Omens.

A twiggy brown deadness
Is tapping my window.
A flowerless wisteria
Waits sighing for Spring.
Small underskin budlets
Are ready for bursting.
Winter's end omens
Means greening draws near.
New underground movement
Starts wrapping the sightless.
White rootlets are marching
Towards their new year.
Spring's deadly invasion
Starts killing wind's eastness
Bloomless persuasion
Begins new petalling.
An underneath breathing
Sighs silent yet thirsty
For first taste of lifeblood
That Spring's "Hello" brings.

Here on the shore-less ocean of life
we parted lovers weep not alone.

The heavens on seeing grief's goodbye
paleth each star in sympathy's dome        
as silent support for human despair.

When grave sounds a knell and kindled
by mortals love appears dead not unaware
is sun or moon of more being willed.

None ordered our future fire be cooled.        

Was it nature estranging thyself from me
or destiny's game whose divisive ruling
arranged thine ending and I, incomplete ?

Nay, hope singing on, calls merciful Fate      
as ready aid in knowing whatever the soul
be, mine and his beat ever the same

and that somewhere,

somehow and at some waiting time

we pair will again reunite as one whole.

Ebony's Gold.

Dark fast erupts with decisive lust,
locks in skybound eyesight
between banks of low cloud.
and blocks all sight of a sinking sun.

Dusk folds early into twilight's hold,
attacks any last view of
homecoming bird flight and
wraps shadows round ebony's gold.

Night awakens and strikes daylight,
cuts sunset's late shine from
evening's nocturnal edges
then shuts pitch darkness in, tightly.

Battle for might ends and what wins
is descending blackness
but dawn's fight prior planned
sun's mighty push shall again begin.

If you think you saw
fair Queen Flora at work when you were out
walking and watched
her create hedgerow beauty, better not tell.

And if when you sat
in a woodland dell you caught the shadow of
fairy-queen Fey do not
go away feeling folk will believe you were not
just asleep and
dreaming of days when to you they were real
for humans who,
grown and work-overloaded will not lose face
by saying that fairies
exist or confess nature itself is assisted by the
ethereal people who
work for hours at night to open more flowers.

Oh yes, they smile
kindly when children spin fairyland tales and
stifle a chuckle as
youngsters talk about spells old minds do not
brook what life once
opened to those with an unconfused outlook,
toy teddies and dolls
could talk and witches flew broomsticks back
when knights and dragons
rode on clouds every night to battle for hands
of sleeping princesses,
everyday happenings were magical then but
things altered when
fancy's soft wings became crushed under the
banns put on speaking
of fairyland and beautiful Fey was cast away
to die with childhood
in the pile of discarded other-worldly beliefs.

Life must become realistic
and dreams are best forgotten as nonsense,
then hearts will harden
but poets refuse to abandon the child locked
inside so their eyes
still see what is to adults forbidden, romance
does not leave them so
prison doors never close on their imaginings,
kings go on living
in Camelot lands and maidens get rescued in
good time for love as
above every cloud there still sits silver lining.

There are grown-ups
who unlock their minds to see other realms
and child-like believe
but unless you are a poet if you catch an elf
unfurling red petals
from too tight a rose-bud or you see a fairy
painting blue on white
woodland bells, well, you had better not tell.

Colour Me Love.

Colour me bubbles of misty-blue love.
Blow them, drifting on soundless high cloud.
I wait here, gratefully searching above
A whispering sky, knowing the ether around
My window pane will resound once again
To more heart-warming secrets, hauntingly
Packaged by words wrapped in your name,
And containing nothing but love unforced.
Colour me baubles of glistening gems.
Rubies for hugs, emeralds for evergreen
Promise of undying devotion and bend
Them like rainbowing arrows, gleaming
Their star-studded aerial journey straight
Into my dreams, colour me gentle, cover
My fears in caring spheres at the gateway
Of this beating heart and paint me with love.

