I too am wary of past’s ghosts, squeezed by daylight into ethereal painted diaphanous landscapes,
and where equally pellucid capes waft in the nothingness of such a delicate dimension.
Sunshine filters through the interstices of arching trees – their spindly finger shadows pierce the throb of my ripened veins resting under the mirror of spider branches hanging lazily –
adust words tease the vastly hollow chambers of my heart and mind
whilst unwanted ghosts, these stark strangers, pass by me trying to scavenge my thoughts – thoughts once hid, but which now bustle briskly under this fair poplar – but adamantly refuse daylight in their presence
my muse blows timidly to rustle up my tired parchments not scratched since autumn opened its eyes on the majestic fade of green –
before it reawakens – under these dreaming spires, I will write a sonnet for her –
to coax, to not be afraid of ghosts, nor reconcile me with my own by her very absence –
me thinks I’ll keep it safe in heart, away from prying eyes and strangers’ judgement at least until summer comes again.
I see you, haunted muse come out from the shadows.
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.
Poetry dances me,
with its incorrigible vice.
In the beauty of silence
naked jawbones crack
a fleshless shudder.
Torrid words smirk,
as they fall into your walnut air
in small pieces.
Particles, heavy of scent,
from my mouth
into this silence –
silence is the page we write on –
dance with me.