Spirited Away

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Picture: One of my arts/crafts pieces that I make and sell for my charity CRUK.   Ghost peacock painted on heavy slate.

Azure lawns cry,
stuck in the past
like dew tears
on dampened stones.
Sometimes
the darkness can be still be seen,
held tightly
between each
raw nerve,
each blade
of black grass
on which
dancers mop up tears,
waltzing the air
with ghost like peacock
fans over their broken faces;
pallid feathers
hover like wisps
of winter taking
one, last, look back.
Its memories
spill over
where those peacocks
once ran wild,
their rainbow fans
since crumbled to dust
to cover all that must
stay hidden while
Azure lawns cry.

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Desolate Sounds

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O quilted sky
drape gently on me
here in my shallow darkness.
Before the moon is high,
let me in as nightfall’s
shadow soaked image
becomes secreted
under such a fine cloak,
and this day, which has seen
all there is to see,
is hidden underneath it all.
As I lay crying, I will remember
not to wish or want for it all;
sadness is what it is,
but because it is nightfall
where no one can see,
I will share my thoughts
before I dream
to the edge of sleep –
and until its frayed corners
sift the yawns of sunshine
and covers this bed.
I will rise refreshed on my
bleak horizon
and watch the morning’s
soft dew dissipate
with tears still in my eyes
trying to escape with it
into the air’s naked light
where birds,
half lit, wake
to congregate as buds on boughs
with fingers spread to
temper such glowing
melody; their songs will echo
the stirring winds ’til this full chorus
becomes the daylight of each new day,
and I can breathe it all in.

Popples

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Ripples carry songs
outward to beyond –
culminating at the edges
in a crescendo
that is too abrupt;
nothing is diminished,
no tune is lost
inside its bracketed echoes,
chiming molecules
and gentle undulations

of steel rings that pirouette
in derelict space, abandoned
save for some memories
still floating on a clean
light sound without vibrato
on those cool, lazy, steady days
of fingers that brushed together
and when laughter caused
summer’s winks to ruffle
our reflections until they wafted
slowly as distortions,
and unfamiliar interlopers
were settled on the surface –

masked by palm sized, verdant
leaves they sent sylvan charm’s
unused taught light to graze
the perimeters
of popples still rippling-
busy with song – bursting
onto new horizons
but with hope
reverberating inside melancholia’s
ever decreasing circles.

 

 

 

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