Cut locks
fall floorward.
Cropped hair
soft lies.
Docked curls
chopped off.
So ends
young boys' lives.

Bent minds
plan glory.
War needs
cropped men.
Culled hearts
fight more.
Then youth's
blood spills again

A MORNING STORY.

She appears,
the Morning Princess,
decked in
dew-fresh, see-through
dress of
dappled grey net and
followed
by cloudy attendants.
Around her
blankets of night, now
folded away
show a starry-diamanté
blue petticoat
which she knows, though
patched
will still be attractive.
Dawn Lady,
now plays central-stage,
starts gliding
side-ways and bows to the
up-rising Sun
who strides into view and
smiles roundly
at her obvious comeliness.
He surrounds
her with ***** intentions,
drowns that
dappled laciness in huge
newly-found heat
and the two,
thirsty for copulation to
begin, dance
in showers of fated rain.
She blushes
before capitulation as
maids should
but Morning Princess
soon becomes
mated, crowned then
as Day-Queen,
and feeling quicken the
baby inside
who in due time will be
the next
Morning Princess, this
Lady sighs as
she shyly remembers.

Time moves on remorseless yet fresh starts
appear plausible
if from parched discord
we form opportunities from which to carve.

Clearer choices for cutting free expand lone
coaster-rides but tried
ways of surprise
adroitly harness colour into bland unknown.

Distress creates apathy while unrestrained
euphoria decrees
time for growing new wings
and chances to better breed later decades.

Relocated those truncated dreams retreat
to re-form, dried to a crisp
but soon freshly adorned with
made resolutions to avoid future defeat.

Hope succeeds if, skilful in competence,
we apply learned
wisdom to hear the unheard
for discarding the old needs no audience.

Pushing ahead, cutting new paths again
exalts over former  
attempts raw angst to alter
past failure by wearing our skin unafraid.

Wilderness need not be avidly dry.
It can contain shades of uplifting memory.

Sweet drops of whisperings fly
around souls who,
desert-bound and tied to circumstance,
retreat into spaces
of such empty aloneness it seems
never again
will ways out of crystallized mazes where
reigns abject silence
ever be found to bring freedom again.

Yet Wilderness need not be overly feared.
It becomes productive under love's challenge.

Prone to arise out of aimless places      
and grazing on sighs
of pain are the tiniest grains of gone loves
growing lonely with wait,
and as shadows of smiles permeate minds  
in Wilderness-Land,
remembering to contact angelic unseen
means certain survival.

Despite blood-red pain of sudden ends
look inward and find dim      
streaks of light birthing changes for
hope lost in Wilderness,
watch black holes shine after saline ebb
then as tides of tears
begin to recede know grief's despair    
will grow no more weeds,      
flowers of assurance unfurl their truth
that love's journey
goes on, deserts will blossom with many
a happy reunion,
for heaven's arrangement never denies
access to askers for proof.

Wilderness dies when souls feel not alone.
Coping with sorrow means climbing its hills.

Heart-Healing.

When neglect love's trust has riven
heartache wins.

Sad hearts on hope's thread swing
and bleed sorely.

Hurtfully damaged love's core needs
a heart restorer.

Harmony soon re-installed means
heart-healing begins.

Catching the winds and favourable tides
ride well the high waves.
Go carefully dear friend, the sea and I
will unfurl you the deepest
of harbours, ports within sight of shore.
We will usher you through,
landed and storm-proofed and warmed
with our preparation, glad
to give welcome your reaching of home.
Only a weathered heartbeat
away you will be from me as the ocean
urges your journey
steadily forward to its yearned-for end,
so until closely held after
anchoring safely, do go carefully friend.

Next generation once weaned wings away
from the breast's cloistered past.
In standing ***** most offspring cling not
to parental mastery.
Growth's call will never be hindered by
closed doors of detention.
Soaking in sap furthest from home keen
shoots yearn for adventure.
Trying to eat what others digested sours
young buds wanting new taste.
Belonging to no-one begets confidence
when choices need making.
Every plant casts its seeds to the wind so
each finds space to survive.
Only by leaving the nest can a fledgling
learn self-respect and thrive.
Letting go gently is welcome when sweet
dependence seems outgrown.
Whether fur, flesh or feather that flight's
success ever remembers home.

