Missy

A pick from this time 2 years ago.   I’m still busy doing my thing and making lots of money to help beat cancer sooner.  I smashed last year’s target and I am a third of the way through the one set for 2019.  I will have more faith and raise it!  Next event is this Saturday.  I hope you are all well and gearing up for a wonderful spring and its inspiration! Take care.

As it Comes

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…

View original post 66 more words

Advertisement

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.

Feeringbury_Manor_garden_steps,_Feering_Essex_England_-_low_sun.jpg

‘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.

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.

refugeenotes

About my life and everything else 🙌 Inst:@nihilnove

my life as a piece of string

... from a silent space

Letters on my Heart

The Broken Cannot Rise Alone...

Discarded Recollections

A Repository of Discarded Poetry, Story Prompts, and Memories

Lluís Bussé

Barcelona's Multiverse | Art | Culture | Science

The Lonely Author

Pain goes in, love comes out.

Light Touch

Just wondering at the miracle called LIFE .

Wezzlehead

poetry by Robert Ford

Rachana Trp.

Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.

Story Of The Footloose

In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well.

Megha's World

A potpourri of emotions

pouringtruth

Poetry and words

The Bouquet Gallery

A collection of beautiful things and thoughts

Stuff and what if...

Exploring writing and the creative randomness of life. Snapshots of moments.

Just Brian

"Not all who wander are lost..."

newtoneapblog

A Discarded Plant

A Cornered Gurl

I am more than breath & bones.

MY VALIANT SOUL

My poetry is my religion.

A Blooming Scribe

Poetry, short essays and other work showcased by a Scientist, Philosopher, and Adventurer. Posts on Monday and First Fridays.

Everyday Strange

Dark Writing and Strange Inspirations

The Words of Akunda

The Little Poetastry; The little stories

The Broad Spectrum Life

Exploring Rhymes, Reasons, and Nuances of Our World

Elan Mudrow

Smidgens

David Redpath

We're all on a road to somewhere.

Seductive Darkness

Provocative poetry and musings on life

The Renegade Press

Tales from the mouth of a wolf

MYMonkey MIND

Your Brain is a Radio that Does What its Told

SentientVoice

Encouraging animal advocacy and compassion

Mark Deeble

A wildlife filmmaker in Africa

LOU RASMUS

big book guy

vividlyfoxxy

Just another WordPress.com site

Hearing The Mermaids Sing

At Least Trying Too

michnavs

Poetry by Mich

Frank Solanki

If you want to be a hero well just follow me

ALEX MARKOVICH ART

MarkovichUniverse AT gmail DOT com