The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer's back.
Before he left she stitched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?

A clown's rebounding.  Traced on paper. Her life-line laughing.  Yellow stained tobacco teeth, white-washed into make-believe.  One colorful vision in a carnival scene.  Welcome in, and start to sing... this mirror respects your long-lost dream.

A broken hinge rests alone as freedom ripples in the wind. She stands tall beside the red tricycle, fenced in white and rusted green.  

Snapshots fire sepia-toned memories.  Farther down the road, where the crossroads hit the stop sign...  phones lines cross the skies.

A heart torn from a magazine
shaped by the fingers of desire
awaiting a new lease of life

The flames rise,
sending smoke
signals.

Tonight I erase
these ink-filled
pages.

March 21st 2017 -

Early to rise... breakfast served.  We face one another.  Hazel eyes meeting blue.  Idle chit-chat accompanies the Nescafe. The morning post sits unopened. Tomorrow everything will change. But for now we remain innocent.

Rebounding raindrops
sparkle like diamonds:
relaxing in the garden.

The page is yellowed
and torn.

Tomorrow we'll dream
like ripples on a pond.

Watching the butterfly
as she beats her wings.

When the curtains are
closed,

your shadow becomes
the setting sun.

In her hand I ride the tracks. Time stamped with no use-by
date.  An bus ticket torn in two, it's impossible to forget you.

The empty coke bottle spins inside, the apple-pie's half eaten.

Your shoes all scuffed. Your hat still crushed. The wall from which you fell.  The orange peel hidden in your bag.

This picture frame is soon to be trashed.

Moving in circles,
a second hand

is ticking...

Time is on a mission

and the watch-strap
is slipping.

Raindrops splash
lightning strikes -
a giant oak appears.

Down with the lockdown.  Cross with a panoramic view.  All seeing, all knowing.  But what is there to know?  Now, and then, before and after - we remember them as they were...  history beguiles!

Green-eyed wanderings.  Taken by surprise as the rain soaks us to the bone.  We sit surrounded by foxgloves and nettles.  A collection of magic and green medicine, her knowledge of folklore soothes.

The fallen oak offers shelter.  We strike a match, the fire warms.  Huddled together once more.  Another moment to share.  Outside the crows caw.  Flames flicker, smoke rises.  Our clothes begin to dry.

Blue sky breaks through the clouds.  Like the sun we rise.  The homeward path is long.

In long grass
we hear

whispers of
the winds

a rain cloud
is near

wishing for a
rainbow.

This morning passes
as clouds come and go

I watch the washing
machine as it spins

listening to rumbles
from the sky

the table is cluttered,
with newspaper print

four legs in contact with
the kitchen floor

Hands turn. Earth spins. Ants march. Snakeskin.  

Green leaves. Orange glow. Paint-splash. Legs bow.

Before the dawn, that was how it began.  Trumpets sounded and my name was called.  Henceforth you shall become a story worth sharing.  She smiled immediately.  Her curves were the seasons. Images of a valentines heart and Cupid's arrow.  We danced upon the fresh grass.

Eventually cloud obscured our vision - to return, renewed, to remain consumed, grateful for the gift of life.

Tonight I will sleep with the black cat - tonight I will dream of the Jinx.  Tonight I will dance with the mad ones.  Tonight I will relish all that I see.

To be jinxed is a sprinkle of gold-dust, to be jinxed is a blessing disguised.

Her melody  
rides the
breeze.

Science,

a

white

umbrella

with

flickering

flames

and blue

green

names:

she

painted

my

life

insane.

Pure white
paperclip.

Bent outta
shape.

Prepare to
be waste.

There is no
escape.

Into the wind where her voice rides, the sound of my heartbeat lost.

Sitting upon the mountaintop, watching the wind ripple the
leaves, looking to the uppermost peaks, recognizing snow-capped dreams.

As the coin falls
my wish remains.

In my mind a record spins.  Always on repeat.  Your lyrics are kaleidoscopic. Twisted images merge.  Mirror, mirror upon the wall, please awaken me before I fall.

Mystic musician, zero to nine,
dead and buried, never more
alive.

To become the arrow in flight,
I must first take aim.

I am a broken window,
lit by the beam of the
moon.

Night after night I cry,
for tomorrow is the
end of time.

A lone motorcycle rusts.  Wild flowers grow.  The sun burns like Picasso's.  An eagle glides.  Blue is the sky. Yellow is the afterglow.

Bottles explode, shards fly.  

Flames lick the walls, tears
fall.

Sweat pours in the dark of
night, still living with fear.

Taking it one-day at a time!

Those curves of hers are stranger than her words:

"Tonight, my dear, we shall discover a multitude of broken hearts"

"Oh how delightful"

With a flickering candle we begin to explore.

Honor the sword,
one cut separates
all.

The wind chill is
frozen blue like
paint.

Red is the blood
pulsing as I wait.

The yellow of the sun soaks into the walls, as zebra stripes disguise.  I am a psychedelic paint-*** lost in a living room.

“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society" - Jiddu Krishnamurti

Patched these stories together.  Looked across the seas.  Whistled amongst the winds.  Heard the words of the eagle in flight.  Danced with the dragonfly deep in the night.  Darkness erased, bring on the light.

Simmering on a Sunday,
anecdotal evidence on tap.

Greens merge with orange
hues, victories are served.

Detonated mystery - hiding
inside, these walls may fall.

One more deal upon this table,
wishing for a white flag.

Lulled by a sense of security I sit alone.  The dusty window obscures my view. 

Pictures hang within my mind.  Memories of faded days.  A peek into my rearview mirror.

This face obscured
green eyes hide

clouds shift, smoke
rises

underneath autumn
leaves

reading white lines
torn at the seams

Inside of these walls there are many faces on display.  A wine-glass is fractured yet remains intact.  The mirror reflects a multitude of emotions.  Daily life throws us many a vacation.

Words switch places.  Green is red-tinged envy.  The light upon the screen is dimmed.  Tiny feet are planting footsteps in the garden.

Outside of these thoughts much is happening.  Cars are racing against time to overtake their neighbours.  The wind carries a plastic bag to a new destination as the train remains stranded at the station.

Rust comes slowly.  Beside the seaside is where I lie.  Blue skies are fading.

The days of rain that bleed on my windows... I trust the weather but not the folks inside. Like a snowglobe I feel shaken, and I wait till the snow has settled.

On the grass I paint,

my heart bleeds for
a rainbow dream.

Kentucky funk hides
beside gaudy tones,

afterwards we read
in wellington boots,

two little wrens hop
into view.

Your voice, nothing
but a dusty anecdote.

Poems like spilt milk.

A blank canvas

paint-splattered:

These

Empty words,

this

Restless mind.