Separate beds and shades
Of reds. Intimacy is
A ****** handprint.

the magic of poetry.
is that it makes everything
beautiful.
it fills your lungs
like air.
it turns your soul
into a sky full of stars.
your heart
a field of wildflowers.
you.
into a poem.

The apple of one's eye.
The creme de la creme.
The buffet at the wedding.
Where it's us and them.

The glow of the neon.
Instructing us to buy.
The latest moisturiser
For wrinkles round the eye.

The canvassers cold selling.
The need of starving cats.
The aforementioned wedding.
The shopping for the hats.

So come give us your money.
Your precious hard earned cash.
We'll offer you perfection.
In your supermarket dash.

The things you'll buy tomorrow.
Are better than today.
The new improved conditioner.
The advertisements say.

Consumers to be nourished.
Big spenders treated well.
You'll need a coat for winter.
And scarves and coats as well.

Your funeral arrangements.
A monthly simple plan.
Your loved ones fear when you're not here.
You've left them all you can.

So now our claws are in you.
Please kindly move along.
The facts and claims are always true.
We're seldom told we're wrong.

We're business types converting.
Your little wants to needs.
We'll squeeze you dry until you die.
From birth we plant the seeds.

°○
°○
○
°
<o[[[><

when you feel like
you're drowning


learn to be a fish!.

[10W]

Seems when poets start
Writing a bit of poetry
They also write
about writing poetry
They also often write
about not writing poetry
No other artist, has it so good

©  2017 Jim Davis

I feel it arising
that deep down inside feel
my eyes clear
the pages  open
the words flow
arrange theirselves
in certain
configurations
and the paper
takes it all
like a lover you
met
long ago

When I was young when I wanted the sun to go down it did
Now it goes down without my consent

When I was young when I wanted the sun to stay up it stayed
But now it stays were it wants

Now I must sleep when the sun goes down
Now I must awake when the sun is up

My imagination still runs wild

But for now it sleeps waiting to be awoken

Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes​ were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.

Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******.
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.

Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -

True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.

£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.

these days i am
in-between

not a student
yet not a teacher
waiting on a call
an interview
anything

not a lover
yet not a stranger
searching for a friend
a hand to hold
anything

not a tenant
yet not homeless
looking for a flat
a home
anything

all i am
is lukewarm

Let the shadow of my passing
cast no darkness on the day
For we live each moment
Only once
And then move blithely
on our way.