Molder of thought,
Reliever of rank need,
Drip into my silent moments your sweet waters.

Give me heed,
Your support restores,
Buoys with constructive boldness efforts to feed.

Muse, use me.
Poems will then come forth.
Unworded creations will give birth as they ought.

Love, blind to weakness,
sees what it chooses    
but shadows cast images
and joy sits unused.

Doubt born of judgement
frowns at trust's view
and ends tender harmony
deflecting love's due.

We, what we are, attract
discordant tunes
but love's baton composes
more than just music.

Small Happenings.

With thanks to G.M Hopkins, the poet
who inspired this verse
with his famous words of Pied Beauty.
---------------------------------------------------

Let us celebrate little things.
A butterfly's wings.
The solo a blackbird sings.
Mad march-hare flings.
The way one raindrop clings.
Ripe seed-pod pings.
A spider's steel-web strings.

Let us notice the hidden things
First snow-melt springs.
A buzzard's broad flight wings.
Wild mushroom rings.
Bluebell's low bend as it swings.
Falling chestnut dings.
The fresh smell a shower brings.

Let us delight in minute things.
Find joy in small happenings.

If the place which I write from is seen as real
it seems the verse and myself are two
sides of three faces.

Each word has its meaning and is part of a tale
which might well be translated as
me signing my name.

Yet from my inside I catch first breath of Muse
who since noting acceptance begins        
her bid to relate.

Lipless the language that fills my blank canvas
as more semantics she whispers
before they escape.

Thus must I question what does that make me ?

Then rose the mighty cusp of the storm.

Jagged black edges overcame white
and clouds begat
dark gigantic height after height
as blue, frightened away,
dissolved into rivalling grey and rain
threatened its splatter.

Came the great clap then began Dancing.

Two forked arrows of garnet-fire-clash,
sky-wide flamenco
cavorted before me, a tree cracked as
it gasped in last breath
and echoed by more thunder-applause
I for dry ran homeward.

Four-walled protection inspired my pen.

Storm then began shaping all over again.

Oh Sleep,
you old weaver of unbeatable threads,
- - feeder of narcotic nectar - - - - - - baker
of heavy-grain sedative - - boatman who never
stops splashing oars - - - slumber-jack - - fakir
with magical wand - - you wide-eye lover bent
on seduction - - a fiend who woos then takes,
the so-called sooth-crooner - - - hill-a-bye friend
known as the sandman - - - an eye-salve agent,
maker of drowse-powder - - dope-peddler,
dream-chainer - you the drug-spirit - pale
ghost of ******-relaxation - - - - soft-breathed
jailer of wakeful night-ire - - - - the knave
who keeps dozers awake - - - Sleep the jester
whose counted sheep drives brave people crazy.

Ours was perhaps not love,
the sort that demands proof,
fervour which naught can drown,
the passion that willingly lays down
itself for another's approval, no our own
was something written in much lighter tone.

Ours the keenness of separates
easily walking and talking together,
reaching for comfort from a kind hand
when hurts demanded an understanding,
yes ours was desire for friendship's corner,
of choices honoured and respect in full order.

Yet love was there, it grew
with care of each for each,
so in losing you, death too,
of a sort, took life from me.

Valued.

In one of its corners there sits
in my heart,
on stored-away mem'ry, Cupid's
thrown dart.

No-one but myself is allowed
there to find
that its most valued gem is what
you left behind.

Hazy Reflections

Glass plated, the bay
lies hazily, sealine breaks
the sky away
from distant headlands,
and basks in midday.

Warm autumn sun fills
the basin between
with diamond studded
diaphanous glazes
which mesmerize me.

