bearing a crown of thorns
someone planted a kiss
the spikes  pricked deep,
scarring my face, letting
a stream of blood run down

but,

like a gush of summer rain
it cooled my smoldering spirits
slumbered my frayed nerves
and loosened my taut muscles!

An  inanimate  object.

I'm  a  lovely  tree  in  summer.
Pure  emerald  green  leaves,
sweeping  down  towards  earth.

I'm  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  park.
Away  from  the  maddening  crowd.

Spring  is  nice  when  flowers
grow  below  my  trunk.

Winter  is  cold  and  dank.
With  snow  and  rain  streaming  down.

In  winter  they  call  me  skeletal.
With  my  curled  and  twisted  branches.

At  least  I'm  sheltered  here.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

A good man is soon out of company.

The woman he lives with
believes he is a fool
and having seen no sign of his cure
she feels insecure.

He is weak and so acts good,
she rues in bitter mood.

Goodness buys him no good place anywhere.

People interpret his grace his kindness
as his meekness.

He leaves his seat for others
but is never offered a seat
with sellers he is nice
but parts paying the worst price
being never vocal with claim
favors seldom find his name.

Yet in goodness only
his heart loves to dwell
and on the humble bed
he sleeps well.

the whoopsidaisies in life
grow the most vibrant flowers
in your garden of wisdom
and i promise their arrival
will keep you safe

When I think of you
                                                             ­                    I think of teacups;
for when my mind is blank                
                              
                                 ­  the thoughts of you manage to

                                               l
                                                      e
       ­                                                       a
        ­                                                              k

­                                                                 ­             inside my head.