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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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.

 

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.

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.

And, I Can Breathe

Jasmine Flower Flowers Beautiful White Delicate

When a heart sinks,
and rivers overflow,
tsunamis explode
onto our everyday,
and love implodes
unceremoniously,
like dams bursting…
Nothing makes sense.
Poetry’s nonsense,
like flowers bending
in sultry breezes
and banks of Jasmine
surrendering their fragrance
confuse my way.
What is happening?
All I know is,
my heart sank
when you left me.

Simple!

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Sticky

Sticky pic

Should I toy with small flowers the way I do spiders when I spend
hours pulling them from them their dreams until they kick
with their needy legs, enmeshed with petals,
and throw them into nature’s chasm?

Should I play with your daydreams
as I do and make them seem real for hours and hours,
spoiled only by reminiscent rays of cloud etched on my
brow in furrows?

Should I let you down gently
or keep you dangling forever, here on this viscose thread,
stuck in its glue and itching, like me, to be fed, before
I wind you up further into my web?

Should I love you honestly
but tread cautiously among caustic chances?
If satire has a cost per glance and blood is wit and adrenaline,
is this a toxic romance?

Should I remove you?
And extricate us from fate’s tawdry demeanours where we both ebb
free of perplexities. This hindrance and these entanglements
of a needy spider’s web are not for us.

Missy

Miss.png

Her skin is fair, lightly freckled and starkly
contrasts her ambiguous demeanour.
I always tip my cap, ‘Good day, Miss,’
but she never casts a glance.
I carry on my way, meandering
deep in wild thoughts that are always
honeysuckle, blue grass, rosehips
and my Miss.
The sun beats down on she and us,
but when my Miss smiles, the heavens open
and it pours, dare I say, it rains tears.
My thinking is, it can not compete
with the lovely lady who does not care
if I live or die, because I know us to be just
a part of my wildest dreams –
the place I go to swiftly as I pass
the dingy, rusted via duct
on my way to work –
I pass that way often, my dreams,
so as not to be seduced by the muggy
waters of brown stench lying along my trail.
Deep down, I think it may just take time.
Today, anyway, I saw a glimmer,
a near warming at the corners of her mouth,
but it could have been the damp, or
maybe, just maybe, as she meanders
to her dress shop,
bypassing her own thoughts and dreams, she is
smiling as she thinks of me.
Maybe.
But, ah, I hear the whistle. Time for work.
Until tomorrow then, Miss.