cool staves,

and as they stir,
no tone is forced, harsh
and breathy –

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

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.

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