Shaking a fist at what wishes her harm
calmly facing
her fears of troubled alarm,
she fishes,
heart deep, when a drama,
which threatens to flood her with tears,
appears,
and she nets a spirited soul.

To arise ***** when she is thrown down,
determined
at starting all over again,
she brushes away any secret pain
of humiliation,
not laying the blame at any one door.

The spirit she shows frees a quite selfless
soul-action, reflecting
a generous heart
that life will not easily ****** from her
gritty Joan-of-Arc,
resolute ardour for tackling trouble
at root
with lighthearted humour.

How astutely
she learns to laugh with, and not at,
herself,
the way to beauty, she knows,
will never be helped
by ignoring need for spirited health.

I Fabricate.

When life gets too much like
a wet blanket
I wake up
with excitement one day and
squeeze it all out.
I take a dull sky from my sight
and go fly
my own kite, then for relief I
become the
free romancer and proceed to
idealize.
Often I take a
a long trip to moon's edge with
someone I fancy,
and throwing care to the wind
I begin singing.
Life's cocoon with its cheerless
wool-gathering
can flatten most dreaming if it
is allowed.
So I go out on a spree to stir up
mythical whim
or make a wish for some inner
heart-music
to start my surprise mood-flight
into fantasy
which if got right should always
reveal life's
hidden stairway toward paradise.
I fabricate
dreams that might go unheeded
otherwise.
Utopia's myth at times becomes
too underrated,
I intend never to give up being
romantic for
clandestine ecstasy tastes much
better when
taken as wine from chimera's cup.

When I, led sleepless through uneasy dark
sigh lonely for thee.
When moon rides high its wide curved arc
and cold falls crisp on flower and tree.
When sun bids farewell to skyline's blue
and a mist covers first starlight with dew
how I sigh for thee.

When I, dreaming walk lone ocean waves
again sigh for thee.
When wind rides high the sea's briny lace
and a moon turns pale its filters on me.
When Neptune roams his wild-water hall
and foaming white horses rise only to fall
how I sigh for thee.

When I, wakened bone-tired before dawn
sigh weary for thee.
When sun rides high as day becomes worn
and noon lies basking over calmed sea.
When distance between us taxes this heart
and needed commitment keeps love apart
how I sigh for thee.

Soundless Rest.

After hearing Ravel's "Pavan to a Dead Princess."

How pale, whiter than white are your lips, shaping
Now not a word, immovable, soundlessly making
Their roundness even more ground into my heart.
Your lovely long tresses coiled, unsoiled and parted
With fine ever-straight line above primrose-soft face
Unwrinkled, once pink now ever remaining a babe's.
Those feel-of-rosebud hands laid so sweetly beneath
The shroud, why did you leave dear child, impeach
All my hopes and dreams, the most gentle of access
To paradise lay in your smile, now sleeping princess
The pavan will be dancing you soon into a soundless
Rest but I restive remain, and will always be bounded
To pain in not saying final goodbyes but crying adieu
I have to await the yet uncreated, my life without you

Colour me bubbles of misty-blue love.
Blow them, drifting on soundless high cloud.
I wait here, gratefully searching above
Starlit skies, knowing the ether around
My window pane will resound once again
To more heart-warming secrets, hauntingly
Packaged in words wrapped in your name.
Containing nothing but love's tender force.

Colour me baubles of glistening gems.
Rubies for hugs, emeralds for evergreen
Promise of undying affection - - bend
Them like rainbowing arrows, gleaming
Their star-studded aerial journey, straight
Into my dreams. Colour me gentle doves
White as moonlight to sing in the gateway
Of my waiting heart and paint me in love.

This Heart.

When I, led sleepless through uneasy dark
sigh lonely for thee.
When moon rides high its wide curved arc
and cold falls crisp on flower and tree.
When sun bids farewell to skyline's blue
as a mist covers first starlight with dew
how I sigh for thee.

