The Woodpecker sings,
In a tune we don't follow.
Pecking endlessly,
Like there is no tomorrow.

Words drawn from the heart,
Lost in the long beak.
With piercing eyes,
A little attention it seeks.

Pauses a second to tell us,
The story of his mother's pain.
Forgets not the cragged branch,
Chisels hard, the Woodpecker again.

Oblivious about the emotions it brings,
Endlessly the Woodpecker sings.

The skies are looking down at you
The moon is awaiting your gaze
Flowers exist because you do
Please don't look away.

You give to you infinite pleasure
You are your worst enemy
The way you feel lies at your fingertips
Close your eyes, heal.

The skies are looking down at you
The moon is awaiting your gaze
Flowers exist because you do
Please don't look away.

Asked to write a poem of yellow, what could I possibly have to add that would celebrate this word found within the sun, the moon, at times, the stripes of a bumblebee, a butterfly, a yellow jacket's sting,  the brilliant splash on a painted bunting, the goldfinch, canary, a yellow breasted warbler, baby chicks, a rubber duck, a baby duck, too, a dandelion in spring, a sunflower, a rose of sorts, a lily, daffodils in a field of wheat, rubber boots upon your feet on a rainy day, a slicker, too, a school bus, a number two pencil, a taxi when you're running late, a tangy lemon, a banana, sometimes a grapefruit, butter on a pancake, egg yolk for your western omlet, lemon drops, cheese, macicheese, and a cheese pizza, too, yellow hair on a farm boy, a piece of straw in his father's mouth, his yellow-haired beautiful sis, her yellow polka-dotted dress, a yellow kitten, a dog in a sad movie like old yeller.

So nice, the color yellow, on a sunny day in May.

r ~ 5/3/14

there is, a swarm of
bumble bees
making, a hive of
lucsious, loveliness
in my  honeycombed
brain.
they bring, with them,
golden pollens and
nectared ambrosia.
from many places,
exotic and plain
and this,
these, very words.
are the sweet honey,
mumurings,
they produce.

She closed the door
On what could have been
Wiped the floor
Of what should have been
Cleared the shelves of our memories
Washing her hands
Of the eternity
That we had both promised.
She painted the walls, and decked the halls
With her new lovers pen
Changed the locks
So I couldn't see her again.
She wrote away our history
On a little post it note
And sent it in an envelope of
Divorce papers
She called in the painters and decorators
And started anew
Put to bed
All that we'd been through
And left me dangling
By a thread
Waiting for the phone to call
For any sign at all
That this wasn't true.
Waiting for the I love yous
That had warmed even the coldest of mornings
Better than any cup of coffee ever could
Waiting for the reassuring cuddles and kisses
That had made me feel so, so good.
Waiting
For
The one person who had always caught me, to catch me
As I fell
Head first into an abyss
Of late nights and stiff drinks
That she'd spent years, pouring down sinks.
But since she's been gone
I've picked up the bottle again
And it's began to throttle the pain.
So I drink down the past and remains in whiskey drops
Until the floor lures me
I lose sight of the clocks
And hit the decks.
If I was a pirate,
I'd make a mighty good ship mate
But as it is
I'm not and I'm late for work
And wearing odd socks
A shadow of the man I used to be.
And even my shadow doesn't recognise me.

Let’s write a poem
For the fun of it
Rhyme, combine, design
Thoughts, phrases, words
Stanzas absurd.

Let’s use alliteration
1st, 2nd, 3rd person narration
Let us not forget
Capital letters, commas and full stops
To crop,
Our faults.

Let’s write about love, loss and heartache,
Let’s make mistakes
Relationships, politics,
Let’s get lost, in this;
Wonderful world of ink and paper.

Let’s dangle emotions
Delicately of straight
Lines, text, worth
Thousands of pounds
To someone.

Let’s dribble prose across the page
Lead rhyme
Into an organised,
Coherent line

Hold hands with demands
Laced, not closed,
Of errors dispose.

Let’s write a poem
For the fun of it
Watch it age, as the pages, discolour.
But remain as beautiful, if not more so
Than it were, when first composed.

i am a rubebnesque
type of women

and have come to
terms with that.

in fact:
i love my good
jiggly self.
did'nt always
but now i do.

generous *******, *****
and curved belly.
all proportionate
and healthy.

my man does love
my curves,
he can spend
hours carressing their
soft beauty.

they do not stop me
from doing most
anything i wish
although
commonsense dictates
i would not fit through
a too small a hole.

why is then, that when
walking down the street,
people feel they can
throw the word fat
my way...

Hope for better is overrated
                      Pity is the latest trend