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Winding and wide,
the path pulls us
forward. Falling
around us are
beautiful beads
of radiant rain
washing the white
cobblestone clean.
A neckless the
generous Goddess
broke for our pleasure.
Neatly around us,
undone, one by one,
the precious pearls
are riches we run
to gather, gladly
giving grace for
the gracious gift.
Slanted, the sun,
the morning’s
magnificent arch,
is wide as ever,
though now divided
by seven. The colours
we chase cheerfully,
whistling while we walk.
Written in reply to a request for positive poetry with alliteration.
I’ll start at the end
With the cobwebs and trees
That sit on top of my bones
Hard though it is
To find gratitude in decay
I’ll choose to believe that
Perhaps the void bears a reason
A ceaseless expansion for which
We are fuel and flame

I’ll start with a name
The familiar echo in a
Boulder-strewn landscape
Where the rain pours and pools
In the grey cracks of the earth
Reassembling the peaks
And valleys of my face
The limbs and flesh
And cheeks I now kiss
Wet with memory

That this is me
The shocked horror and perfection
The mindless dripping
Of each meaningless moment
The ones I loved so hard
The ones I fought so hard
Every hour spent
Anxious for the next
All rushing back to the heart
Flowing backwards
Conjuring up a rhythm
Of blood and dreams
Where now age has lifted

The free form walks home
And home is no longer a place
As it used to be
Now that I see it so clearly
With the wisdom of the stars
I celebrate the sun
A sweet warm yellow
That dawns on my cheeks
Harvested from the
Fertile fields of infinity
Ancient stardust sprinkled
Over the wet sand

I celebrate the waves
The shrieking birds and city
Sprawling at my back
I celebrate the song
Of my time-worn body
Tumbling like a leaf
In a time-worn world
Coming and going
As might please it
To come and go

I celebrate this

Life telescoped into a fraction
Of its expanding breadth
As though someone said
"To see a world
In a grain of sand"
To which I'd say
And to celebrate it
To celebrate it
No other time than now
The quote is from the poem "Auguries of Innocence", by William Blake
Neatly the night
Has folded her robe
And walks in naked
Startling the paint
And the wood
In the window that creaks
Looking surprised to see me
She blushes
A crimson hue
Or appears to
A ruby-cheeked slumber
That lightly falls
On the skin of the room
Turning the pallor of walls
To the colour
Of a low-key melody
Spun round and round
On the surface
Of a record
Shiny black home
To the saxophone
The wild guitar
The sweetest
Up-tempo piano
My soul ever did hear
Spiralling upwards
Serpentine
Serpentine
The night is the smoke
That I dance with
The scale
The four-by-four
Slowly pouring time
Into a china bowl
Seducing the furniture
And the moon
That silver balloon
Frozen mid-air
Gently leaning
From its high balcony
Watching the scene
Do not mourn August
Brown September is
The better month
Moving in with its
Neatly packed elegance
Washing the windows
Upon arrival and planting
Perennials over fickle blooms
The house feels now
Like a haven
Rooted at the heart
Of a downpour
A cleanse so complete
It gives Summer dust
A run for its gold
Shameless Summer
Who torched the place
Who played music too loud
Well past two a.m.
Goodbye to you and your
Feet full of sand
Clambering into bed
Without even a shower
Your ***** walls, your
Furious scribbling, your
Fleeting romance
I will paint over it
And turn it all into
A bright white canvas
Another chance at
Another chance
This year I will keep
My notebooks sorted
I will stretch profusely
And take out the trash
Of procrastination
I will mail those letters
And goodbyes
I will have my cry
With a side order of joy
Twirling in my dress
That is too nice to wear
I will stay hydrated
Going outside now
I will drink the rain
Another one dedicated to Autumn. Please bear with me: it is my favourite season!
Autumn has taught me
All I know about falling
Trusting the earth's old
Arms to catch me as I
Drop like crystal tears
From the eye of a storm

My skin's yellow-brown
Tint resembles the trees
Dissolving into miles of
Leaf-strewn pavement
A gilded world born
From late summer's ash

Hope is delivered of a
Broken glory, and quiet
Cracks in flawless skies
Are doorways revealing
The private dwelling of
My innermost secret

That I am vulnerable
Facing the world with
Eyes still wet from a
White amniotic sleep
Yearning for the warmth
Of a sheltering womb

Though changing seasons
Have tightened my chest
Into a shell, I've remained
Both old and newly born
A vessel for an ancient age
Of ever expanding want

Still pulsing in the long
Transparent strands of
Rain-like hair on my brow
As my body lunges into the
Downward-spiralling wind
Of an endless season of loss
If Shakespeare were to rise
From the cover of the brick-like tome
Bought in the year I was born
If Shakespeare’s head like a dome
Detached from the sky of the page
A photocopy turned three-dimensional
Though yellow and dulled due to age

Imagine Shakespeare’s paper legs
Walking about my apartment
Sitting where the cat hair piled up
Imagine cat hairs in droves
On Shakespeare’s dark woollen clothes
Which surely must be washed by hand
Though no label this fact will disclose

Wouldn’t he be surprised to find
That so many centuries later
We are all still fleeing the plague
Though as many have noticed by now
We don’t all write plays in our downtime
At best, some humorous remark
To make the rounds on the web

Of this he would surely know nothing
And would likely be shocked by the view
Of a woman of such dubious virtue
Who’d be seen wearing pants like a man
And letting her belly go loose
No corset nor hint of excuse
For the lack of a gown or a gem

All the same, I’d invite him for tea
Place his cup quite intentionally
By the spot where his book proudly lies
And lest my company bore
Slyly start dropping verse after verse
Amid our amiable discourse
To be or not to be, shall I compare thee
Being two he could not quite ignore

And I’d do my best to avoid
The more sensitive points of his life
Being born to illiterate parents
Or worse, the spiteful suggestion
The he, himself, could not read
And no work by one William Shakespeare
Could be penned by the man of such name

Aye, the proof that since Man is Man
Achievement has warred with acclaim
A bit of silliness, because why not?
Also, one verse was slightly revised on 22.01.2021
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