When I, dreaming walk lone ocean waves
again sigh for thee.
When wind rides high the sea's briny lace
and a moon turns pale its filters on me.
When Neptune roams his wild-water hall
as foaming white horses rise only to fall
how I sigh for thee.

When I, wakened bone-tired before dawn
sigh weary for thee.
When sun rides high as day becomes worn
and noon lies basking over calmed sea.
When distance between us taxes this heart
as needed commitment keeps love apart
how I sigh for thee.

Unsettled my sleep,
yet were I with thee
my night would be
bedded in luxury.

Uneasy my soul,
yet were I to hold
thee as mine own
would relief unfold.

Unrested my mind,
yet were I so thine
fate would prove kind
and we heaven find.

Underprized.


Love, the underprized eternal God-word
has become today

mostly outmoded.

Alteration stains its disguised state, for
love, absurdly changed to shadows
is merely pretence

and been corroded.

Masquerading as some trait of worth,
love lies weakened and is nowhere
special, seen by some

as almost inept.

Left un-nurtured, this thing called love
just withers further, doubt invades,
and its power fades

to being senseless.

Desecration of a word turned usurper,
love so deteriorates that users
agree this love is of

no consequence,

just an emotion,

demeaned.

Once confessed love needs constancy,
otherwise as with any mistook
God-word, compromised

love may become

seen as surreal.

We who believe need to look closer

at Easter's meaning.

It's myopic to claim
we are not all the same.
Distinction will always hold sway
if vanity's call
that our Self controls all
means ambition is chased every day.

This illusion of ' I '
distorts how we try
to see we are separate from all.
With a "we", there's a "them"
that's the Ego again
raising reasons for ultimate fall.

The "I" will remain empty inside,
inflated with pride,
forgiving not another or Self.
Inner growth raises need
to foster the real
perception of far greater wealth.

When Ego holds court
we are easily bought
and relinquish choices for good.
Learning how to let go
will inevitably show
in a freedom at last understood.

Be to me a sanctuary, cloister me in love.
Shelter me,
in covert hide shade my face with proof,
enter into every cell
to show my soul your gallantry.
Shelter me,
roof me with your heart.
In seclusion cover and umbrella me,
with skin-tight fit,
so never more will we two part.
Shelter me,
be to me a rightful Knight, win me
with valiant darts,
corded round with action's art
of heart-meant words
Shelter me,
in gold-filled verse, scribed at will,
from core's soft sword,
cut holes in doubt, cleanse in kindness
weakened trust
and unleash my softly yielding heart.
Shelter me,
then I shall wholly know
love's conquest has to me imparted
its eternal glow.

Phoenix-Bird.

In memory of John White the talented
sculptor of beauty from trees. R.I.P.
..........................................................­........

Rising from what appears petrified stone
stands the ****, elmwood sea bird,
head *****, wide-eyed and wings tightly rolled.
Sleek with much oiling, prepared
to a smoothness with masterful honing
to grace any home, careful
artistic handling sculpted life-like finely-*****
structure, feathery wings, rare
hooded head, feet webbed to perfection thrown
over elm boulder, toes pared
to sharp-claw completion, finely tooled cloning
of the real might soon be heard
shaking whittled wings to leave wooden throne,
and magically fly, stirring
dreams that a phoenix bird has risen and flown.

Here I am
inside your stillness and before more dawn breaks
I will fly behind moments.

Yes here am I between each new test in your day.


Here I walk
right after sunset and as the first bright star appears
I will share in your quiet.

Yes here I stand, a whisper away, listen and hear.


Here I lie
between your first dreams and as part of awareness
I will follow in silence.

Yes I shall remain waiting to comfort any un-rest.


Here I sit
beneath our secret, 'tho feeding your spiritual need
I will stay beyond sound.

Felt but unheard I will send you my care, yes indeed.

When I, led sleepless through uneasy dark
sigh lonely for thee.
When moon rides high its wide curved arc
and cold falls crisp on flower and tree.
When sun bids farewell to skyline's blue
as a mist covers first starlight with dew
how I sigh for thee.

When I, dreaming walk lone ocean waves
again sigh for thee.
When wind rides high the sea's briny lace
and a moon turns pale its filters on me.
When Neptune roams his wild-water hall
as foaming white horses rise only to fall
how I sigh for thee.

When I, wakened bone-tired before dawn
sigh weary for thee.
When sun rides high as day becomes worn
and noon lies basking over calmed sea.
When distance between us taxes this heart
as needed commitment keeps love apart
how I sigh for thee.

Imperceptibly losing light the night takes hold,
and quietly ushers day
into a stupor of weary waiting.
Without ado
birds flock, winging feathered way homeward
and as dusk dulls blue
a vague aquiescence creeps around end of day.        
Finding tick of clock's
easy persistence relaxes as liquid apricot
of sinking sun dives slowly into its pink duvet,
bidding a streaky  adieu.
Night will soon takes over reins, dictate terms
to deepening sub-hues,
and day-done clouds will billow softly away  
to spend dark hours
planning next morning's display.
Spiraling dream-time means an evening this fine      
should be shared.
Ceilings of night-fall remind me you went away
yet I recall sunsets when you cared.

She once stitched secreted half-felt dreams
From a fragmented jersey and embroidered
It neatly in sequinned love for safe-keeping
Forgetful of what occurs to un-meant ploys.

Patterns of welcome morphed into shadow
Grew mold around its binding two names.
The sewn seed-beads of foreverness badly
Encrusted until torn outworn vows became
Dim and a trusted vest shrunk, hemmed in
Sparkles rusted, it became shapeless, partly
With mishandled use and remained strewn
Over gullible parts of her passed-over heart.

Worn inside or out despite repair-refit trials
Her much abused love-vest ended unsightly.

From the fingers of first
misty light,
rays
of morning shatter
dark chains,
and usher
in daybreak unrehearsed.

Black songster displays
agenda for
mating
by ringing the ether
in trilled carol,
shakes off
damp night and flies away.

Smiles become partner
to awe
after
first heard
feathered dawn-bird's
wordless praise
as life again makes its start.

Raise the eyes for more
and view
nature
revealing truth
that only by such glories
can Love be
understood in unvoiced talk.

When I, led sleepless through uneasy dark
sigh lonely for thee.
When moon rides high its wide curved arc
and cold falls crisp on flower and tree.
When sun bids farewell to skyline's blue
and a mist covers first starlight with dew
how I sigh for thee.

When I, dreaming walk lone ocean waves
again sigh for thee.
When wind rides high the sea's briny lace
and a moon turns pale its filters on me.
When Neptune roams his wild-water hall
and foaming white horses rise only to fall
how I sigh for thee.

When I, wakened bone-tired before dawn
sigh weary for thee.
When sun rides high as day becomes worn
and noon lies basking over calmed sea.
When distance between us taxes this heart
and needed commitment keeps love apart
how I sigh for thee.

Voice of clear
melodious dalliance
comes trilling
this morning
from the throat
of blackbird's passing.

What distant
past ears ever heard
any better
composed medley
of unceasing ******
than from this ***** bird.

Filtering Spring
through bare boughs
as though now
was his own moment
the ****** rises as
loud crescendo bursts out.

Facing another
sun-full day the sound
wrings poetry from
feathered insistence and
cloudless his hope
of a mate being found.

Flying away
to some higher ground
he leaves me
feeling the song made
clear that "maleness"
would bring her around.

Like flattened tin the shiny-faced sheet
of evening sea
buckles under a last languid breeze.

Wavelets slip free from liquid's neap-net
but height-less,
white tops become ****** back again.

Like metallic shush ebb-tide's lullaby
scrapes silence
from pebble-sand's continued sighs.

Gilded froth of night's low clouds touch
orb's drop as it
sinks into dusk's merciless clutches.

Like gossamer shroud mist covers light
and day recedes
'til dawn once more is ready to fight.